He's Perfect: The First Prequel

As promised, this a prequel to my post about two sick lovers. Writing this, I realised it would be far too long to fit as one post. So, instead, this is the first of a series of prequels, which will cover the time up until the beginning of my original post. To read the story in full, thus far, just go to the original post "He's Perfect". That is where I will keep a complete, chronological (story-wise) copy of the story for all those who would like to read it.


It wasn't what I expected at all. The words coming out of the doctors' mouth were terrible. But, they'd stopped penetrating my thoughts long ago. "hereditary" ran through my head. Over and over. And over. Two years ago, I'd watched my mother slowly slip away from me. Every day, the magnificent woman I knew was less and less there. It was not long before she passed away. Too quickly for the doctors to do anything about it. They cut her open, tore away the little that was left of her to try and find out what had happened. But, in the end, "We did our best. We're very sorry for your loss", was the only answer they could come up with.

Then, 2 months ago, dad slipped and fell over in the kitchen. He'd been washing the dishes, and as usual, he left a small puddle on the floor beneath the sink. This time however, when his foot slid the barest of margins, he completely lost his balance and came tumbling down to the ground. The thump when his head hit the ground was the loudest noise I have ever heard. It cut through everything, including his skull. In the short time it took for me to reach him, the pool of blood had spread rapidly. I called 000, tried to stem the bleeding and did everything I could think of to stop him from dying on me. He was all I had left. Friends had been either unable to cope with the loss of my mother or incapable of dealing with the grief my father and I now endured on a daily basis. Regardless, they didn't make contact anymore. As for family, there was none. Both my parents were only childs and their parents all died before 60. Cancer, heart failure, car accident. A series of unfortunate events, and now this, to add to the collection.

The ambulance arrived, and the paramedics took charge straight away. I told them what had happened and anything else that I could think of that might be in someway relevant or helpful. Otherwise, I just left them to it. I was completely out of my depth. Clinging to the edge of the pool, trying my darndest not to go under, but it was like quicksand and I was struggling more frantically than a rabbit caught in a trap...

Once they'd stabilised him, they took him to hospital. I was in the ambulance with him, but the trip is nothing more than a blur. I wasn't really there, although my body was. At the hospital, the doctors may as well have been speaking another language and in a way they were. I doubt, even at my most alert, that I would have understood even half of what they were trying to explain to me. But, even so, dad was going to be ok. I got that much. No internal damage. Superficial. Very lucky. Cracked skull. Brain function. CT. MRI. The rest simply floated around, making no connections with anything else and was certainly in no rush to do so in any case.

When he finally did wake up, it broke the spell. He was groggy, daised and confused, but it was him and that was enough. Or so I'd thought...

Over the next few weeks, after passing various mental tests and the like and satisfying the doctors that he was ready to go home, it became increasingly clear that everything was not alright. He began having memory trip ups more and more frequently, but when I told him how worried I was, he simply brushed it aside. It was perhaps a month later, when I received a call from him in a very panicky, distressed state. He'd been driving home from work, when he realised he didn't know the way. Soon, he had become lost and now he described to me, where he was. Outside a tall beige building, with large windows. About 5 storeys and 3 trees in the median strip. Opposite, was a park, with playground, walking trail and a duck pond. It was his work. He was sitting in the car, directly outside the place he had come to work five days a week, every week, for the past 15 years. And he had no idea where he was.

I called a cab, which arrived promptly, and took it to his work. He was still in his car, on the verge of tears. He reminded me of the four-year-old we had seen at the markets the other weekend. He too had been lost, tears streaming down his face, calling out for his mummy. I may not have given birth to him, but I was here and I could reassure him. The taxi driver on the hand, was something I couldn't handle. He wasn't leaving, preferring to sit there and gawk instead. I yelled at him to piss off and startled, he did just that. I drove my father back to the hospital. I took him inside and he was immediately admitted.

Test after test followed. However, eventually, they found it. The thing that had 'hereditary' stampeding my thoughts. Dad had a degenerative neurodisease. They couldn't say for sure, but in all probability, his fall had set it off. They stressed it had always been there, but now it was no longer dormant. They wanted to test me for it too. And they did. Extensively. But the results would take a while, as unlike my dad's, they didn't have 'URGENT' written all over them.

The next few days creeped agonisingly slowly along. It seemed the clock was moving in accordance with a tug of war between two snails and every now again, the one pulling it backwards would gain some ground. Otherwise it slid around the track, seemingly without actually moving, even though it was. Just.

Then, everything began to happen very quickly. Dad slipped in and out of consciousness and again, just like I had with my mother, I could see him fading away. The doctors were helpless. Even though, this time, they knew what they were fighting, the resistance they provided did barely more than a total surrender would have. Now, the disease had progressed. No longer was it simply attacking the areas of dad's brain responsible for memory, instead his whole body was now attacking itself in a desperate attempt to rid itself of the foreign intruder it had detected far too late. This part was new, and made his demise much swifter indeed. It was a mere matter of hours before the doctors said that he wouldn't survive the night. But in fact, it was little more than thirty minutes.

In an obviously draining effort, my father came to. It was for a brief period only, less than five minutes, but enough for him to share the next stage to my pain with me. "Son", he addressed me with, for the first time in my life, "You're adopted. I love you." That was all the words he could manage, before eyes wide and wet, mouth gaping- gasping- he too slipped away from me.

