Idol Prompt 17: Wabisabi
Dec. 6th, 2024 03:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inkstainedfingertips“This is stupid. Is this what they pay you for? To do arts and crafts?”
He chuckles softly. “In a sense, I suppose. I prefer to think of it as giving our hands something to do while we talk. Creativity has a way of freeing our minds.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Give it a try. What do you have to lose? It's not like you're going anywhere. Consider it a way to pass the time.”
I run the tips of my fingers across the edges of the shards of ceramic pottery in front of me. It’s rough in some spots, smooth in others. I sigh and glance at the clock, silently counting down the minutes until this is over.
“You realize this isn’t over until I say it’s over, don’t you?” he asks pleasantly. “We’re on my time in here. Not yours.”
I roll my eyes. “You enjoy the power trip, don’t you?”
He gestures to the pieces on the table in front of me. “Give it a shot.”
“The only way out is through, huh?”
“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”
Taking two pieces that appear to fit together, I dab the brush into the pot beside me and begin to spread a thick layer over the jagged edges. Surprisingly, I lose myself in the work, taking care to not spread too much or make the layer too thick. Doing everything I can to make it all just right. To make it all perfect.
“Good,” he says. “Now, tell me about the first memory that pops into your mind.”
* * * * *
A smile on my face, pride and excitement coursing through my veins, I run home. Finding my father in his usual spot—in the recliner, beer in hand, in front of the TV—I thrust my report card into his hands. Bouncing on my heels, I’m beaming, waiting to bask in the praise I’m sure is about to be lavished upon me.
“You got a B in math,” he says.
“I struggle with math,” I reply. “But it was almost an A.”
“Almost an A is not the same as getting an A.”
“But I got A’s in all my other classes.”
“And a B in math.”
“But—”
“Are you stupid or something? Is that it?”
“I’m not stupid?”
“You must be if you can’t manage an A in math.”
“But—”
“Get out of my sight. You disgust me.”
He crumples my report card in his hand and throws it to the ground. Fighting off the tears, I stare at the balled up piece paper at my feet. Wiping my eyes, I pick it up and slink away, feeling the first cracks appearing in my soul.
* * * * *
“What made you think of that memory?”
I shake my head. “It was the first one that popped into my head.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I have no idea.”
“You have to have some idea.”
I sigh and clench my jaw. “You told me to tell you the first memory that popped into my head. I did. Does it have to have some deeper meaning?”
“In my experience, it usually does.”
“Yeah, well, your experience isn’t my experience.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “But tell me this, why did you do what you did? What I mean—”
“I know what you mean. And I don’t know.”
“You surely have some idea.”
“I don’t. All right? I don’t fucking know.”
“All right. We’ll circle back to that later.”
I line the pieces in my hand up like a jigsaw puzzle then run my brush along the edges, taking care with the ceramic.
“Give me another memory.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way we’re going to understand what happened.”
“I don’t want to understand.”
“You need to stop running from it.”
I ignore him and focus on the project in my hands instead, taking care with the details, making sure to get it right. As I do though, my mind rebels and completely against my will, sends me hurtling into the past…
* * * * *
The crowd is going bananas and their cheering rings in my ears as I stand in the endzone with a wide smile on my face. A moment later, I’m mobbed by my teammates as we celebrate our go-ahead score—a touchdown that pretty much cemented the win. It’s my first score and having it come in the biggest game of the season makes it that much more meaningful.
Carrying the ball under my arm—I’m keeping this thing—I trot back to the sideline to Coach Greene who’s waiting for me. Expecting a high-five or an atta-boy, I’m left stunned when he slaps the ball out of my hands and leans close, sneering at me.
“What the fuck was that?” he growls.
“A touchdown?”
“Don’t get cute with me. You were supposed to hit the A-gap not bounce it outside,” he hisses. “That’s not the play I called.”
“Coach, the gap was filled. If I’d tried to run the gap, I’d have lost a yard—”
His face is red as he glares at me. “Are you stupid?”
“No. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. If you’d gotten caught in the backfield, you’d have taken us out of field goal range. If you’d fumbled—”
“But I didn’t fumble. I scored—”
He seizes my face mask and shakes my head wildly. “That’s not the goddamn point. I gave you an order, but you decided to do whatever the fuck you wanted to do.”
“Coach—”
“Details matter, son. Doing what you’re told matters,” he screams in my face. “This is my team, and you do what I say.”
