Fly In The Dark

Fly In The Dark

by  Chet Brown

It came like a thief in the night.  The annual routine doctors visit that Mary had done so many times before, cast a dark shadow this time.  It started with a mere cough and a small pain in her chest.  Like the change in seasons, all that was would never be the same.  This vibrant young woman, so full of life and happiness, was gradually fading into nothingness.  Over time, she became frailer and frailer as the elasticity in her skin slowly began to loosen.  Brian was fascinated by the she way she was able to change her hair color from day to day.  He did not seem to notice the mannequin heads that surrounded the inside of the room.  She had red shoulder length hair one day and short blonde hair the next.  Mary was a natural brunette but this gave her the opportunity to play dress up.  This often improved her spirits and with a slight tilt of her head, she would smile gingerly.  Some days Mary had the strength to sit up and other days she did not.  She would lie motionless in a near catatonic state.  With tubes in her nose and needles in her arms, Brian would sit with her for hours.  He would talk to her even when she did not respond back.  

“Mom, I will just put your make-up on the night stand until you are feeling better okay?” 

                                                                                                                                                 

She was always passionate about looking nice and the smell of her perfume would linger down the hallway.  The scent would find its way into every crevice in the home.  Brian would lie in bed with a smile on his face and know that his mother was close.  That time was long gone now along with that beautiful scent that once paraded through the house.   Brian’s mother was taken from him when he needed her the most.   His mother was his ally and now she was gone.  What would life be like for him without her? 

This was a dark time in the evolution of Brian. I say evolution because he didn’t transform overnight.  Oh, no, this had been a gradual process as he morphed into a broken down shell of his former self.  If you put a frog in hot water it will immediately jump out.  But if you place a frog in cold water and slowly heat it up the frog will slowly boil to death.  Brian was slowly bowling in the pot of life but no one could see it.   This was also when he began to detract from the outside world.  He became somewhat of a mental recluse if you will.     

Beep… beep… beep…, the sound of the alarm fills the room and bounces off the walls in an annoying fashion.  It’s Monday morning and the clock screams 6:30am.  For Brian it signaled just another day in a miserable existence called life.  The small red light on the bottom of the television was the only illumination in the pitch black room.  He liked it that way, extra dark.  In his mind he felt as though it helped him sleep better, and it probably did.  In reality it kept him from getting a good look at himself, in the single mirror in the room.  It was usually covered anyway.  Brian didn’t necessarily dislike the way he looked; he disliked what people saw when they looked at him.  He had something that was labeled as transient insomnia, so when he finally did fall asleep he wanted to remain that way.

 As Brian attempted to feel his way through the room he stubbed his toe on the computer desk.  He winced in pain as his big toe throbbed pulsating through his toe socks.  The night light that he kept in his room had faded out nearly a month ago.  He attempted to remind himself daily to change the night light

                                                                                                                                                      

bulb.  The funny thing about night lights is that they are not needed during the daytime.  Therefore, it had continuously become a daily afterthought.  Well, that is until the room was once again dark, and he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.  Maybe deep down he really didn’t want to ever replace the bulb.  Or, maybe it just made him feel better inside by having the intention to replace it.  That small intention gave him a glimmer of hope that he would soon swan dive out of the funk that he had slowly been lowered into over time.     

He finally made his way to the closet.  His selection of clothing was like a dress rehearsal for a remake of “The Omen”.  All black littered his boring closet all the way down to his socks.  All clothing with any color was neatly stored in the back of the closet inside several boxes.  He kept them there for safe keeping.  He patiently waited for the day when he could open the boxes and unveil the vibrant blue, yellow and green shirts that he used to love so much.  He painted his fingernails black because it made him feel powerful and mainly because his dad hated it.  It gave him a sense of control and allowed him to be one with himself.  He didn’t consider himself to be “gothic” or “emo”.  Most of the kids at high school couldn’t relate to the issues that he was dealing with.  A broken home torn apart by tragedy and then Brian was thrust back into “normal” life, without being allowed the proper time to grieve.  He sometimes didn’t understand himself.

