Will You Please Listen, Please

By Lawrence R. Heibel

Relationships are built with communication. By the same token they are destroyed by a lack of communication. This collection of short stories focuses on talking and listening to others and ourselves.

Stories include:
-- a man's internal dialogue with two conflicting identities of who he is
-- a mother and daughter in law find they have more in common then they realize
-- a children's story highlights the fear holding a family back in fulfilling their dreams
-- a man discovers consequences and benefits of his wife, friends and neighbors seeing right through him
-- a born liar holds onto a secret that would cause devastation if revealed
-- a husband and wife find their desperate need to be heard by each other is lost in their inability to talk to each other.

There are stories to make you laugh, cry and ponder your own ability to listen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Feb 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781312913219

Book preview

Will You Please Listen, Please

Will You Please Listen, Please:  Stories about Communicating with Others and Ourselves

Lawrence R. Heibel

Books by Lawrence R. Heibel

Overture to Rain

New Blood

Termination Notice

Reunion

Books available at:

www.heibelmedia.com

Heibel Media LLC

2015

Dedication

To Kathy,

who gave me my first Writer’s Market for Christmas 1978 and supporting this passion of mine ever since

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank Rose J. for helping me understand and create these stories to help me understand myself; Dana M. for being my first reader and giving me insight and uncensored input into these stories; Audrey A. for proofing the stories so well; Faye S. and Nick. S for modeling for the cover; and always thanks to my wife Kim, 30 years of marriage this year, and 35 years of supporting, encouraging and loving me as a writer. 

Preface

This is my second collection of short stories.  It is a much different group of stories than the first, though it contains four stories from the first.  What’s different is this collection has a theme running through it that is universal and is a part of each story:  Listen to me.

I didn’t intend that as I started writing the short stories in 2012, but over the next two years of writing them I saw a distinct pattern emerging that would link the stories.  The more I wrote the more I saw how little we actually communicate to one another and to ourselves.   We get caught up in life, lose touch with each other and fall away.

The very first story, The Squashing of a Toad, is a reprint from Termination Notice. With the exception of shortening the title, it’s the same story.  It was included in Termination Notice originally because that book is a compilation of all my early short stories and one brand new story.  That book was my termination notice to my inner conflict about being a writer.  It was about me listening to myself and separating the negative thoughts and replacing them with positive.  It really is amazing what you can talk yourself into.

I included it in this collection because it set off a two-year short story binge as I worked on my supernatural novel Reunion and the forthcoming novels, When Love Breaks Down, Metal Harvest, and Soul Bearer Harvest.  Most importantly to me, this story closed the door on a nearly lifelong struggle with my identity as a writer.

I’ve been writing since elementary school and by 7th grade I was determined to be a writer.  Growing up in the 70s though, being a writer was tantamount to being a movie star.  Neither was going to happen.

Through my high school years I struggled to believe in what I wrote and in myself.  I was terrified of rejection to the point that I didn’t submit my work for publication and constantly fought a battle of self-doubt that robbed me of the confidence I needed. 

At the time I was also bumping heads with making a living, the greatest reason I believed that I couldn't be a writer.  After high school where my writing was praised by teachers, I spent a year in college taking writing classes while managing a gas station for a living.  I was still struggling with my identity as a writer.

Finally through a series of job changes I decided to go back to college, finish my degree and become a writer.  One of the proudest days of my life was December 1991 finishing my Bachelor’s of Science in Communications at Grand Valley State University.  I still had my job of delivering newspapers in the morning and pizzas at night while my wife worked a real job.  Now it was time for me to be a writer.

Four months later, still lacking confidence as a writer of fiction, I decided to go to The Grand Rapids Press and see if they would take me on as a freelance news writer.  It wasn’t my dream and I wasn’t even sure I wanted to do it.  But I needed to write and I needed to make money.

My very first story I did for the newspaper was a feature about a local suburban church group that gathered once a year to sing hymns—in Dutch.  I wrote the story and was hooked.  I had so much fun with the reporting and found the writing natural and easy.  The following week when the feature ran with my byline, I was a writer making money.  I had made it as a writer.