I roll my eyes, which earns me a slap to the side of the helmet so hard my ears start ringing. Still gripping my facemask, Coach Greene yanks my head down and smacks my earhole again, making that ringing louder. But then he pushes me away.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he growls. “You make me sick, son.”
My head spinning and my ears still ringing, I walk to the end of the bench where I’ve been exiled and will spend the rest of the game. What should have been my moment of triumph sours like spoiled milk, those cracks inside me growing wider.
* * * * *
“What made you think of that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“I’m busy.”
The pieces I’m working with are small and delicate and I’m having trouble getting them to line up. I grit my teeth and try again. But still, the pieces won’t line up perfectly.
“Goddammit,” I growl.
Frustration running through me, I raise my first, determined to smash these fucking ceramic pieces to bits.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m going to make you keep doing this. And if you break those, the pieces you're going to be left iwth will be a lot smaller and harder to manipulate. Actions have consequences.”
“Why am I even doing this?”
“It’s an exercise. And if you just bear with me a bit longer, you’ll see it’s one with a point.”
“Whatever,” I mumble.
“Just keep working and tell me the next memory that comes to mind.”
* * * * *
“I just don’t think we’re good together. The chemistry just isn’t there.”
I stare at her blankly. “This was your idea.”
“I was wrong.”
My heart stutters and I can feel it breaking into ten thousand pieces as I search for the words. Search for a way to make her reconsider this. She reaches out to take my hand, but I recoil, snatching it away like she’s just scalded me. Her face darkens as she wipes away a tear that leaked from the corner of her eye.
“We’ve been so close for so long, I thought we’d be good together,” she says softly.
“We can be. We can work. Just give this a little more time. Give us a little—”
“It’s over,” she says softly. “There’s no sense in prolonging it.”
“Kel, please.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted this to work. I just… it doesn’t feel like you’re engaged.”
My mind is screaming at me to tell her everything that's in my heart. To tell her I’ve loved her since I was fifteen years old. That she’s the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The only woman I know I’ll ever love the way I love her—with my entire heart. To tell it’s fear holding me back. That it’s my fear of doing something wrong, of losing her, that’s making me keep a distance between us. That I’ve waited my entire life for this moment, to be with her, and now that I have her, I’m so fucking terrified, I can’t even breathe.
In the end, I say nothing. I never do. In the end, I simply break a little bit more.
* * * * *
“Why didn’t you fight for her?” he asks. “Don’t you think she was hoping you’d give her a reason to stay with you? Wanted to see you fight? To give her some spark of hope to cling to?”
I say nothing but my vision blurs and I have to wipe away the tears. Clearing my throat, I pick up the pieces I’m working with and try to ignore him. I just want to finish this stupid fucking project and get the fuck out of here.
“I can see it still hurts you, all these years later,” he says.
“It’s the adhesive. It’s stinging my eyes.”
“The longer you run from this, the deeper those cracks will go.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“I know that’s a lie.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He purses his lips. “So, educate me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I just want to finish this so I can leave,” I say, arranging a few more pieces.
“Good. Keep working,” he says. “And while you do, tell me something more.”
I have no intention of saying a word. I don’t feel like I have anything more to say. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand. Nobody will. But my body betrays me once more. My mind continues spinning back in time and my mouth soon follows…
* * * * *
Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain taps a staccato beat against the window. I sit in the dark and stare at the wall. Meg Myers’ song “Motel,” comes up next on my playlist, filling the room with her powerful voice, her words punctuated with a pain that’s all too familiar…
“You’re weak. Broken in a motel. You blink. Tears are falling down. Down. Down. And you’re free. Free inside your own hell. You speak. Someone let me out…”
My cheeks are wet with tears, my heart and soul have finally shattered into a million pieces. I can’t say it’s been just one thing. It’s been death by a thousand cuts and I’ve finally reached my breaking point. I don’t see any way back from this. I’m tired. I’m spent. I’m done.
Popping the cap off the bottle in my hand, I tip it back and fill my mouth. Picking up the bottle of Jim Beam beside me, I wash them down, then repeat the process until both bottles are empty. My head is muzzy but for the first time in as long as I can remember, it’s quiet. I don’t hear the cacophony of voices that have been a constant companion throughout my life. The host of voices that tell me I’m not smart enough.
