"You wanna tell me where you got these?" Father Krickett asked, shaking the little bottle of pills at Boris as he sat at the kitchen table, his arms folded, scowling.
"Why? You my dad or something?" Boris asked. "We're just curious how long you've been using them," Whittle said, sitting across from Boris, "...I'm guessing you kept them from the incident you and Polly went through, but have you been taking them regularly?" "...sort of," Boris said, "I've been having nightmares. I've been using them when I need them, which is what they tell you to do with any medication, right? Use only when necessary?" "Yeah, when they're prescribed to you! She stole these out of the medicine hall of the home, Boris," Father Krickett said sternly, rubbing his forehead and beginning to pace around the table; after a moment he sighed and said, "I don't wanna be the straight edge priest here, but this isn't an acceptable situation. I cannot, in good conscience, allow this to continue." "Then stop caring," Boris mumbled. Father Krickett shook his head, surprised and saddened by Boris's attitude. He couldn't just 'stop caring', because he'd seen first hand what these sorts of things could develop into, spiral towards, and leave in the wake of peoples lives. He didn't like to talk about it, but yes, he'd seen it. And he swore to never see it again. *** John Potter Krickett had been a young man when he'd been in the accident. He was a young man in college, his second year in, when it happened. He hadn't been drinking, he hadn't been out late, he hadn't been speeding. He had done absolutely nothing to instigate the incident, it merely happened, as these things so often do. Someone else disobeyed a traffic law, and suddenly John Potter Krickett was scrunched between his steering wheel and a lamp post. They told him he was lucky to even be alive, but was he? No. His parents were lucky he was alive. After all, he'd watched them lose his brother, he didn't want to put them through that level of agony and anguish yet again. Once had been enough for a lifetime. At the hospital, they gave him the pain medication. Once he got out, he still was being given it. He took it fairly regularly, partially because it helped with the pain but also, and he'd never admit this to anyone, because it made him feel less bad about having survived. He hadn't wanted to survive. Sitting there, drifting between states of consciousness, John Potter Krickett swore up and down that he'd seen the face of god, and that all he wanted was to join him in heaven. When he awoke in the hospital, he was devastated. Oh sure, most people - likely all people honestly - just took his sadness as a reaction to what happened, but no...he wasn't sad about the accident. He was sad that he'd survived it. Lying in bed one night, John couldn't sleep. Instead, he pulled himself out of bed, slipped his feet in his sandals and headed outside to the backyard of his parents house, where he found his father sitting on a chair, having a beer. John sat down in the chaise lounge, and after acknowledging one another with a brief smile, they both silently watched the stars together overhead. After a few minutes, John sighed. "Why don't we ever go to church?" John asked. "...I mean, your mother used to drag us there for holiday situations, but otherwise, neither of us just ever saw the need," his father replied, "why?" "Just curious," John said, shrugging, before adding, "...so you guys don't believe in heaven? You don't think Jeff's up there or something?" "...I think we each have our own personal viewpoint of the situation, frankly," his father said, "your mother is far more spiritual than I, but no, I don't think either of us believes in heaven, at least not the way the catholics define it." John nodded, listening intently. "What kind of proof would you need for you to suddenly believe in a concept like heaven?" John asked, and his father shrugged, shaking his head. "I guess, you know, visual confirmation of the sort. I'm definitely a 'see it and it's real' kind of person. I know that doesn't exactly fly for everyone, but for me my eyes have never lied, and never would, so that's good enough evidence to convince me of anything. You hear it all the time from skeptics who never believed in ghosts until they saw one, or never believed in aliens until a UFO showed up over their yard. That's what I'd need. I'd need to see the face of God." He didn't know it at the time, but that sentiment had begun John down a path that would eventually lead him to the church. John had seen the face of God, and nothing in the real world compared. *** "What are they for?" Steven asked, lying in bed as he watched John head to the bathroom and pull out his pain medication, taking one before shoving the bottle back into the cabinet. "I was in an accident a few years ago," John said, "I still have pain from it now and then, so I've just had an ongoing prescription since then that they keep honoring." "You sure you're not abusing that?" Steven asked as John came back and sat on the side of the bed. "...I am, and I can admit it. My folks were so angry with me when I told them I was still using them, but they insisted on getting me help. I told them no, I have to get help myself, I can't depend on others. Except, being religious, that's what you do. You depend on others. You depend on the lord to guide you, you depend on your people to take to heart what you say in your sermons. You depend entirely on faith itself." "What do you think God would find more blasphemous?" Steven asked, sitting up now, "Abusing medication or sleeping with a man?" John smirked, chuckling. "Frankly, I don't think God has any right to tell me how to live my life so long as my life is lived in service of him. So long as I spread his gospel, treat his word as truth, try and help others with the love Jesus gave to those around him, then God has no say in what I do outside of that. I've already given my life to God. He shouldn't get to dictate every single aspect of it." Steven smiled and kissed John's shoulder, John reaching back and running his hands through Steven's fluffy hair. Their relationship had been going on a year now, and nobody knew. John wasn't exactly afraid of what would happen if his parents found out or anything, but he was afraid what the church itself might say. Between their relationship and his medication abuse, he was almost certain he'd be asked to leave. But before anyone could find anything out, there was yet another accident. This time, it was John's fault. This time he couldn't point blame at anyone else flagrantly disregarding traffic laws or simply chock it up to one of those things that happens in life. No. This time he was solely responsible. And it was something he'd never forgiven himself for. God might have, certainly. That's the idea, isn't it? God forgives your sins so long as you're willing to repent for them and make right. So okay, he had God's forgiveness. But he could never forgive himself. *** "This cannot continue," Father Krickett said, "We're going to put an end to this. I'm willing to hold onto it for you, give you some when you really genuinely need pain