While writing for the newspaper the next 14 years, I didn’t write fiction.  I took a stab at it a few times but couldn't complete anything.  The desire just wasn’t there.

In 2006, at 43 years of age, I left the newspaper before a change two years later would decimate the news staff.  While writing, I also developed a photojournalism career.  So with no news to write, I decided I would take my photography business full time.  I framed it in my mind that now I would tell people’s stories with pictures rather than words.  Lawrence Heibel Photography:  Where Every Picture Tells Your Story was my tag line. 

Four years later, I opened a photography studio that I rented out to myself and others, taught classes and ran a dying photography business.  I experienced a mid-life crisis full of self-doubt and second-guessing as I struggled to make my photography and studio businesses profitable.

Suffering from anxiety and panic over my struggles, I found a wonderful counselor who took me through the anxiety and panic to a discovery that my mid-life crisis was not a crisis over struggling business operations but rather a struggle with my identity as a writer.

I picked up my writing again at age 49 after a six-year absence.  The day after my 50th birthday I committed to writing every single day and as of this writing have never missed a day.  My very first short story as I started writing again was The Squashing of a Toad.  The story is technically a novella due to its length but I categorize it as a short story.

One of the reasons I didn’t write when I worked for the newspaper is I didn’t have any stories to tell.  The reality was I ignored the idea machine.  Since I’ve gotten back into writing I’ve published Termination Notice, Overture to Rain and Reunion, which are three books that I originally wrote in my teens and 20s.  (I updated Overture to Rain and Reunion with some rewriting.)  New Blood was the first published and was my first brand new story in 20 years.  This book, my fifth, has 27 new stories written in the past two years.  (Along with The Squashing of a Toad there are three other stories included that I wrote follow up sequels to:  Wind in the Wires, When Monsters Die and Baby Blues.

I wrote these stories following the darkest days of my life so the stories deal with some difficult subjects such as depression and loss.  I’ve tried to mix the stories up so lighter ones are mixed in with darker stories.  I have to give credit to my wife of 30 years this year, who in reading the first half dozen stories asked me where the happy endings were.  After that I started looking at my stories and made happy endings where the story could have gone either way.  So I think you’ll find, even in the tragic endings, something positive and uplifting in all the stories.

That said, I don’t believe in censorship but also believe people deserve to know something about content before they read my stories.  The Squashing of a Toad uses A LOT of incredibly foul language, but it was necessary artistically to show the depth of fear and anger in the character.  If you have a sensitivity to foul language, avoid that story.

The rest of the stories are less dark and some start out very dark and leave you laughing and some crying.  But it’s all good.

I quite enjoyed including Author’s Notes in my first short story collection, which attracted a lot of attention and support so I did it again this time.  I encourage you to read the story first so 1) the ending isn’t spoiled and 2) so you know what references to the story mean.

I don’t know when the next collection of short stories will be released because I haven’t started any since working on this collection.  My focus is on finishing book two of a fantasy trilogy and starting the third book.  I also need to revise that trilogy and a contemporary drama I wrote and after that I have another young adult series to write and three contemporary novels to write.

For others struggling with their identity as a writer my advice is to give up.  And not on the writing, but on the doubt.  Write and enjoy your stories and we will too.  I’m proof of that.

To all of you who are embarking on the reading of this book know that the title is also a plea from me.  I’m not writing to preach.  I write to entertain myself, to explore ideas and to remove the negative crap that builds up in my mind when I don’t write.  But I publish my books with hope that people will read them and be entertained or learn something.  I want these stories to be read and have an impact on people’s lives even if it’s only that they had a few minutes of enjoyment reading a story or walked away with a message or two that helped them in their own life.  So I thank you for giving my efforts a moment or two of your time and leave you with one final theme to carry away from this:  Really listen.  Really listen to yourself.  Really listen to others.  And once you’ve listened, engage in a meaningful conversation that involves listening and speaking.  Your life and relationships will be better for it.