Not dedicated enough.
Not disciplined enough.
Not good enough.
Not… enough.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I hear nothing. It’s peaceful and for the first time since I was a kid, I feel my entire body relax. It feels good. Laying back, I close my eyes and enjoy the silence…
* * * * *
“I couldn’t even do that right,” I mutter.
A small smile touches the corners of my mouth as I put the last piece in place, finishing this stupid project. I push it to the middle of the table and sit back.
“Done,” I say.
He nods then glances at his notebook and looks up at me. “Your friend found you. Said she got worried when you weren’t returning her texts.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Do you know how many calls and emails I’ve received from your friends asking about you and how you’re doing?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Quite a few,” he says. “Do you know what that tells me?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me."
“It tells me that despite what those voices in your head tell you, you are enough. That you have people in your life who care about you who see you as good enough. As worthy of their love and their friendship,” he replies.
“Maybe they should be in here having their heads examined.”
“The fact that you downplay those who care about you while fixating on the negative memories in your life is telling,” he says. “You see yourself as broken. Perhaps beyond repair.”
“That sounds about right.”
He points to the deep blue ceramic bowl sitting on the table. “This was broken too.”
I hadn’t noticed it before, but the adhesive I’d been using to glue the pieces back together left long, thin, spiderwebbing veins of gold across the surface. The fractures are still clear, but it’s been pieced back together and made whole again. It’s strangely beautiful.
I give him a wry grin. “An arts and crafts project with a purpose.”
He nods. “Exactly. And the point of his project is to show you that life is imperfect and it can break you in ten thousand ways,” he says. “But if you accept that fact, if you embrace the imperfections, you can still build something beautiful from all the broken pieces.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy. But instead of giving up, if you accept the imperfections, put in the work, and put all the pieces together, it can be worth it. You can make something beautiful.”
I sit back in my chair and stare at the bowl, my eyes traveling the long, thin threads of gold that run along the smooth, curved surface. My lips curl in a small smile as I reach out and gently slide the bowl back to my side of the table.
“Can I keep this?”
He chuckles softly. “In a sense, I suppose. I prefer to think of it as giving our hands something to do while we talk. Creativity has a way of freeing our minds.”
“It’s stupid.”
“Give it a try. What do you have to lose? It's not like you're going anywhere. Consider it a way to pass the time.”
I run the tips of my fingers across the edges of the shards of ceramic pottery in front of me. It’s rough in some spots, smooth in others. I sigh and glance at the clock, silently counting down the minutes until this is over.
“You realize this isn’t over until I say it’s over, don’t you?” he asks pleasantly. “We’re on my time in here. Not yours.”
I roll my eyes. “You enjoy the power trip, don’t you?”
He gestures to the pieces on the table in front of me. “Give it a shot.”
“The only way out is through, huh?”
“Exactly. Now you’re getting it.”
Taking two pieces that appear to fit together, I dab the brush into the pot beside me and begin to spread a thick layer over the jagged edges. Surprisingly, I lose myself in the work, taking care to not spread too much or make the layer too thick. Doing everything I can to make it all just right. To make it all perfect.
“Good,” he says. “Now, tell me about the first memory that pops into your mind.”
* * * * *
A smile on my face, pride and excitement coursing through my veins, I run home. Finding my father in his usual spot—in the recliner, beer in hand, in front of the TV—I thrust my report card into his hands. Bouncing on my heels, I’m beaming, waiting to bask in the praise I’m sure is about to be lavished upon me.
“You got a B in math,” he says.
“I struggle with math,” I reply. “But it was almost an A.”
“Almost an A is not the same as getting an A.”
“But I got A’s in all my other classes.”
“And a B in math.”
“But—”
“Are you stupid or something? Is that it?”
“I’m not stupid?”
“You must be if you can’t manage an A in math.”
“But—”
“Get out of my sight. You disgust me.”
He crumples my report card in his hand and throws it to the ground. Fighting off the tears, I stare at the balled up piece paper at my feet. Wiping my eyes, I pick it up and slink away, feeling the first cracks appearing in my soul.
* * * * *
“What made you think of that memory?”
I shake my head. “It was the first one that popped into my head.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I have no idea.”
“You have to have some idea.”
I sigh and clench my jaw. “You told me to tell you the first memory that popped into my head. I did. Does it have to have some deeper meaning?”
