FanStory.com - Paint It Black, Black As Nightby Wayne Fowler

What’s the point? How can painting black black make things any different? The song always eluded me. But still what little pleasure, no, my only pleasure, my only enjoyment came from a certain knowledge that everything was painted black. I could see no one, and no one could see me. Black, black as night.

Waking in the wee hours had become a habit. Not precisely, mind you, but close enough. My already bleak world was dark. And when it wasn’t dark enough due to the annoyance of the moon’s predictable vagaries, I wore sunglasses, shades, the darker the better. If I could see no one, well, I already knew they didn’t see me.

Oh, some would cross the street to avoid passing too closely, what very few crossed my path. Mostly, I stuck to residential neighborhoods where people were sleeping, sleeping or hiding behind pulled drapes believing that if they didn’t see me, I would not be there. They are right. I’m not here. I’m not anywhere. I sometimes wished at least one person would see me, open his door, and raise his shotgun… before I slowly walked out of range. Being wounded, limping home, asking someone to see me… I could not imagine.

I learned to do my chores in silence, unasked, anticipating the requests. Feigning sleep, sometimes not feigning, I took my evening meal, usually cold from the refrigerator to my room. Breakfast was easy, though also silent. Both my parents left for work before time for me to start my day.

Oh, I attended school. The back row was mine. No one sat on either side. As if the invisible boy owned three seats. No greetings. My name was not even called during roll call. I didn’t care. The countdown to my sixteenth birthday had begun. Only 50 to go, a half a century of days. On that day, but more likely several before, I would leave the house sometime before my parents returned from work, eating my day’s meal just before heading out. I would return after they were asleep. Maybe set up a pallet in the garage. It was detached from the house and used mostly for storage. At sixteen I could quit school.

Once, I heard someone speak. Since I didn’t trust my voice and had nothing to say anyway, I didn’t. They for sure didn’t see me after that.

I only wore my boots, the leather sole work boots once. The hard strike of my heels scared me, made me think I had a stalker. It confused me because in order to be stalked, I had to be seen. Or be run over because I wasn’t seen. The rest of that night I walked in the grass. Tennis shoes only from then on.

Sixteen candles. The song tormented me – an earworm, I heard it called. Sixteen and never been kissed. I’d rather be stabbed and slashed in the mouth with a scimitar. I did not desire a pity kiss by someone whose intent would be to drag me into a light, a fake light, only to walk away wiping their mouth on their sleeve afterward – boy or girl. I forced the Rolling Stones to the top of my playlist, but only Paint It Black.

Walking until I got tired didn’t work. The walk back home somehow reinvigorated me, especially when I lost track of where I was. Attempts to determine when I would tire and turn around at some imagined halfway point were futile, infuriating me with every return step. Occasionally I stopped in place and let the darkness have me. But waking to daylight was unpleasant. I don’t know why.

I saw a cop car once. Cutting through a corner yard, I was able to lose him. He didn’t see me, of course. No one did. Except maybe someone who only thought they saw something and called the cops. I wondered what would happen if I charged a cop with my hand in my pocket like I had a gun, or better yet, pointed a short black pipe at him.

Who would care? Hah! That would be the day the teacher would actually call my name. Too late, Jack, I would shout from the other side. If there was another side, which I doubt. There, I could find what it would be like to paint black black.

One morning, a cold, frosty morning, I got home around four. I figured the parental units were in rem sleep if not deep sleep, and I could get to my room without disturbing them. Thirsty, and since I came in the back door to the kitchen anyway, I poured a glass of water. I noticed Mom’s Bible on the kitchen table where she usually read it, away from the TV. It was normally closed when I saw it, sometimes open like it was this time. The neighbor’s yard light shined into the window, somehow highlighting the bottom right corner.

I read the red letters – I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.

Mom’s Bible was one of those chain Bibles. Dad gave it to her a couple Christmases ago, a Thompson Chain Bible. It had notes leading you from one verse to another. I don’t know why, but I turned on the overhead light. That verse was John 8:12. The next verse was in the same book, so I read it – John chapter one, verse four. It was interesting, so I read a few of the next, too – In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it.

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord. Having nothing to do with fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes invisible, for it is light that makes everything visible. This is why it is said: "Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

There were more, and I wanted to keep going but I was nearly bumped off my chair. Mom wiped my face… of tears, I guess, and replaced them with slobbery kisses. I didn’t care. I stood up and hugged her tight. I don’t know what I sounded like, all blubbery, but I was trying to apologize and tell her I loved her, and that I didn’t know.

A few seconds later Dad came in. He hugged me, too, and started making scrambled eggs – my first hot food in what seemed like a long time. While Mom made toast, I watched the sunrise come up through the backyard trees. It was pretty.

I quoted from memory the verse I was reading when Mom smeared my face with her kisses. It was John 12:46 – I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.

The only thing that kept us from falling over when I turned around was our group hug. I liked it. Mom said my name, David. Dad said, Son. Nothing more needed said.

FanStorians – This is where my contest entry ended. The next segment I added after submitting since it didn’t fit the rules. My intention was to post the entirety after the voting was complete. Now that the contest deadline has been extended four, maybe five times, I no longer care. DQ me; I don’t care anymore.

