“Compound” by Nicholas Godec

Compound

Born, parents, love, fight, quiet, scared, no peep, watch TV, on edge, listen, creaking
door, hide, escape, portals, cry, piss myself, nightmares, scream, red lady with snakes for hair, door closed, defeat, prepster, stoner, wankster, addict, overdose, charcoal, detox, psych ward, rehab, rinse, repeat, again, and again, shift

Joe was my therapist. He was from Queens, had a thick Queens accent. His voice would quail for no reason, like it was escaping. He spoke like he had no idea what he’d say next, and he didn’t fear it. One day, early in my sobriety when I was still heavily medicated, we had a session, just the two of us in an office down the dirt road from the main house. We were talking casually. He was kind, personable, seemed like a guy off the old block (from around the way). Somehow we started talking about the time I lost my first dog named Bonnie, how she got caught under the raft when I was eight or nine and too weak to pull her loose. She died, and I dragged her home by her red leash, crying, stopping, running to her hopefully when she’d twitch. The dirt road home was never-ending. At home, her body fell through the open stairs and hung in the air as my dad caught the leash against the riser. She hung there, swaying like a subtle pendulum. The memory is still right here. Later we buried her. Joe began to cry. Your dog, to see that! And the tears were real. He ugly cried, for me. My sad story, which most people laughed at, he took seriously and wailed. First, I was silent; then I began to cry. And then cry harder, sob my guts until my muscles spasmed, and I couldn’t see. Then Joe was calm. He asked me how my parents made me feel. He’d learned a lot about me by then, knew they’d fight and make me choose, or my dad would lock me in the closet. He told me to punch a pillow. I started with the pillow, and then it fell away. I beat on the concrete floor as my knuckles turned red. He had to call Don, my sponsor. I was angry and raw. I was an open wound. Joe, Don, they’d picked off the scab and exposed the wound. After, I walked the ranch, the sunset illuminating the high desert, trees undulating in the soft breeze and more alive than I’d ever seen. The sky transformed to violet as I let the tall grass pass between my fingers.

Sober, quiet, sniffling, breathing, breathing, deeper breathing, crying, smiling, purple sunsets day by day, building, bed making, cooking, pen and paper, don’t forget, breathe, don’t ever forget

Nicholas Godec

Nick Godec writes poetry and short fiction, with work appearing in Brief Wilderness, El Portal, Flights, Grey Sparrow, Hedge Apple, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, RiverSedge, Rue Scribe, Shark Reef, Sierra Nevada Review, Steam Ticket, Thieving Magpie, and Thin Air Magazine. He has a BA in History and an MBA from Columbia University and currently works in finance in New York City. Nick enjoys spending time with his wife, Julia, and their miniature pinscher, Emma.

Headshot: Julia Buonanno

Photo Credit: Staff