Lawrence R. Heibel

Grand Rapids, MI

January 26, 2015

The Squashing of a Toad

Originally published in Termination Notice as Termination Notice Revisited, the Squashing of a Toad.

I sit silently in the dark in Dad’s worn brown leather recliner.  He’s been dead for six years, but I still think of it as his chair.  He never had a leather recliner when I was a kid.  Mom was too afraid us boys would ruin it.  We probably would have.

The street light out front casts enough light for me to see the starkness of the living room.  Mom’s 36-inch Zenith from the 80's sits on a plain, dark wooden cart with plastic wheels.  A VCR sits covered with dust on the shelf under the TV.  There are no pictures on the wall, never were.  The end table between the recliners and the one next to the couch are bare except for matching lamps. Neither lamp is turned on.

Mom has been gone for just over a year now and I still don’t feel like I can sell her things or her house.  It was my house too.  And Jack’s and Dave’s, my older brothers.  They are in no hurry to see the house go, but they also want me to finish taking care of the estate so they can get a share of the money Mom left. 

It shocked everyone, including myself, that Mom had made me executor of her will.  She told us about that and the will two weeks before the breast cancer took her.  She was so stubborn.  She had chosen death over losing her breasts.  By the time they discovered the cancer, nothing was going to save her.

If Mom had only known how messed up I was.  The panic attacks were daily by then, often 2-3 times a day for the prior six months.  And I couldn’t stop crying it seemed like.  Every panic attack would end in a bout of crying and apologizing.  For what, I don’t know.

My psychiatrist put me on Zoloft about four months ago and that is helping somewhat.  My thinking is a little clearer, the panic attacks have lessened and the constant anxiety isn’t so pervasive any more.  Thank the pill for small favors.

I try to remember good things; I try to remember good memories in this house.  But they’re hard to conjure up when so many bad memories take up the space in my mind.  They crowd out the good ones it seems.  I can’t feel good here.

I get out of Dad’s chair and wander down the hall to my room, or what was my room.  The walk-in closet at my home seems bigger than this room I spent 20 years of my life in.  I’ve lived more years outside of this house than in it, yet, I can’t escape the memories here.

The bedroom, like the living room and the rest of the house, has nothing on the walls.  Mom didn't like nail holes or clutter.  One time I taped a picture of a dinosaur up above my desk when I was little.  I came home after school to find it on my desk.  Mom came in and told me to leave HER walls alone.

A made-up twin bed practically fills the room.  The sheets, blanket and comforter on the bed are dusty, but clean from when Mom was alive.  She always kept them clean in case of guests.  I don't think she ever had a guest.  My kids would never sleep here.

There is an oak dresser and a small closet on the inside walls.  The

outside walls each have a single window.

I remember when my wooden desk sat on the inside wall next to the closet.  I barely had room for a chair because of the bed.  I spent hours looking out that window with pen in hand writing my stories on yellow legal pads, until I was 16. 

I bought an IBM Selectric Typewriter with birthday and lawn mowing money the day after my October 5th birthday.  It cost me everything I had made cutting 10 lawns a week for the entire summer.   A real writer needed typewritten stories to send to publishers; I was a real writer now.  The massive typewriter that took up nearly every bit of space on the desk proved it.

That doesn’t make you a writer, Mom had said.

The smile leaves my face.  I can’t enjoy two seconds of a fond memory without a terrible memory riding roughshod over it.  I had felt such joy putting that typewriter on the desk and marveling at my status as a writer.  She had to kill a good memory with a bad. 

That’s a waste of money.  What happened to saving for a car?

I need it to write.

You never needed it before.

I have to send typewritten manuscripts to publishers.

Mom just shook her head and walked out of my room.  I looked at my typewriter and was disgusted with it too.  What the fuck was I thinking?  Who the hell was I to think I could be a writer?  Fucking idiot. 