“In my experience, it usually does.”
“Yeah, well, your experience isn’t my experience.”
“That’s fair,” he says. “But tell me this, why did you do what you did? What I mean—”
“I know what you mean. And I don’t know.”
“You surely have some idea.”
“I don’t. All right? I don’t fucking know.”
“All right. We’ll circle back to that later.”
I line the pieces in my hand up like a jigsaw puzzle then run my brush along the edges, taking care with the ceramic.
“Give me another memory.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s the only way we’re going to understand what happened.”
“I don’t want to understand.”
“You need to stop running from it.”
I ignore him and focus on the project in my hands instead, taking care with the details, making sure to get it right. As I do though, my mind rebels and completely against my will, sends me hurtling into the past…
* * * * *
The crowd is going bananas and their cheering rings in my ears as I stand in the endzone with a wide smile on my face. A moment later, I’m mobbed by my teammates as we celebrate our go-ahead score—a touchdown that pretty much cemented the win. It’s my first score and having it come in the biggest game of the season makes it that much more meaningful.
Carrying the ball under my arm—I’m keeping this thing—I trot back to the sideline to Coach Greene who’s waiting for me. Expecting a high-five or an atta-boy, I’m left stunned when he slaps the ball out of my hands and leans close, sneering at me.
“What the fuck was that?” he growls.
“A touchdown?”
“Don’t get cute with me. You were supposed to hit the A-gap not bounce it outside,” he hisses. “That’s not the play I called.”
“Coach, the gap was filled. If I’d tried to run the gap, I’d have lost a yard—”
His face is red as he glares at me. “Are you stupid?”
“No. I just thought—”
“No, you didn’t think. If you’d gotten caught in the backfield, you’d have taken us out of field goal range. If you’d fumbled—”
“But I didn’t fumble. I scored—”
He seizes my face mask and shakes my head wildly. “That’s not the goddamn point. I gave you an order, but you decided to do whatever the fuck you wanted to do.”
“Coach—”
“Details matter, son. Doing what you’re told matters,” he screams in my face. “This is my team, and you do what I say.”
I roll my eyes, which earns me a slap to the side of the helmet so hard my ears start ringing. Still gripping my facemask, Coach Greene yanks my head down and smacks my earhole again, making that ringing louder. But then he pushes me away.
“Get the fuck out of my sight,” he growls. “You make me sick, son.”
My head spinning and my ears still ringing, I walk to the end of the bench where I’ve been exiled and will spend the rest of the game. What should have been my moment of triumph sours like spoiled milk, those cracks inside me growing wider.
* * * * *
“What made you think of that?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Think about it.”
“I’m busy.”
The pieces I’m working with are small and delicate and I’m having trouble getting them to line up. I grit my teeth and try again. But still, the pieces won’t line up perfectly.
“Goddammit,” I growl.
Frustration running through me, I raise my first, determined to smash these fucking ceramic pieces to bits.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he says.
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m going to make you keep doing this. And if you break those, the pieces you're going to be left iwth will be a lot smaller and harder to manipulate. Actions have consequences.”
“Why am I even doing this?”
“It’s an exercise. And if you just bear with me a bit longer, you’ll see it’s one with a point.”
“Whatever,” I mumble.
“Just keep working and tell me the next memory that comes to mind.”
* * * * *
“I just don’t think we’re good together. The chemistry just isn’t there.”
I stare at her blankly. “This was your idea.”
“I was wrong.”
My heart stutters and I can feel it breaking into ten thousand pieces as I search for the words. Search for a way to make her reconsider this. She reaches out to take my hand, but I recoil, snatching it away like she’s just scalded me. Her face darkens as she wipes away a tear that leaked from the corner of her eye.
“We’ve been so close for so long, I thought we’d be good together,” she says softly.
“We can be. We can work. Just give this a little more time. Give us a little—”
“It’s over,” she says softly. “There’s no sense in prolonging it.”
“Kel, please.”
“I’m sorry. I really am. I wanted this to work. I just… it doesn’t feel like you’re engaged.”
My mind is screaming at me to tell her everything that's in my heart. To tell her I’ve loved her since I was fifteen years old. That she’s the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The only woman I know I’ll ever love the way I love her—with my entire heart. To tell it’s fear holding me back. That it’s my fear of doing something wrong, of losing her, that’s making me keep a distance between us. That I’ve waited my entire life for this moment, to be with her, and now that I have her, I’m so fucking terrified, I can’t even breathe.
