AFTER MY mom leaves, gloating from her lecture and leaving me feeling small but strangely enough really loved, I meander to my desk and unceremoniously seat myself in the chair. I decide moments later that I am not ready to sit at my desk, though I am not sure why.
Instead, I get up again, cross my small room to the door, and close it gently, looking at my reflection in the long mirror that hangs over the back of my door. I look at my face, searching for zits. It’s mundane enough and will take some time before I move on to anything else. I find a few small bumps forming under my skin after my close inspection. I poke at them, aggravated at my pores and whatever biological thing thought it necessary to invade my face, which was totally rude and utterly uncalled for.
Satisfied with my facial exploration, I walk back to my desk, open a drawer, and retrieve a notebook. It’s empty. There are no new poems. There haven’t been any poems written, actually. I’m drained, completely empty. There are no poems to be found coming from me.
I hate this feeling, this worthlessness. But I can’t write. I am barely able to grasp a pen or any writing utensil for that matter, or anything at all really, with my nonexistent dominant hand. I’m supposed to be getting better, but I can’t even write properly. And thus, I am reduced to technology. I am forced to change.
Charles Darwin came up with the theory that animals adapt to survive. Those with favorable traits survive to adulthood and reproduce. Those with unfavorable traits are unable to survive or reproduce.
But where do I fall on that scale? I have to embrace the change, and it’s not very fun. In fact, it sucks. And, apparently now, according to Darwin, I’m screwed.
The fear of change is classified as metathesiophobia. I checked in the hospital, and it looms over me, bigger than any monster or tidal wave or something really huge and terrifying of that nature. I want life to go back to the way it used to be, or curl up and sleep it away instead. But of course, I cannot. I’ll be sent back to the hospital, and I’d really rather not.
So, I have to do school work then, instead. Oh, the unrequited joy and its accompanying abundance of sarcasm. Naturally, I find my phone and text Emmett. It takes some digging, and then the location of a charger and powering it up, but soon enough the situation is resolved, and I begin the long process of procrastination.
Me: So, how is your solitary coffee?
Emmett calls a moment later, but judging by the echoes, he’s in a public bathroom. He’s panting only slightly, a suggestion of the speed in which he ran to the bathroom.
“This is the cuddly ninja, how may I help you?”
“Emmett, you’re calling me.”
“Still, how may I help you?”
“Where are you?”
“My dear Carter, I have returned to the school where I am volunteering and doing things. I was perfectly willing to ditch for the rest of the day, but according to your mother, I should be enjoying a solitary caffeine, which I did. But you know, during lunch. Because I can.”
“You left volunteer work? Why?”
“I did. And do you even have to ask? And now I am missing stuff because of you, so I do encourage you to keep on talking because this will be the death of me.”
“Remind me later to hug you for, well, being you. Then to punch you for ditching to be with me because that is wrong.”
“Says you, who has not been in this school since…?” He is teasing, but it strikes a very deep nerve.
“Emmett, don’t you start with that shit. Do not even dare,” I am suddenly growling at him.
“I respect your wishes and will rescind.”
“Did you learn that in English?” There is a pregnant pause while there are vague shaking noises, and I tell him not to nod on the phone.
“There is a slight possibility.”
“Go learn more beautiful words, Emmett.”
“I will find a way even though school is out, but wait—there is a thing I must ask. I sent you maybe fifty-seven messages via that infernal blog thing you’re so proud of, give or take about another seventy-two. Did you not get any of them? The messenger said they were going to your phone.” I briefly explain my Internet situation to him.
“Well, then,” he hisses, “social media has deceived me. It’s uprooted the fantasies of utter perfection and loyalty I’ve placed in it.”
“It tends to do that, yes,” I reply dully.
“You’re breaking my heart, Carter,” Emmett whispers into the receiver as a toilet flushes in the not-too-distant background.
“What, by pointing out one of the most common faults of the basic Internet?”
“Carter, I am being incredibly sarcastic. Have you no feelings?” I warn him that he is again venturing into dangerous territory, and Emmett kindly backs off, promising to go learn more of those beautiful words, because he knows I love them and wants me to feel better, then to call me later. And then I am left in an almost complete silence, save for Sarah, who has started to snore softly on the bed. I stare beyond her at the different comforter, wondering how quickly Mom threw it out. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
When I was at my lowest point, I had trouble experiencing emotion. Now that they’re flooding back again, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing with myself.