I took it back to the dealer the next day and bought a little portable electric typewriter instead.  Practically a toy.  I typed a lot of stories on it, but I never quite felt professional with it.

She was right, you know.

Me, as a 12-year old in blue jeans with holes in the knees and a white t-shirt, sits against the wall on the bed.  My hair is short like a Marine, the way my Dad liked it.

What do you know?  I ask.

You knew there was no fucking future as a writer.  She knew.  Look at you now, you piece of shit.

I just stared at myself, the 12 year old, self-assured pre-teen.

I have a great career as a writer, I say.

The 12-year-old laughs.  Had.  Look at you now dumb ass.

My legs are tired.  I step into the room and sit down against the wall opposite the bed.  I lost my job at the ad agency three years ago.  Even with more than 20 years of copywriting experience, no one is hiring writers.  Especially not 45-year-old ones.

The severance package ran out about the time Mom died.  Andrea, my wife, is supportive, always has been.  But I'm sure she has to be tired of carrying the load of supporting the family.  There is no way I’m going to broach the subject though and incur her wrath.

You think you’re going to be able to sell that fuckin’ shit you’re writing now? the 12-year-old asks.

When I took the severance package and voluntary termination, Andrea and I agreed it was time I worked on my novels and pursued the writing career I really wanted from the time I was a kid.  Working at an ad agency was wonderful and satisfied my writing talent.  It didn't fill the hole I had of wanting to be a mystery writer.  I had so many stories pent up with no release.

The first two novels I wrote since leaving my job have seen nothing but rejection.  I'm having trouble writing the third one.  The panic attacks keep me from doing anything. 

I started looking for another salaried writing job a year ago when I started thinking the novel writing thing might not work out, but the economy isn't kind to old guys or writers in general.  Only sitting in front of the computer and putting words to paper makes me happy.  It is better than copywriting, but the money isn't there yet.

Writing stories is so much fun.  It is professional.  Instead of writing press releases and product descriptions, I write stories.  It brings a new light into what has become a very dark life.

You think it’s fun now, but what happens when you finish and no one fuckin’ reads it?  Publishers already are fuckin’ rejecting your shit.  How long before your wife leaves you for being the lazy piece of shit you are?

The panic rises.  Anxiety has my heart pounding fiercely in my chest and my stomach is knotting up.  I breathe deep and close my eyes.  I focus on my breathing.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.

I open my eyes.  He’s still sitting on the bed.  There is someone next to him that takes me a moment to recognize.  Round headed little kid, maybe four years old, sitting in a one-piece pajama outfit with feet.  But his feet don’t even extend into the pajama feet.  Hand-me downs from an older brother though he’s not ready for these hand-me-downs.  It’s me, the four-year-old.  He is silent but he has an innocent smile and contented air.  Not like the 12 year old who in contrast is stiff, angry, frightening.

You two fuckers been conspiring for a long time and I think it's time you quit this shit, the 12-year-old says.

I look at the 4-year-old me.  He smiles so cutely.  I want to give him a big hug.  He reminds me of my two grown boys and two teenage girls at that age.  You just want to hug them and kiss them and love them.

What a crock of shit!

I look over at the 12 year old.  He’s up and off the bed and standing by the dresser.  He is seething with anger.  I’m afraid of him…me.

Don’t tell me you fuckin’ forgot?  The 12 year old says as he glares at me. 

I pull my knees up to my chest and hold them there with my arms.  It’s a bit uncomfortable with the gut I’ve acquired since I left the job.

Don’t you remember him in the hallway that night?

I look at the 4-year-old.  God he's cute.

Remember what?  I ask as I smile at the little boy me and he looks back at me with a smile of his own.

The memory starts out pleasantly enough.  I’m the little guy’s age and I’m lying on the floor next to the wall where the hallway meets the kitchen/dining room.  I can see Mom and Dad in their recliners.  Jack is lying on the couch because he’s the oldest and Dave is lying on the floor in front of but in between Mom and Dad.  They’re both big boys and can stay up later than me.   Everyone is watching the television on the wall that separates the kitchen from the living room.