School started at 8:00am and as far as he could tell he just might make it on time.  Brian didn’t really want to go today because he had a mathematics test second period.  He hated mathematics and as far as he knew mathematics hated him too.  His father attended MIT on an academic scholarship.  Since he came from an environment which thrived on educational achievements, there was so much emphasis in that one particular subject.  To live in the shadow of his father was an insurmountable amount of pressure.   For him it was just not in the cards.  Brian struggled in mathematics and he usually functioned

                                                                                                                                                       

at an average to a little below average level.   But good old pops just couldn’t understand that.  His father was more of a left brain thinker and Brian had a right brain thought process.  It didn’t matter to him if Brian had gotten all A’s in every other subject, the only thing that mattered was mathematics.  His father had an obsessive compulsive, sick, and twisted love affair with numbers.  It was as if all the characters on the paper were in a foreign language and the only thing his dad saw was his mathematics grade.  

He had been taken to nearly every doctor to see what was going on his head.  From the psychologists to the psychiatrists Brian was paraded from office to office in search of a suitable diagnosis.  Anything would suffice, as long as his father did not have to accept the fact that an offspring of his was less than stellar.  He was given the usual explanation, depression, social withdrawal and low self-esteem.  He often thought to himself this was not the answer.  No one could see or even cared to understand what life was like for him.  He felt like a herd of cattle being led around on the farm, continuously, poked and prodded until they became submissive.  If he had to look at another ink spot or listen to another whack- job babble, he was gonna snap. 

Brian enjoyed the arts and had a deep rooted desire to do theatre.  He was once cast as the lead in West Side Story.  He was filled with excitement and he couldn’t wait to share the news with his family.  His mom was supportive as always and there was an aura of positive energy that filled the house.  The second his father arrived home all of that was gone in an instant.  It was as if all the joy died a slow death with each passing minute of the clock.      

                                                                                                                                                                   

Journal entry:

“Here was my chance to make a difference and possibly be accepted by other ninth graders.  And just like a clay target at skeet shooting, I was shot down.  I feel like my ego was shattered into a million pieces and now I feel desolate.  Maybe dad just doesn’t understand me at all.  I want to tell him how I feel and everything that I go through every day.  But I just can’t bring myself to do it.  He probably wouldn’t understand anyway since he doesn’t care for inferior weaker individuals like me.”

Journal entry:

“I guess I do view myself as weaker. I never really thought about it that way.  If I wasn’t I would do something about it.   I want to stand up to the bullies that give me crap each and every day.  I also wish I could to tell dad about my hopes and dreams and for once be accepted for who I am.  It’s not fair that I am constantly treated this way.”      

Journal entry:

“I knew that dad would not allow it but for once I wanted to be somebody that mattered.  And for that brief moment before he came home and reality set in, I was.  For about 45 minutes Brian Staple mattered.”  

Brian would often catch flies because he felt as though he could identify with them.  He would put them in mason jars and watch them search for a way out as they crawl around the glass.  He would be sure to cut holes in the top of the jar to allow the fly air.  He felt as though he was preserving the insect and keeping it safe at the same time.  When it died, he would keep it in a safe place with the others.  Just like clockwork another fly would take its place as if to be waiting for its place in line.  A fly is considered a pest that can carry serious diseases.  However, Brian did not view them like that.  He felt they were

                                                                                                                                                         

 misunderstood creatures that had their own purpose.  Just like a fly, he wandered aimlessly through life, sometimes going unnoticed, like a fly in the dark.  Although he wasn’t plagued with disease he was often ostracized as though he had leprosy.  He didn’t make eye contact with the people that he passed by, but he could feel the stares weighing heavy on him.  Black hoods often donned his head protecting him from the outside world and concealing him inside the dark half-shell.  He longed to be accepted in his social circle as well as at home.   

