The Story With The Answers

still no answers the parents refused to believe that their son would kill himself. it’s not like our son; he was not a quitter. the police believed the blood on his shirt was from an act of violence he committed just before he went into his own garage and fell asleep. he wasn’t willing to face the consequences of his violent actions; maybe he killed someone, maybe someone would come forward and put him in jail. no, no, his parents said, there must be foul play here. and they managed to have the case re opened when they discovered only trace amounts of carbon monoxide in his blood stream. he was dead, or dying, before he got to the garage. the blood was probably from a struggle he had in trying to survive. this was murder, made to look like suicide, but who did this, is that their son’s blood on his shirt, did he suffer, did her even die while he was in his own home? still no answers.

surprise He woke up in the cold room, just as he had done so many days before. The room looked like a hospital room, but that is what you’d expect in a retirement home such as this one. He got up, swinging his legs to the ground where his slippers were poised, waiting for him. His roommate was still alive. So was everyone else. The nurses were bring trays of food to the patients who couldn’t leave their beds. They did this every morning, at 6:45. He walked down the hall to get a copy of the paper. The news looked the same. He want back to his room and sat down in his bed. Everything was the same. And he was surprised.

Take The Pain When I’m laying down in the sun I close my eyes only so slightly And the sun beats down and burns my face And it penetrates my eyelids and scorches My eyes. I strain to keep from squinting. I struggle to keep my eyes just lightly closed To survive the scorching light, the burning. Do you understand this struggle, do you do this To see how long you can take the pain You know, when I struggle like this under the light I can feel my lips beginning to part And almost expect you to reach over and kiss me There’s a fine line between pleaseure and pain When I’m laying down in the sun I close my eyes only so slightly

taking out the brain i’m a med student and for the past few weeks we’ve been working on a cadeavor at first i didn’t want to know anything about him i covered the head of the guy wanted to pay him some respect i didn’t want to think tat this person lived before i dissected him i hhad a hard time taking out the brain cause you know, that’s where the memories are that’s what makes him him it’s not so hard now they get the bodies from the morgue they’re homeless people, mostly no family it’s not so hard now

tanya’s story (tanya’s middle name is marie, and her sister’s name tasha anna negron. she likes her sister’s name, but i told her that her name was nice, too. this is a story tanya made up for me at logan beach cafe. she was eating nachos with salsa. tanya is nine, going on ten.) this is a story about summer. phil was riding his bike. phil is my brother. (how old is phil?) phil is 17, going on 18 years old. so he was riding his his bike in the park, and it was sunny, and joe-joe, he’s my other brother, he shot a bow and arrow at phil’s tires. and he hit the tires!!!! and phil got MAD. phil fell over, he hit his arm, but he was okay. so, since phil was mad, he ran after joe-joe, and he caught up to him and threw him on the ground. they started fighting, and my sister tasha came and told them to stop. but they didn’t stop, and so she called my dad. dad came came with the belt (ooh! -that’s my addition to the story. sorry.) it’s really a mexican belt. (what’s the difference between a mexican belt and a belt, say, not from mexico? am i asking too many questions?) it really big, and i got hit with it once. (ouch. -that’s my addition again. sorry.) (oh, wait, she had to go get a drink, she was thirsty. making up stories is hard work.) (okay, she’s coming back now.) (so, what’s the end of the story? what happened?) my brother joe had a black eye, phil gave it to him. so dad came and he hit them. and they stopped fighting then. (okay, so we got the good-guy/bad guy thing covered, and an action scene, and a resolution. so most stories have a moral, so what’s the moral of this story?) not to fight.

this halloween this halloween i got a costume together i wore a black page-boy wig, a vinyl dress and matching vinyl boots it was strange for me i’m not such an outgoing person and every time i was left alone at a bar someone would hit on me usually someone ugly but i didn’t tell them to leave me alone: i gave them a fake name, a fake number and looking back, what made the difference was not wearing the revealing clothes but wearing a wig, changing my identity and it’s not that i’d do it again but i must admit i really like being someone else just for a little while

this is my dilemma should I go to you this is my dilemma should I just not care anymore should I just act the part should I just not care anymore should I just let you fuck me should I just not care anymore should I just kiss you who cares suck me in take me in who cares throw me around it’s okay I’ve been thrown around before I’m used to this I’m used to this routine: back and forth, and then forgetting forgetting the feelings forgetting your name do it to me, if you want go ahead enjoy feel free I’ve felt it before I’ve lived it before I’ve known it before I’ve lived it before and no emotion is new to me anymore so should I this is my dilemma

this is what it means my son was shot now he lives in his wheelchair I hear him creek as he rolls down the hall he’s a brave boy it takes him such great strength to live he always smiles he can’t feel from the waist down but he works so hard he is so proud once I came home and he was so excited you see, he took a rope and a laundry basket filled them up with snacks; now he could drag his snacks to his room this was an accomplishment he was so proud of himself I held back my tears he shouldn’t have to go through this this is not how he should live people don’t understand when he has a bowel movement he has to reach inside of him and pull it out he can’t feel this is what it means for him to be in a wheelchair to not feel

this may sound i don’t know this may sound silly but every night just before I’m about to sleep I think of you and when I turn out the light and crawl into my empty bed a piece of me feels missing I don’t know what it is but I feel a hole right about where my heart is when I have to lay there night after night all alone when I am with you I feel as if I am complete I feel as if nothing in the world matters when you’re holding my hand with your heart near me then I can sleep and then I fall into my empty bed and I feel the hole again burning through my heart and I wish I didn’t feel so alone and I wish the hole would just go away

This you don’t hate. From the picture window the snow drizzling down fell effortlessly, silently: I wondered if outside it was as quiet as it looked. The snow blanketed the grass, past the pier his father made last summer, out over the lake. Everything glowed in an untouched whiteness. No footprints yet. Just falling snow. From the couch I looked at the larger-than-life snowflakes fall, one after another, all gently gliding down to the ground. I could not look away. And you said: This is why I like winters. See, you hate winter in the city, but this, this you watch for hours and don’t get tired of. This makes you smile. This you don’t hate.

Copyright Janet Kuypers. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission.

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