I can’t see the TV but I can hear it.  Mom yelled at me twice to get to bed while I sat on the floor silently and watched TV.  I didn't really understand what was going on but there was a car chase and gunfire.  On her third scolding, I got up and ran to my bedroom with my pajama feet flapping and almost tripping me.  I was certain she was going to spank me.

I didn’t get my hug, I had said to myself as I lay atop the comforter, blanket and sheet.

I rolled off the bed and landed on my hands and feet like a cat would.  I would have meowed, but I had to be stealthy like a cat on the prowl.  I crawled like a cat would stalk a bird, slowly and silently with ears pricked up for any sign of danger.  I crept ever so slowly to the wall and then lie flat like a cat.  I peaked around the corner. 

Mom and Dad were engrossed in whatever it was they were watching.  Jack and Dave were staring at the television too. 

I just needed to reveal myself.  Jack and Dave would protest that I was out of bed and needed a spankin’.   I would quickly say that I didn’t get my good night hug and then Dad and Mom would open their arms to me. 

Dad would smell all musky and oily from the factory and his stubbled cheek would tickle my cheek.  Then Mom would give me a hug and those lips that were always yelling at us boys would press against my cheek, dry, but warm.  Just a peck.  Just enough to…

Get your ass kicked for getting the hell out of bed, whispered the big boy behind me.

I knew it was me as a big boy the second I saw him.  He was Jack’s age and he was tough looking.  It was the first time I had seen him and he was so cool.  He said hell.  He said ass.

I want to go and get a hug, I whispered to big boy me.

All you’re going to get is a damn spankin’.  And Jack and Dave are going to laugh their asses off at you.

I peeked around the corner of the wall.  I always got a hug at bedtime.  I didn't understand why tonight was different.

When are you going to learn?  You’re a big boy.  Big boys don’t get hugs.

I looked back at big boy me.

You don’t get hugs?

Of course not, I’m a big boy, like Jack and Dave.

I looked back at Jack and Dave.  They always said I was too little to play with them.  But if I were a big boy, they’d have to play with me."

I’m a big boy?  I asked myself the big boy.

He nodded and offered his hand.  I thought I should scurry back to my room like that big old tomcat at the Anderson’s across the street.  But big boys didn’t pretend they were cats.

I took big boy's hand and felt this weight like a wet towel fall upon my shoulders.

I don’t like this, I said as I looked up at big boy me.

You’re going to be a big boy now, he said with a smile.

Yeah.  I want to be a big boy, I replied with as much cheer as I could muster from under the wet towel.

We were just four, I said to my four-year-old self on the bed.

He just smiles innocently back at me.

That’s enough out of you!  The 12-year-old scolds the younger me. 

The younger me brings his knees to his chest and holds them there.  He puts his chin on his knees and sadly looks at his feet.  I realize I’m in the same position except I can’t bend that far to reach my knees with my chin.

Why are you here?  I say to big boy me who seems to tower over me though he remains standing by the dresser.

Why have I always been here you stupid ass?

I’ve never seen you before.

Not since that night.  You pretty much tried to ignore me.  But you’ve heard me plenty.   You and him haven’t really been listening to me for a lot of years.  But, I think I have your fuckin’ attention now though.

What’s with the language?  I don’t have that foul a mouth.

Big boy me laughs.  Who the fuck do you think is spouting this shit!  he laughs.  That’s the way us big boys talk.  Who do you think you learned this from?  Your brothers talked this way all the time.

I stopped talking like uneducated garbage years ago.

You stopped doing a lot of shit years ago, big boy me says.

The 4-year-old hunkers down and says nothing.  Big boy me clenches and unclenches his fists.  His face is red and I know what he is feeling.  I haven’t felt that kind of anger in….

Years, big boy me says to finish my thought.  One of the fuckin’ things you stopped doing.

