Unrecognizable
She sits away from me on the beige couch, an awkward expression on her face. She looks at her hands and plays with her earlobe, and maintains her distance. She’s going to break up with me.
“I think we need to end things,” she says, a knife cutting sentence that rips through the palpable tension in the air.
“Okay,” I respond. I don’t ask why.
“You’re not going to ask why? You’re just going to take it?”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything back.
She sighs, and studies me, desperate for something that I’m not sure she’s going to find. “I don’t recognize you anymore, Derrick. I don’t know who you are.”
“Okay,” I say. I get up from the couch and collect my stuff.
She stands up to face me. “Goodbye,” she says. She’s done with me.
“Goodbye,” I say.
…
When I get back from her house, I stare at myself in the mirror. I take in my crooked nose, my brown eyes, my dark lips. I look at my hair.
I take my shirt off. I look at my shoulders. My collarbone. I look at my chest, at the discoloration at some parts of my torso. I look down at my legs, at my knees, at my toes.
I look the same to me.
…
My friend and I are driving around the neighborhood. It’s late. The outdoor porch lights of most of the houses have already turned off for the night, and the streets are quiet. A warm breeze hits my face from the opened window. The radio hums soft rock.
We haven’t been talking for the last ten minutes, but I don’t mind. This summer night doesn’t need words, in my opinion.
As we pass a corner, I feel his energy shift, silently breaking the peace of the car. As if we passed something that reminded him of something else. He pulls the car over into a parking lot, and he turns the music off.
“Derrick, dude, we need to talk.” He stares forward into the street as he says this.
I turn to him, the church softly lit behind him. “What?”
“I don’t know what’s been up with you these past few weeks. But honestly, I barely recognize you.” He turns his gaze to me, and I can see the fear in his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
…
At my house, I stare at my bedroom walls. I have a photography project from freshman year of high school hanging above my bed. It’s in black and white. It’s a photo of a friend of mine dropping dried, crunchy fall leaves onto the camera. At the time I thought it was really interesting, but I’ve come to realize that it’s a pretty stupid photo, and I’m not really sure why I’ve felt the need to commemorate this image above my bed for so many years. I kick my shoes off and crawl onto my bed. I stand up, and I easily reach the thumbtack, and take the photo down.
…
“Derrick,” my mom says from the other end of the kitchen table. “Care to comment?”
I poke at my buttered penne, pushing it into the roasted broccoli on my plate. I figure it’s a rhetorical question.
“Derrick. Are you listening to me?” She’s terse.
I swallow a piece of pasta. “Comment on what?” I ask, proving that I was listening to at least part of what she said.
“On everything we’ve been discussing for the last ten minutes.” My mom rolls her eyes at me, and takes a sip of wine.
I look around at the table. My dad is focused on my mom. My sister tries to silently communicate to me, but I have absolutely no idea what she’s trying to get across. I couldn't even try to guess.
“I, uh, don’t have anything to say.” I can feel my face go red, and I try my best to avoid my mom’s gaze.
She sighs, loudly. It’s the only sound at the table at this point.
“God, Derrick. You never change, do you?”