Journal entry:

“I wonder where this fly hides all day long.  What in the heck does it do when I am not here?  Does it feel my body heat or something because as soon as I walk into the room it starts that stupid buzzing around my ear?  I swat at it to stop the tickling feeling it gives my skin when it lands on me.  I have no intentions of killing it but I am sure it doesn’t know that.   I don’t think I have the ability to hurt any living thing.  I like to watch it over and over again as it attempts to fly straight across the room.  It’s kinda funny that it keeps doing the same thing so many fricking times in a row” 

The bus stop was only four houses down on the right.  But he chose to walk to school rather than endure the constant ridicule and teasing from his classmates.  The walk was rather pleasant about two miles.  It gave him time to think which in turn probably had an adverse effect on him.  He felt they were more like degenerates rather than normal people.  He never really understood why he was treated the way he was.  How could people be so cruel to another human being just for being different? 

The next door neighbor, Ms. Simmons, had a long fence with two small Shih Tzu puppies.  She had always been nice to him and he respected her for that.  He used to do odd jobs and yard work for her as

needed, free of charge.  Now he just merely paid her a visit from time to time to say hello.  Before Brian her last human contact other than the mailman and yard crew had been nearly two years, due to her not having family in the area.  Each time Brian approached the fence the small dogs would leap off the porch and dart towards the gate in attack mode.  The reality was they were both harmless and pretty much afraid of their own shadows.  Like clockwork Ms. Simmons yells from the porch “Noodles, Dipsey, get back over here.” in a weak and feeble voice.   She really couldn’t see that well so she didn’t know where they actually were.  She just listened for the barking and aggressive growls and projected her voice in that direction.  Noodles and Dipsey were well groomed and each one of them had small bows around their heads, red and blue respectively.   They would always give their last display of valor; one final bark as they turned to run back to the porch like well trained soldiers.  

 “Brian is that you?”

“Yes Ms. Simmons I was just coming to say hi.”

“Don’t mind the dogs they are just happy to see you.”

“I know, I wasn’t afraid of them,” he chuckled. 

Brian liked his visits with Ms. Simmons.  She did not have a vested interest in him and she never made fun of him.  She was simply, yet unintentionally, filling space in the void left in the absence of his mother.  Her home had an odor of mothballs, urine and dog feces.  The smell did not seem to bother him one bit and he would sit there for hours listening to her talk about her past when she was known as Rosie the Riveter.  Her husband had been killed in World War II and she had never remarried.  As a reminder, she kept an American flag on the mantel, concealed in a wooden container, covered by glass.  She had an old black and white television with bent rabbit ears on top.  The television was always on the

                                                                                                                                                            

same channel broadcasting local evangelists.  The constant horizontal lines made it difficult to make out the people on the screen.  Blaring through the small speakers, “The Lord will keep us and guide us through the times of darkness.”   Brian usually ignored the preaching as the subject matter gave him a sense of displeasure.  After visiting for a bit he said his good-byes. 

“Have a good day Ms.  Simmons.” 

“Okay Brian you do the same.  Have a good day at school.”

Journal entry: 

“I keep my dead flies in a shoebox under the bed.  I love the way they stay in the same position after they die.  It is as if they are frozen in time or something.  I wonder if they land somewhere and die or if they are flying along and die while in the air.  That would be weird to be flying along and fall out of the sky.  I am glad that airplanes are not living creatures that would be real bad for everybody.”

 Back to the place where he felt safe and into the room where he mattered.  A sole fly crawled ever so slowly along the ceiling.  In a synchronized fashion, the insect rubbed its wings and legs together.    Silence blanketed the room that was almost completely dark.  A small glimpse of light peeked through the blinds dividing the wall like notebook paper.  A slight breeze was tickling the leaves on the trees directly outside the window.   Brian desired to put distance between the many issues that plagued him in his human form.  Similar to the annoying pests that most people had a disdain for; he wanted to fly.  Dressed for departure, to the highest point in the room he climbed.  Standing atop of textbooks, he hovered above the worldly problems and they no longer burdened him.  Images of happier times with his dad flashed vividly through his mind.  A hint of his mother’s perfume scampered across the floor.  He was finally in control as the fly rested atop his forehead.  Maybe math was not that important after all.