I remember now, not the day or time or year even, but it wasn’t long after I lost my job.  Andrea is pissed at me.  I screamed at the two girls for doing something or not doing something.  Maybe the dishes.  They cowered and apologized and the younger one ran to her room crying.

You yell at the girls like that again and I’m taking them with me and leaving here.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?  I had exclaimed.

Yell again and I am out of here.  The girls too.

She left me standing at the foot of the stairs while she jogged up the steps to comfort the girls.  Big boy me was applauding me silently from the couch.  Me as a little boy was crying in my recliner.  He was terrified.  She had opened a door he can't have opened.  It was too frightening.  His terror filled my chest and I knew I had to hold this shit in.  I couldn't allow myself to get mad.  I couldn't live without her and the girls.

You haven’t released any anger since then.  Have you, dip shit?

I pull my knees up tighter.  What I really want to do is get the hell out of this house.  I want to cry too.  I hurt inside again.  I look over and little boy me is crying.

Fuckin’ baby, big boy me says.   That shit isn’t going to work any more.

What?  What isn’t going to work any more?  I ask.

Nothing, big boy me says quietly.  He knows more than he is saying.  He’s afraid to say what he knows.

What’s not working?

NOTHING!  Big boy me cries out.

I want to stand but I stay seated now.  He is pissed.   His fists clench and unclench.  I don’t remember ever hitting any one as a kid, but this kid seems like he does a lot of it or wants to do a lot of it.  I feel his anger and want to go into a rage.  But I'm also crying along with little boy me; terrified that if I get angry I will ruin my marriage and destroy my family.

In the silent room, I listen to big boy me breathing roughly through his teeth as little boy me cries softly into his knees.   He’s hurting so badly and I so want to comfort him, but I'm afraid to move.  I don’t want big boy me pummeling me.

You wouldn’t fuckin’ listen and look where it’s gotten you.  You fuckin’ hurt us and you’re hurting us again.  You’re fucking up and hurting us!

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I barely utter.

You were a real bastard fuck up through school.  I finally thought I had you under control in college and you go and fuckin’ fall in love with Andrea.  You get married, you get a job…not in the factory with your Dad and brothers, no you have to go and get a goddamn job at a fucking advertising firm.

Big boy me’s fists are clenched tight and his eyes glare as he grinds his rear teeth.

Andrea and my job are my life, I exclaim.  Best things I ever….

WORST THINGS! Big boy me interrupts.  You keep fuckin’ forgetting the one goddamn thing!

WHAT?  I yell back as I unclasp my hands and let my feet and knees slide forward.

Big boy me steps forward.  I pull my feet and knees back in and this time they press my gut in painfully, but I am more afraid of the boy’s raised hand and the angry look in his eyes.  His hand stays raised and then slowly comes down.  I cower silently.

About fuckin’ time I got some damn respect, big boy me says.

He walks back to the dresser and leans against it.

How’d the interview go today?  Big boy me asks me.

Weren’t you there?

He laughs at me.

It went great.  I think I’m going to get the job.

About fuckin’ time, big boy me exclaims and claps his hands together.  After all these fuckin’ years you’re finally going to go work with your brothers.  Too bad Dad wasn’t here to see you.  He’d finally be proud of you.

I have nothing to say.  Little boy me cries louder.  I feel his hurt and the tears start running down my cheeks, but I don’t understand why he is crying.

Quiet down you little bastard, big boy me says.

My anxiety reveals itself as a twitch in my left shoulder.  The muscle vibrates like it’s a guitar string being strummed.

It’ll be great working in the shop, big boy me says.  Finally, you can make a living instead of letting your wife pull all the weight.  You can get back to doing real work for the first time in your fuckin’ life.

My writing is work, I exclaim.  Just because Mom and Dad didn’t….

I stop.  I can’t speak the words.  Little boy me is crying louder.

Say it, big boy me commands. 

We wait each other out.  I don’t even know now what I was going to say.

SAY IT! he screeches.

They didn’t understand it… I hear myself whisper.