Some time earlier

“Hel-lo?” Mrs. Nevins answered the phone with the trepidation that had become her norm, a nervous edge every time the phone rang, wondering what tragedy might be at the other end.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Williams. Oh, thank you. It’s so kind of you to remember Joseph.... Oh, uh, sure. And if for any reason Thomas can’t make it, I’ll call as soon as I can... Yes, okay, Mr. Williams. 4:30 tomorrow. We’ll be there.”

Sharon Nevins ended the call to her cell phone, though the connection had already been terminated. Before setting the phone down, she called her husband. Thomas was the love of her life, her husband of twenty-two years. Her call allowed him to clear things for leaving work early the next day to meet with David’s school principal.

Sharon met Thomas at the school entrance. They hoped David was at home, but neither knew for certain. They knew he went home after school and that he usually remained in his room until after they’d gone to bed. They would occasionally see him take a plate of food to his room, but not always. They also knew that he routinely left the house during the night.

“Again, let me offer my sincerest condolences for the loss of Joseph. I know I’ve told you before, I had him in algebra. He was a joy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Williams,” Thomas said. “We still miss him. Especially David.”

“David,” Mr. Williams said. “Come in. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?”

Thomas and Sharon shook their heads.

“I know you’ve been extra tolerant, over backwards, I know,” Thomas said.

Mr. Williams nodded. He’d personally excused David for absences well beyond the state guidelines requiring remedial action.

“David worshipped Joseph,” Sharon said, “He was going to Germany with us to see him in the Army hospital, but he… Joseph…”

Mr. Williams nodded. His hand reached across his desk, falling short of Sharon’s by several feet, but the sentiment was there.

“David…” Mr. Williams began to speak but was interrupted by Thomas.

“We’ve tried to take him to therapy. We’ve gone ourselves.”

“And heard both sides of every theory,” Sharon finished. “We tell him that we love him. And use his name at every opportunity.”

“What few we have,” Thomas added.

“Thomas, Sharon. David is an extremely intelligent young man, but two of his teachers have come to me recently. We have to come up with a plan. David tests well. He’ll pass all his classes by his tests alone, though his teachers don’t understand how he does it, appearing not to pay attention in class.” Mr. Williams sighed, a sense of frustration showing. “But English composition… He hasn’t turned in a single assignment all semester. I’m sure you know that’s more than half his grade. He won’t pass.”

Thomas and Sharon both closed their eyes in a long blink.

“We suggest that if we move him to General English at the semester break…”

“No way,” Thomas said. “That would slap him in the face. We have worked hard, very hard, not to inflict more damage than has already occurred. Joseph… and” Thomas stopped himself from going into the fiasco involving the wrestling coach controversy concerning David not making the team. Thomas knew to contain this conversation to immediate relevance. “We know better than to push fragile eggs off the countertop.”

Sharon broke in. “Joe died. It was horrible. To be blown up in a truck. He had no chance. And then that Butler boy… he wasn’t one of David’s friends, but David knew him. I’m sure you know, Mr. Williams, how sensitive young people are to the power of suggestion and the influence youth suicide can have.” When Sharon’s voice began to crack, Thomas took over.

“We can’t do that to David. Better to flunk that class than to be embarrassed, humiliated. He could teach General English.” Thomas nearly spat out the last.

Mr. Williams nodded agreement.

“We’re trying our best to hold on, let him have his time, Mr. Williams. And we truly appreciate your efforts to help. We let him know we love him as often as we can. Sharon does her best to have food he’ll eat. You can tell he doesn’t even want to eat, but he will, some.”

Sharon nodded. “I keep fresh tuna salad and take-out fried chicken in the fridge. He’s alive anyway. Lots of times we’ll order pizza delivered just for him. Everyone at church is praying for him,” Sharon added.

Again Mr. Williams nodded. “Of course, you know he turned down counseling with Mrs. Eldridge.”

Thomas and Sharon both nodded, not needing to rehash that lost cause, Mrs. Eldridge was better suited to issues far less serious.

“Mr. Williams,” Thomas said. “Please don’t think for a minute that we don’t appreciate your sincere concern for David. We know that you care. But we’re terrified that he’s just the tiniest nudge from losing him to the streets, living under a bridge who-knows-where, or… worse.”

“I understand. And if there’s anything I can do.”

“We will,” Sharon said as she and Thomas stood, ending the conspicuously unsuccessful meeting.

Once at home, Thomas tapped on David’s bedroom door. “David?” he said quietly. Not hearing a response, he again tapped and opened the door far enough to peek in. “David?”

David lay fully clothed and sprawled on top of his unmade bed. He jerked and mumbled a “huh” but did not move as if to wake.

Thomas closed the door, knowing that the boy had been outside most of the night before… again.

One night long after the meeting with Mr. Williams, Sharon lost herself in the middle of her nightly devotions. Her routine was to read a chapter or more, whatever she had energy for at the end of her day, with a few minutes of meditation. This evening, she couldn’t recall where she’d stopped reading and began praying, not in words, but in passion. Alert, but ready for sleep, she left her Bible open where she’d last been reading in the book of John, failing to set it aside like she normally did, closed and out of the way.

That was the night David returned home at four in the morning.