Out of the Closet

        The space in a grieved heart is ample, and it is empty, and in its emptiness, everything echoes with the sweetness it has been bereft of.  A wounded soul is not easily convinced by distractions, for they are only distractions, and nor is a wounded soul comforted by the passage of time, for true heartache never departs from the moment that ails it.

Ian places his hand on Ethan’s shoulder and gives it a squeeze, “There, there,” Ian mumbled.  “There, there.”

“I just want to forget,” Ethan sobs into his hands, his voice muffled and almost inaudible.

“Do you maybe want me to put a song on?” Ian asks in earnest.  “I like to put on music when I cry.”

Ethan shakes his head no.

“Come on, just one song.”  Ian futzes around with his phone, opens YouTube, and, despite Ethan’s protest, puts on the Resident Evil Dead Aim saveroom theme.  It is far too loud, and the opening chord startles both of them.  It’s hardly music; it feels like being seasick at an aquarium or something.  It’s a fifteen-second loop of room-tone ambience with an electronic chord progression that goes nowhere, and it makes Ethan snap.

His face whips out of his sticky hands, and he screeches with a piercing shriek.  Those same hands are instantly open-palm striking Ian’s chest; Ethan is standing up, throwing a wild blitz of tantrum-slaps.  Ian makes no attempt to defend himself.

“Get it out, little guy,” Ian says.

“Stop calling me that,” Ethan howls.

“Okay, big guy.”

In between wheezing breaths, Ethan sucks in air greedily.  He hadn’t felt exertion like this since he delivered packages with Clint.  Deep blue veins on his neck are stood up and going every which way like some highway atlas.  The slaps are exhausting, and soon Ethan winds back only a couple of inches before driving them forward breathlessly.  It looks more like a prison shanking or trying to fasten a seat belt that won’t buckle.

“Don’t call me that either,” he whimpers, stopping the assault.  He leans forward, unable to stand, and slumps back onto the bed couch next to Ian.  “My name is Ethan.”

“You got it, Ethan.”

“Thank you.”

“Ethan, can I ask you something?” Ian says.  He reaches down and picks up his phone.  The music is turned off.  Ethan’s head nods up and down.  “Why do you want to forget, is it because it hurts to remember?”

Ethan nods his head again.

“Do you mind if I share something with you?”

Ethan nods.

        “It’s a little something I’ve been working on, that I believe is oddly fitting,” Ian says.  He fishes his hand between the mattress and the wall, scraping his knuckles against the rough plaster finish.  He wrangles out a crumpled index card from under the tissues and reads it aloud, “For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. Yea, and how can one forget the sadness which apprehends them both day and night?  An affliction such that his travail is perverted and made evil, twisted with the passions of grief.”

Ian looks up from the index card and sees that Ethan is looking at him.  Neither of them knows what the fuck Ian is talking about.  He looks down and continues.  

“And, uh,” Ian says, trying to find where he left off, “that wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness. But when the spirit is encumbered with wisdom, how does one forget the burden of knowing iniquity; is it not better to ask for forgiveness instead of for permission?”

Ian looks over, and Ethan is still watching him.

“So, I think that in your case, Ethan, that time has expired; therefore, you cannot.”

    “Can’t what?”

    “Uh,” Ian looks down at his notes again and backtracks a little with his index finger to the previous line.  “You can’t, you can’t forget what you know,” and then looks back to Ethan.  Ethan nods, and Ian continues again, “Be not fugitive to thy portion, to cast away sorrow you must avouch your sorrow.”  Ian smiles, self-satisfied.  It feels like whatever it was he said went smoothly, and Ethan seems impressed.

“So should I let it go?”

“I’m saying if you really want to make it work with Clint you should go to him.  I’m not into that funny business, but you can’t just mope around.  Besides, Meg sucks.”

    Ethan lets out a deep exhale and looks down at the empty bottle.  “I think I get it now.”  A smile creeps across his face, but it begins as a smirk.  Ian hadn’t mentioned his undercut once, but that’s okay.  He gets it now.

Two of the lines are just pulled from Ecclesiastes:

For in much wisdom is much grief, and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow,

wisdom excels folly as light excels darkness