"Boris," Lorraine said weakly, standing in the hallway, her hands holding eachother in front of her, her eyes stuck to the floor, "...I don't...I don't know how to..."
"No. No you don't...you don't get to say it," Boris said, tears brimming in his eyes, "Don't say it." "Whether I say it or not it happened," Lorraine said, "It happened." "No," Boris said softly, clutching at his chest as she approached him. She put her hand on his shoulder and he glanced up at her, and then his head hit her knees, he hugged her legs and he started sobbing as she stood there and stroked his hair. "There there," she said quietly, "Get it out. It's okay. I'm here now." 1 WEEK PRIOR Boris was sitting on his bed. He didn't want to be sitting on his bed, but he was. He wanted to be sitting on a new bed, in a new room, the room he'd asked for what felt like months ago now. He wanted Hendersons old room, but a decision still had not come down about whether or not he'd be given it, and at this point, he was ready to accept a decision never would. So, Boris was sitting on his bed, picking at a loose string coming out of the quilt when someone knocked on his door. He looked up, surprised. "Uh...come in?" The door opened, and there stood Carol, looking at her watch. "This Bingo game is going to start soon, if you wanna..." she said, before looking up and around his room, "...god this is depressing. Why don't you do something to this place?" "Decorating would only create the reality that I'm never leaving," Boris said, "And I like to keep my options open. It's like finding a stray puppy, once you name it, you become attached to it." "Are you coming to Bingo?" "I don't know. I don't really feel like it," Boris said, "I think I may go watch the knitting club." "Alright," Carol said, sighing, "Well, the offer is open if you decide to change your mind." Carol turned and exited the room, leaving the door wide open. Boris continued to pick and pull at the errant string from the quilt, his brow furrowing at it. He heard a voice at his doorway. "Boris?" it asked. "Carol, I already-" he started, before he looked up and realized it was, in fact, Leanne. She was standing there, smiling at him, looking just as pretty as the last time he'd seen her. She started to come in, but stopped before entering. "May I join you in...whatever it is you're doing?" she asked. "Wallowing in my own despair." "Sounds lovely!" With that, she entered the room and sat down beside him, watching him pick at the string. "How've you been?" he asked. "I've been alright, I'm sorry we haven't seen more of eachother...I've been having a lot of family visits and doctors appointments lately. I guess it's just kept me busy. It wasn't that I didn't want to come over and talk to you." "It's okay. I didn't make much of an effort to come talk to you either," Boris said, "Not that that excuses anything. I should've. You've been having family come visit?" "Yes! It's been wonderful. I've been having my daughter come and visit me, and she's so sweet, I would love if you could meet her sometime," Leanne said, "She'll come over, we'll chat a bit, she'll take me to the doctors, you know, things like that. Sometimes we go out for lunch and..." A pause as she looked at his hand tugging at the string. "...is there a reason you're torturing this quilt?" "Huh? Oh...I don't...I mean...it's broken. It's coming apart. I could have it fixed, there's lots of women here who know how to knit and could easily fix it for me but...it's like me, it's damaged, and that's fine. We're fine. I like it this way. I'm only doing this because I'm bored," Boris said, sighing, "...that was so overly dramatic of me, I'm sorry. I used to write." "You were a writer?" "On and off. I did greeting cards, copy, freelance things like that," Boris said, "Then after the accident...I didn't really write much anymore. I liked writing happy things, and I didn't really have much happiness to inspire me, so, why bother writing anymore?" "How cliche, a damaged writer," Leanne said, smirking, "Oh, you're in SO much pain Boris, please, let me HEAL you. Goodness knows anything can inspire art of any kind. I guarantee you that pain isn't a necessity, and anyone who tells you it is hasn't made anything worthy of themselves. To believe pain is equal to great art is to say that pain is the only emotion worth feeling, which is such a load of shit. If that were true, love stories with happy endings wouldn't be as popular as they are." "...I guess you're right," Boris said, "But when you've reached this point in your life, what's there to be happy about? You have little to no family, and finding a reason to even get out of bed if you have no career or friends or goals is hard to do." "You're alive! That's what makes getting out of bed worth it! Because you can get out of bed! Think about it, there's billions of people already dead, but you're not one of them! Not yet, anyway! So get up, enjoy things!" "But...how?" Boris asked, tearing up, "How do you enjoy anything? I feel like I haven't enjoyed something in years." "Stuart, things like that hurt to hear," Leanne said, "I wish I knew what to say to make you feel better." "I appreciate that you even care enough to listen, so...Stuart?" Boris asked, realizing she'd just called him the wrong name. "Stuart, there are things in life that are worth pursuing even if you don't achieve them or even if you choose to give them up, because the fact of the matter is that simply pursuing them means you made a decision to do something, you acted upon impulse, you made a change. You. You. YOU did that. You are in control of your OWN life." "Sure, that's all fine and true, but-" "And," she continued, cutting him off, "the fact of the matter is that if you do NOTHING, then you're letting the pain win. Pain is a miserable, fickle creature, Stuart, it really is. You didn't try hard enough in college and you aren't trying hard enough today." "Whoa whoa, I mean, I agree, I'm a lazy sack of garbage, but come on," Boris said, "Also, my name isn't Stuart." Leanne stopped and looked at him, rubbing her arm with her other hand, seeming nervous and confused. "Where am I?" she quietly asked. "You're...you're in my room, I'm Boris, remember?" he asked, "You...you came in from the hallway, and we