Origins
When you first came around, I thought you were just passing by. I had caught a glimpse of you a few times before. I had heard about you too, on T.V. mostly. You look different than I had expected. I was anticipating large tusks, a commanding voice and a heavy foot print. In the TV shows, you were so obvious, and people took notice. But when you are with me, no one seems to notice. You are not big, or loud, or even gray. You are a sneaky son of a bitch.
Skin and bone, that’s all he is. Oobleck molded over calcium, and always shivering. Standing with his narrow back facing the small cook stove, awkwardly placed on the concrete slab in the living room. Bolt upright and forcibly steady. There is fuzz lodged in the Velcro of his shoes, his sweat pants are a mural. The tattered blue shirt with the picture of Clifford the Big Red Dog draws the eyes. Toy school bus firmly in his grasp. He stands rigid. Lanterns are lit, the smell of kerosene, and spent matches burn his nose.
You are not an elephant, you are a snake. I can not tell if you hate me, or if you love me. All I know is that I am afraid of you. You follow, and you bite for no reason.
His father is bent down on one knee in front of the stove, making a hole in the embers to allow oxygen to feed the miniscule flame. With a single, large calloused hand, he grabs a chunk of wood and throws it onto the fire. Every breath seeps out from behind his red and brown beard as a cool white cloud. His father never shivers.
Below the boys deep brown eyes, on the tip of his boney cheek, day old syrup is caked to the skin, mixed with lint from the plaid couch he sleeps on. His head itches, but he has learned not to run his fingers through the matted, mangled brown mess of a mane that grows behind his ears. He doesn’t shiver. His mother consumes cigarettes like candy. She stands beneath the yellow stains on the ceiling and places the dented dark blue and white turkey pan on the rusted propane stove. She heaves the bucket of pond water off the floor and lets the water stumble and fall, crashing into the pan. The noise cuts the silence, a two second hurricane. The water boils.
If it was not for you, people would like me. Every time I want to talk to someone new, you show up. You crawl up the back side of my leg, find your way around my waist and constrict until the words are forced back into my stomach. I would eat more if I was not so full on words.
The loose tin on the side of the trailer shakes and creeks as the winds outside pick up. Putting his hand against the smooth paneling, he guides himself down the unlit hall to the bathroom. Feeling the intermittent breaks in the smoothness as he traces his fingers along. There is a single battery-operated lantern on the bathroom counter. The water from the stove has found its way into the tub. He removes the concoction of hand-me downs that covered him. His small hands grab the side of the tub and he gingerly clambers over the cold steel edge. Standing, the water barely covers the tops of his feet. A few cups of the freshly sanitized water and soap are used to remove the itching from his scalp and a rag to remove the memories of the plaid couch.
You are omnipresent, your control is divine.
***
He still doesn’t shiver as his foot slowly depresses the clutch of the Supermajor, the tired diesel beneath the faded blue hood bellows excessively as the tractor begins to roll forward. The weight of the tree top he drags behind him shifts with the waves of ruts on the ground. His steel toed boots are covered in sawdust, a single hole in the top of his right boot. His lengthy body bouncing on the seat as he fights for traction. A hoodie, torn and stained, draped loosely over his narrow frame. His long hair comes to rest next to his acne covered cheek bone.
You have taken over. I feel you interacting with every chemical in my brain. Every poor decision you make on my behalf is a current that flows down through to my muscles to become a terrible and tangible action. You sit in my stomach, coiled up and heavy.
The winter is wandering in. Crayola white ground littered with spilled grease. Stepping down from the incapacitated machine, the wind howls in agony and anger at the back of his neck. That pain is driven into his chest and deep into his lungs with every breath. Pulling his gaiter up to his nose and his hood over his hat, he stands with his back to the disturbed breeze. It has overwhelmed the empty field with its commanding wails. He still does not shiver. He looks at the pool of grease on the ground behind him, noticing small chunks of steel in the mix.
He stands still, eyes turned down, focusing on the mud that seems to be infatuated with his boots. Slowly, back and forth, he rocks on the balls of his feet, waiting.
Why do you whisper to me? From your perch in my bowels you wiggle and squirm. You keep me up at night and make ridiculous assumptions. You make me feel the consequences of actions I have not yet taken. I would be more willing to take risks if you did not question every decision I make. I am a coward.
His fathers voice was the only thing that stood out against the storm. A thundering escapade of complaints, and accusations of carelessness. A quiet drive home.
I can learn from my mistakes without you.
The fabric couch beneath his back, a reservoir of warmth. He doesn’t shiver. His eyes are heavy and about to close. His father enters the room.
‘We need to check the traps.’ His father instructs.
The boys’ eyes shift down. He nods his head in agreement and stands up.
I do not want to.
The wind was not as high strung as it had been, reduced to a discouraged breeze. His uninsulated shit kickers dropping holes of varying depth on the reflective white landscape with every step he took. He liters these holes across the field, to the edge of the tree line. The towering evergreens watch on as he approaches. A confused whimper and snarl greets’ him as he passes the stone wall. Varying shades of red, gray, white and black make up the fur of the entrapped coyote. Each hair seemingly succumbs to the demands of the wind, falling and rising as it sees fit.
A quick pop ricocheting through the country side is all it took. The voice of that bullet was loud and commanding, the creature stopped. The heart stopped pushing blood to the anxious and worried brain, the lungs stopped their rattling and fearful breath, the stone in the stomach softened and ceased to exist.
The boy moved cautiously toward the former beast which lay in a pile at the base of the evergreen, a reluctant and involuntary witness. He carefully grabbed the hind legs, as sweat pooled and slowly began to freeze to his eyebrows. The boy trudged back across the field, his tracks covered by the gorge that was carved out by the limp dog that was being dragged behind him. He threw the beast onto the back of the truck.
I do not want to do this anymore, let me tell him.
The cab of the truck was mostly silent, apart from a soft rhythm from the radio bouncing lightly through the air. An old country CD that his mother had left in. They approached the second field, and his father pulled the truck up along the side of the stone wall and threw it into park.
‘We’ve got another one. Why don’t you go grab it, bud?’ His father suggested.
‘No.’
The engine idled softly in the background, George Jones passionately singing about undying love to a silent audience. In the cab of the truck there was a man who looked ahead, and a boy who shivered.
‘Alright.’
Your bite is not as sharp as I had imagined.
-The Boy.
Distinguished Voices Personal Essay Prize Winner
Selected by Elissa Washuta
This essay is absolutely electric, shot through with gutting details that scream out to create a mood of menace that resonates into every corner of this quiet world. Every moment of description is working hard to build out place, people, and the terror that lives in the unsaid.” -Elissa Washuta
Nathaniel Rose is currently a senior at SUNY Cortland majoring in Physics. His work includes research in designing and developing an affordable and user friendly prosthetic hand. In his normally chaotic universe of academics, writing is a calming and reflective force that assists in keeping things together.