In the end, I say nothing. I never do. In the end, I simply break a little bit more.
* * * * *
“Why didn’t you fight for her?” he asks. “Don’t you think she was hoping you’d give her a reason to stay with you? Wanted to see you fight? To give her some spark of hope to cling to?”
I say nothing but my vision blurs and I have to wipe away the tears. Clearing my throat, I pick up the pieces I’m working with and try to ignore him. I just want to finish this stupid fucking project and get the fuck out of here.
“I can see it still hurts you, all these years later,” he says.
“It’s the adhesive. It’s stinging my eyes.”
“The longer you run from this, the deeper those cracks will go.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“I know that’s a lie.”
“You don’t know anything.”
He purses his lips. “So, educate me.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
“I just want to finish this so I can leave,” I say, arranging a few more pieces.
“Good. Keep working,” he says. “And while you do, tell me something more.”
I have no intention of saying a word. I don’t feel like I have anything more to say. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand. Nobody will. But my body betrays me once more. My mind continues spinning back in time and my mouth soon follows…
* * * * *
Thunder rumbles overhead and the rain taps a staccato beat against the window. I sit in the dark and stare at the wall. Meg Myers’ song “Motel,” comes up next on my playlist, filling the room with her powerful voice, her words punctuated with a pain that’s all too familiar…
“You’re weak. Broken in a motel. You blink. Tears are falling down. Down. Down. And you’re free. Free inside your own hell. You speak. Someone let me out…”
My cheeks are wet with tears, my heart and soul have finally shattered into a million pieces. I can’t say it’s been just one thing. It’s been death by a thousand cuts and I’ve finally reached my breaking point. I don’t see any way back from this. I’m tired. I’m spent. I’m done.
Popping the cap off the bottle in my hand, I tip it back and fill my mouth. Picking up the bottle of Jim Beam beside me, I wash them down, then repeat the process until both bottles are empty. My head is muzzy but for the first time in as long as I can remember, it’s quiet. I don’t hear the cacophony of voices that have been a constant companion throughout my life. The host of voices that tell me I’m not smart enough.
Not dedicated enough.
Not disciplined enough.
Not good enough.
Not… enough.
For the first time in a very, very long time, I hear nothing. It’s peaceful and for the first time since I was a kid, I feel my entire body relax. It feels good. Laying back, I close my eyes and enjoy the silence…
* * * * *
“I couldn’t even do that right,” I mutter.
A small smile touches the corners of my mouth as I put the last piece in place, finishing this stupid project. I push it to the middle of the table and sit back.
“Done,” I say.
He nods then glances at his notebook and looks up at me. “Your friend found you. Said she got worried when you weren’t returning her texts.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Do you know how many calls and emails I’ve received from your friends asking about you and how you’re doing?”
I shrug. “Don’t know.”
“Quite a few,” he says. “Do you know what that tells me?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me."
“It tells me that despite what those voices in your head tell you, you are enough. That you have people in your life who care about you who see you as good enough. As worthy of their love and their friendship,” he replies.
“Maybe they should be in here having their heads examined.”
“The fact that you downplay those who care about you while fixating on the negative memories in your life is telling,” he says. “You see yourself as broken. Perhaps beyond repair.”
“That sounds about right.”
He points to the deep blue ceramic bowl sitting on the table. “This was broken too.”
I hadn’t noticed it before, but the adhesive I’d been using to glue the pieces back together left long, thin, spiderwebbing veins of gold across the surface. The fractures are still clear, but it’s been pieced back together and made whole again. It’s strangely beautiful.
I give him a wry grin. “An arts and crafts project with a purpose.”
He nods. “Exactly. And the point of his project is to show you that life is imperfect and it can break you in ten thousand ways,” he says. “But if you accept that fact, if you embrace the imperfections, you can still build something beautiful from all the broken pieces.”
“I wish it was that easy.”
“It’s not supposed to be easy. But instead of giving up, if you accept the imperfections, put in the work, and put all the pieces together, it can be worth it. You can make something beautiful.”
I sit back in my chair and stare at the bowl, my eyes traveling the long, thin threads of gold that run along the smooth, curved surface. My lips curl in a small smile as I reach out and gently slide the bowl back to my side of the table.
“Can I keep this?”