Oh, say what you really fucking mean!  They never wanted you to be a writer.  They knew you couldn’t make a living as a writer.

But I did, I shout.  I worked for that firm for almost 20 years.

And they canned you.  How do you think you’re going to recover that income?  Do you really think you’re going to make a dime writing your little mystery novels?

The anxiety that had been riling up my shoulder has taken a dive into my stomach where the acid churns like an ocean storm in there.  My breathing accelerates too and I want to run, but he’s blocking the door.  I’m trapped.  I’m panicking.

You goddamn well better get that job so Andrea doesn’t leave you, if she doesn’t anyway.  I told you to stay away from girls, but you never did fucking listen.

Little boy me is almost screaming as he sobs.  STOP IT!  STOP IT!

I'm sorry, I manage to squeak out as tears flow from my eyes and I begin to sob like little boy me.

I’m so sorry, I cry with the sobs.

You fuckers!  STOP IT!! big boy me exclaims.

A full-blown panic attack rages within me.  I have to get out of here, but I can’t get past him.  Little boy me quiets to a soft crying.  I want to get him out of here too.  But there’s no way we could get out.  I hold my knees close and rock on my butt.

I’m sorry, I keep repeating through my tears.

Shut the fuck up, big boy me says to me.

I shut up.  I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.  My heart pounds a little slower.  My breathing is heavy, but slower.  I breathe deep in and out.  It helps bring the panic down.

You’re going to take that fuckin’ job at the shop with your brothers and you’re going to pull your weight around here.  As long as we have her, we’re going to keep her.  Which means you’ve got to be the fuckin’ man her Dad always wanted for her.

Little boy me starts crying louder and I feel the panic rising.  Big boy me raises his hand to little boy me and screams for him to stop it.  I want to stand up to big boy me, but the panic.  I’m so frightened I just rock on my ass.

I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of all this shit from you two.  I'm sick of all this pain, big boy me says.

I don’t know what he’s talking about.

Yes you do, he says.

No I don’t, I reply.

The goddamn panic attacks.  The fuckin’ anxiety.  The guilt.  The fear that Andrea is going to leave us.  The depression.

He sinks to the floor and sits in front of the door.  He pulls his knees up to his chest.

I’m tired of what you two are doing to me.

We all quiet down.  We exchange glances and don’t dare look at each other for too long.  Big boy me speaks up after a few moments of silence.

All I've ever tried to do is protect you guys; keep you safe.

I don’t know what he’s talking about; yet it rings true.

What are you doing?  I ask little boy me.

He looks at me and he is so cute and lovable in his innocence.   He doesn’t say anything.  He knows something but he’s either afraid to say anything or doesn’t know how to say it.  I look at big boy me and he is glaring at little boy me with a look that threatens a beating if he says anything.

What are you two fighting about?  I ask big boy me.

What do you think asshole?  He’s been fighting me for years and you’ve been siding with him.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Yes you do, fuck nuts.  He’s always taking you to the edge and I have to pull you back every fucking time.

I remember freaking out the first time I had sex.  It was with Cindy Henderson in our senior year after Prom.  All our friends were having sex and we were expected to have sex after Prom and I was all for it.  I finally had a girlfriend and I couldn't get enough of her.  I wanted to be with her all the time.

But after the sex, I felt so guilty.  I drove her home and practically kicked her out of the car.  I was so frightened.  All these emotions were coursing through me and I wanted to scream, part of me for joy and part of me in terror.

The terror part was me, big boy me says.  The excited part was him.

We both look over at little boy me.  He’s smiling and now lying on his side on the bed.  He’s comfortable.  He looks happy.  My anxiety lifts as I feel the joy of the memory of Cindy’s little breasts.  So warm and just enough to hold in my hand.  And her…

Quit it, you fuck, big boy me interrupts.  Did you forget what the hell happened after that night?

Little boy me rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.  The anxiety floats down around me and my shoulders droop.

When I had gotten home that night I had awakened Mom and Dad.  I was crying and frightened because I didn’t know what was going on.  It was my