were talking about your daughter and your doctors appointments and stuff? Are you feeling okay?" "I have to go," she quickly said, trying to get up before stumbling and grabbing the wall to keep herself from falling. As Boris approached her to help, she put a hand up to stop him, "No! No...I don't need help, I can do this." She got back on her feet and continued down the hall as Boris watched her from his doorway. As he did, Polly stopped by and watched with him as she ate a pudding cup. "Leanne Wilkins huh?" Polly asked, "She probably won't be staying here much longer, if she keeps getting worse." "Worse?" "She's on my floor. Sometimes she goes into peoples rooms, thinking they're her rooms from her old house, or her childhood home. Sometimes she thinks the younger nurses are her daughter. They're going to have to take her home soon, because she's becoming too much of a liability here," Polly said, "She's come up on the pool a few times and managed not to kick it so far though, so kudos to her." "Why...why would she be a liability?" "...jesus Boris, you really don't know anything about anyone here, do you? Leanne has Alzheimers you dipshit," Polly said, handing him the empty pudding cup and spoon, "God, listen to people for once in your life. It's like conversing with a wall." Boris watched her walk away as this information sunk in. That's why she repeated the story about her leg when they first met. That's why she'd called him by the wrong name. She was sick. Just then he noticed the trash in his hands. "Hey! I don't want your goddamned garbage!" he shouted after Polly. *** Sitting here, staring at the phone, wondering if he should pick up and call. Would she even answer? Would he even want her to? He finally swallowed his pride, picked it up and dialed the number. "Hello?" she asked. "Lorraine," Boris said, "It's...it's me." "Boris, hello," she said, sounding actually somewhat happy to hear from him, "How are you doing?" "I'm doing okay. Um...have you talked to Ellen lately?" he asked, twirling the phone cord around his fingers. "Right, like she'd ever reach out to me," Lorraine said, almost laughing, "You know how she is. She sees me as the villain, and...maybe I am, sure, but...all parents are villains in one way or another, intentionally or not. We all fuck up and most of us don't admit it." "A simple yes or no would've sufficed," Boris said, "She told me she was going into surgery and she hasn't called me or anything since. I just wanted to make sure you hadn't heard from her either." "Surgery?" "It's nothing major," he said, quickly covering himself, "I just wanted to know if you'd heard from her, that's all. Anyway, thanks for answering." "Boris, wait!" Lorraine said shrilly, keeping him on the line, "Boris...would it be alright if I come see you soon?" "...yeah, that would be fine," Boris said, actually wanting to see her in person again, "Yeah, come on by whenever you have the time. I'd like to see you. I have some things I need to talk about with you, actually." After he hung up, he sat and thought about Ellen, and Leanne, and wondered why everyone he cared about was hurt or sick. Was he just destined to care for damaged people? Leanne's situation wasn't his fault, but Ellen's certainly was, and he blamed himself for it daily. He stood up, headed out of the common area and started to head back to his bedroom when he heard someone crying, and he stopped, listened for a moment and then followed the sound to a corridor at the end of the hall, near the stairs, where he found Nurse Whittle sitting alone, sobbing into her hands. "Hey," he said, surprising her as she quickly looked up and wiped her tears away. "Boris, shit, you scared me," she said, catching her breath. "Are you okay?" he asked. "I'm not...I'm not okay, no," she said, "But don't worry about me, I'll be-" "No, no, don't...don't be like me. Don't not talk about yourself until it's too late. Let someone in to help you. You're here always helping others, let someone help you for a change. Tell me, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting down next to her under the stairs. "I'm just really unhappy, Boris," she said softly, "I...I tried to talk to my parents yesterday and my father, he's just...such an asshole. He won't let it go that I gave up becoming a doctor to instead become a nurse, and he keeps making references to it and my mother never fucking defends me, and it just...it's not fair, like, I recognized I didn't personally have it in me, at that time, to become a doctor, and that this is more what I was able to do, but now I'm unhappy doing this too." "Parents are broken sacks of crap, Whittle," Boris said, pulling out some mints from his coat pocket and giving her one as he popped one in his mouth, "They're so angry at themselves for not doing the things they wanted to do before they had you, so now they pin all those hopes on you, and when you don't achieve them, they feel betrayed. But it's bullshit. You are your own person and are in no way responsible for their failings." "...thank you," Whittle said softly, almost whispering, "God...all I wanted my entire life was ONE fucking adult telling me that they sucked, that they recognized they sucked, and that they all hurt their children." "I wasn't a great dad, but I tried, and I'm still trying," Boris said, "I'm sorry your father is shit. Most fathers are. So, hey, at least you aren't alone. Welcome to the universal brotherhood of shitty dads." Whittle sighed, took the mint and put it in her mouth before laying her head on Boris's shoulder and shutting her eyes. Sitting here, in his terrible present, Boris wondered if secretly people like Leanne had it better; being trapped in the past, in the memories of happiness and joy, instead of the terrible present where everything is gone and feels wrong. He knew that was probably terrible to think, but he thought it just the same. "Boris?" Whittle asked, her voice soft as the wind. "Yeah?" "Thanks for the mint," she said. "It's the small things, kiddo;" he said, putting his arm around her, the two of them sitting there well into the evening.
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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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