relief, but I cannot allow you to continue having it in your hands. I refuse to stand idly by and be responsible for something I could easily stopped." "You told me I wasn't responsible for Polly's death, so what would make you responsible for anything that happens to me?" Boris asked, growing agitated. "Because yours would've been avoidable!" Father Krickett said loudly, his anger surprising Whittle, who'd never seen him get mad before. "Oh, and hers wasn't? At any goddamned point during that entire situation I could've stopped, I could've said to her 'hey, maybe this isn't such a great idea!' but I never did, did I? I never once did that. Ergo, I'm responsible for her death. Polly is dead because of me!" Boris shouted, standing up now, hands planted firmly on the table, staring Father Krickett down from the other side. Krickett wasted no time, matching Boris's stance, like a wild animal defending its pups from a predator. Whittle backed away and simply watched, fascinated. "You don't get to decide after the fact what would've been better in the moment, that isn't how things work. You make the decisions you make and you live with the consequences thereof, be they positive or negative. The only thing you can do afterwards is move on and try to do better. By dwelling on things, you're only inviting more pain unto yourself that isn't exactly warranted nor necessary!" Father Krickett shouted back, "I know because I've been there! I killed someone because of pain medication! This stopped Boris in his tracks. His face softened, his eyes widened. He saw the tears swelling in Father Krickett's eyes. "what?" he asked softly. "I was in an accident in college. They gave me pain medication to deal with it, pain medication I became extremely reliant upon. A year later, I met a man named Steven, and we fell absolutely in love with one another. A year after that, wouldn't you know it, I had yet another accident. Except this time it was my fault. This time I was to blame. Driving hopped up on pain medication, frustrated with the church for trying to tell me what I could and couldn't do outside its walls. He died because of me. He died because of my recklessness. I will not have that happen again. You may think you're the first person to go through this, but I assure you, you are not. You may, however, be the most goddamned stubborn." Boris didn't respond. Instead he merely slunk back into his seat and bit his lip, looking at his old, wrinkled hands in front of him on the table. "...then you know. You know what it's like to miss someone," he whispered, "I didn't love her, not romantically anyway. Besides, she was gay too. But I loved her as much as I've ever loved anyone platonically. I keep having dreams about her. It's like she's haunting me. Do you know how much that hurts? To see the face of someone you miss so badly, only to realize their face is not here anymore? You're seeing a memory of their face. I'm old. My memory ain't what it used to be and it's only going to get worse. What if I forget what she looks like? What if...what if at some point I have a dream about her, but it doesn't look like her? I may not be responsible for her death, but I'm sure as hell responsible for her memory." Father Krickett slowed his breathing, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve before walking around the table and kneeling beside Boris, putting his hand on the old mans hands and squeezing them gently. "Time...takes everything from us. It cannot be reasoned with, it cannot be fought, and it cannot be bargained against. It takes what it takes without compassion, but also without malice. It can't do it with either, because it isn't a living thing, it's a concept. The older we get, the more we lose, be it people we love, our health or simply parts of ourselves. The only way to fight time is to be timeless. Untethered from its restrictions and its indignant disregard for our personhood. To not think about time gives time no power over you. Sure, seasons will still change, people will still leave and we'll still grow old. But at least we do it on our own schedule instead of doing it on times schedule, or that's what we can tell ourselves anyway. Memory is the only thing we have in the fight against time, and so long as you remember Polly - even if she looks nothing like you remember - then you've won. You've won. Because the idea of her is what's important. The feeling she imparted on you. Not what she looked like. That's what photographs are for." Boris looked at Father Krickett, his face running with tears, and he turned and put his arms around the priest, hugging him tightly. "I miss her so much, John," he whispered. "I know," Father Krickett said, hugging Boris, patting his back, adding, "and that's good. That means her life made a difference." He didn't argue with Boris any further that day. He just let him cry, and he held him. He made Boris feel safe, understood and cared for, because so often, people never get that in their lives, especially our elderly. Boris let Father Krickett take the pills home that night, and agreed to see a doctor about his addiction, which made Father Krickett happy. After Father Krickett left that night, he drove home, and he made himself some dinner. Fish and rice and roasted carrots. He ate dinner, he took a shower, and then he got ready for bed. John put his pajamas on, had dessert, then he brushed his teeth and he slipped the medication into his medicine cabinet. John then went to bed, pulling his quilt and sheets back, climbing under them and adjusting his pillows, laying his head back and sighing. He done the right thing, he knew this, and he was proud of himself. He picked up a book from the bedside table and opened it, then, just as quickly, set it in his lap face down so he wouldn't lose his spot and he pulled open the bedside table drawer and removed a framed photograph from it. He smiled at it, kissed the glass and then placed it on the pillow beside him. John picked his book back up and started reading again. *** "You look good," John said, adjusting the lens on the camera, "Your parents will love it." "I hope so. I haven't had a haircut in a long time," Steven said, sitting on the steps outside John's apartment, continuing, "thanks for doing this, by the way. I really wanted to send them a Christmas card this year, and I can't take a decent photograph to save my life." "Hey, it's no problem," John said, smiling, "Just make sure I get a copy." "Of course," Steven said, blowing a kiss at him. "Smile!" John said, before snapping the photo. *** John put a bookmark in his book, set it back down on the bedside table and turned the light off. He rolled onto his side, facing the framed photo on the pillow and smiled as he shut his eyes, one hand on top of the frame, patting it ever so gently. "Good night, Steven," he whispered, before drifting off to sleep.
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Golden Years follows the exploits of a bunch of old people in a retirement home as they try to have fun, relax or come to terms with the soon to be end of their lives. Archives
April 2024
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