As soon as he came to rest in the bed and his strength left the hand that gripped me, I ran. Tears flooded my face and blurred out my vision to virtual blindness. Nevertheless, I ran, to get away from the lifeless body of who I had known only as my father and the disease that had ripped the life out of him, my mother and taken a long hard look before rejecting me. I ran as fast and as far as I could. Around this corner, down that corridor, through those doors. The unfamiliar pathway was maze-like. That is, until I saw the greeny blur of an exit sign, telling me to take one last corner. Bang! I connected with something solid, but not so solid as to be confused with a wall. It was a person. A guy. It was Him. And he ignored my absent apology. Saw my continued rushed journey and followed me...

When wanting just isn't enough

You want an ear.
A pair of welcoming arms to fall into.
A caring voice with reassuring words.
For them to ask you, truly ask you, how you are.
For them to notice that something is not right.
To be led back to the place where everything is.
You want what you see that so many others have.
You want at least that one thing to be normal.
You want a connection, on all the different levels.
For someone/anyone to understand.
To be 'got.'
To click.
To feel safe.
You want trust, in them and yourself.
You want to remember what self confidence is.
What happy feels like.
How it is to wake up and look forward to the day ahead.
To be sure in yourself and what you're doing.

It's not material or tangible.
You can't buy it, and even if you could it would be way more than you could afford.
But it's worth more to you than all of your stupid, useless possessions put together.
And more and more, it seems like it's something you can't have.

Family Dynamics

Hugo knows that everyone in the family has their role.
His sister excels at the drama queen role
His brother kicks goals as the sporty one
Mum is the frantically busy one, who still manages to do everything "homely"
And then there's Dad.

He was the breadwinner, the typical patriach, until he got fired. Now, he spends the days doing bit work here and there, picking up casual stuff wherever he can. He comes home tired, more so than before, and angrier. He can't accept his own failure so he sure as hell won't put up with anyone else's.

Julie talks about her latest boy. How he, like, just wasn't , like, right for her and how since she, like, broke up with him, he's been , like, a total mess. Now, he's started , like, being mean to her at school. He's, like, spreading, like, rumours about what they, like, did together. How, like, good (or more to the point: how bad) she was. How she wouldn't stop talking. How he's, like, got this new girl, with, like, French heritage, and he, like, can't believe how much, like, better it is with her.

Jason is still celebrating the massive win they had in the footy on the weekend, against the second best team in the comp. He was leading goal-kicker with 6. Beat them by himself, you know.

Mum fusses over the dinner. It's the recipe from the challenge on Tuesday's Masterchef. Cooked to perfection the smells are wafting throughout the house. She's been planning it all day. It's the only thing that got her through all those boring meetings.

Dad yells for Hugo to set the table. He does, as quickly as he can, then escapes back to his room. The smallest. The afterthought.

Grub's up!

They eat. Hugo, in silence. Even if he wanted to Julie wouldn't, like, let him get a word in. As soon as he's finished, he races back to his room, his refuge. Hugo's role is multi-levelled, but really all of them are the pits. The scapegoat. The servant. The youngest. The list goes on. Hugo knows them all and it leads him to wish his name was Jack. Then, at least, there would be something his parents liked about him. He'd be an equal among his siblings. And maybe, just maybe, he could carve out a role for himself that he actually liked. But he's stuck with Hugo. A name he quite likes, though, it's not his opinion that matters is it.

Temptations

Hi again. Sorry about the long time between drinks. But here is my next post, hope you enjoy.

It's the whole family that confuses you. For so long, too long, you've been telling yourself, "She's so confusing." She is the variable to all your constants and the constant to all your variables. No matter what you think you've worked out, you catch up with her and then it catches up with you. You're playing snakes and ladders and just landed on the biggest snake of them all: back to square one. But now you realise, it's him as well.

You remember those few times you were with her and how much you loved it. How much you want it again. Regardless of what you want the rest of the time. So often the sculpted pectorals and washboard abs walk out of the fantasy. Replaced by her feminine body. But, you like it just as much. You can match these visions with memories. Remember the way her touch felt to your skin. It was just a few times, and the rest, so horrible, but those moments, you could live forever off those moments if only they had more substance in your present.

And then the next day, you're at soccer practice. You're in a drill with him. Jostling for the airspace to get the header. You know you shouldn't like it and you don't, really. No, truth is, you love it, crave it, like nothing else. You look at him, inconspicuously, every now and then, and sometimes you can see her in him. Only rarely, but it's there and you hate yourself for it. You wish with all your being that him and her weren't related. That you could take two bites at the cherry pie.

You see his hair, cut just like you think it should be cut. His skin, tanned, just the way you think it should be. His height fits those images you have of him lifting you up and carrying you in his arms. His strong arms. You hadn't noticed any of these things before. Not when you knew him little and definitely not when you were with her. But now, more and more, you see him with golden lining and a cherry on top. You don't see your ex's brother. No, now, he's much more than that. At least, in your imagination he is. For that's all it is. You speak to him only the smallest bit more. Have only the tiniest bit more to do with him. You know nothing more about him. You don't know his favourite colour or what shows he likes. But most of all you don't know if he's interested and it's killing you. Because it is, just so, so very confusing. How can you want both? How can you be sure you are inclined one way, and then have her have you thinking it through again. Only her. Until you see him again and you know. Until it's her turn again...