Bruised Brian

previously publised Nov 28, 2006
Bruised Brian by @aladreth antoinette brown
copyright 2006-2012


A few years ago (yes, I know all my stories start like this; it's my trademark, you see) Elise and I gave a poetry workshop at this run down former sanctuary for writers.

It was in the mountains on Interstate 74. My old car's engine nearly died trying to make it up that steep road, but boy was it beautiful. It was so nice. Brian was there. He was one of our 'students' and he was quite nice too.

Brian was 28 years old, far younger than Elise and me, but he was still old enough to know better. Old enough to know the difference between bad and good. Old enough to know the difference between good and evil. And Elise and I could be evil. We had our moments.

Brian, on the other hand, could be very sweet and subservient. Yet, he could be quite brazen too. This made me take notice, yes, I took notice of his mood swings, his silliness, and beyond all of those things, he was a brilliant writer. He wasn't the kind you hate. He was the kind who didn't let on he knew he was so convincing and clever. He just wrote for the sake of writing and that was refreshing. He would write about herbal magic in the bible like everyone should just know there's herbal magic in the bible and then he'd write about belts, whips and canes just like everyone enjoyed getting hit by them. He mixed things up a lot and he always seemed to be putting his best effort forward.

The first night all the writers and writers-in-the-rough arrived, we went to this country-style-casserole-dinner-place down in town. It was right at the base of the mountain. We drank sweet ice tea and laughed and talked until we closed the place at 11pm.

Writers are not normal but we can pretend to be. It's all part of plotting adventures, I guess, writing that script, spinning that wheel. I felt normal that night. I knew, though, I was not.

The next day we had a break. A time on our own to hike the mountain, sleep in, meditate, take pictures, clean our rooms, or do whatever we wanted to on our time off.

During this time we were to compile five new poems and present them in some type of book form the following morning. I was leading that first meeting and it was quite informal. I invited everyone to sit on the floor among the pillows and old blankets and rugs and we would discuss our work.

I held the entries from the writers on a beat up aluminum cookie sheet and Brian's was the second one in the pile.

I got through all the formalities of reviewing and reading aloud and showing the first writer's work off and then I showed Brian's work. He had taken one of those ten page scrapbooks from the store and put a poem on each page or two with some art. It really looked like a proper scrapbook and I was impressed, not just with the words, but the artistic creativity he showed.

The first page was dark blue with white squiggly lines and there was a box on the top in the middle. In the box; five lines. I'm not a real fan of short poems, but this was a good one and the box wasn't totally square and I knew that meant something. We all discussed it. Brian was sort of silent during the whole process but I wasn't too worried.

Then I opened to the second page and immediately stopped.

I took in everything at once, the deep browns from scraps of our menu at the restaurant, the crazy arrangement of everything, pieces of everything. Brian had ripped menus up and wrote on them in dark black ink the things people had said or the jokes they had told, so next to "Meatloaf $7.95" would be a description of the conversation Elise had with Michael or there would be times that I smiled. "She smiled at 845pm and it lit up the room," it said. There were things like, "She laughed with the waiter about her order." Silly things like that but very complete and accurate about all of us and the time we had that previous evening at the good old country diner.

In the center of all of this - it took up two pages - was a green strip and in a very light lime green tricky psycho looking font he had wrote his poem.

It was called "I Will Follow You" and skipping to the bottom of the poem, there was my name - he had dedicated it to me and he had used my real name.

I looked up at him in the front row sitting with his legs crossed and pressed the scrapbook with cookie sheet holding all the other efforts of the writers to my chest. I took a deep breath and stared in to his knowing eyes. I said, "Let's reconvene this after lunch."

I heard sighs and murmurs that we had only just started and hadn't even finished the second book and little questions of what might be going on.

I got up from the floor where I was sitting among many pillows and put the cookie sheet holding all the efforts of the writers on the bar stool to the side of me. I took Brian's book and left the room.

I was down the hall when Elise caught up with me.

I asked her, "Can I speak to you in your room?"

Elise said it would be fine. I stood behind her as she opened three different locks and we entered a three bedroom suite with five beds.

"Elise, what do you need with all these beds and all this space?"

She shrugged.

"There's nothing here, just beds!" I remarked, shocked again at the way her room looked in comparison to mine and the students.

"I just lucked out, I guess."

"But, you are alone in here, right?"

"Definitely alone."

"So, why the five beds?"

"I just like my space."

"Okay, alright," I messed with my hair and twisted it back.

"So, what was it you needed to talk about? Why did you end the session so quickly?"

I guess I couldn't grasp why Elise's room seemed so different and she had all these locks and doors and beds and it was overwhelming. Sure, it's not something to get all worked up about, but what was I doing there talking to Elise when I needed to talk to Brian.

I brushed off my pantsuit, "Oh, nothing. Sorry.  We'll just get back together after lunch. All of us."

I left Elise's massive three bedroom suite with the five beds and went in to the hall where the student writers were chatting and there was Brian leaning against the wall.

"Brian, can we talk?" I asked as I walked right past him down the hall.

"Yes, Ma'am," he replied, all obedient like and he followed right behind me, right in the footsteps of my high heeled boots, it seemed.

There was a room on the left no one was staying in, so I twisted the old door knob and the door popped right open and we stepped down in.

The room looked exactly like a college dormitory room and smelled just like one too.

We went to the center of the room and Brian was the first to speak, "There are dead fish in the aquarium."

"Yes, I see that, Brian, does it concern you?" I was still holding his scrapbook of poetry to my chest.

"Not really," he looked down, "The carpet is dirty."

"Does that concern you?"

"Maybe a bit."

"Well, we are only going to be here for a short period of time to discuss this, so can you pay attention?"

"Is anyone staying in this room? Because the fish are dead."

"Brian! You seem awfully concerned about the fish! There is no bed in this room, so I doubt anyone is staying in the room. We can take care of the aquarium later this afternoon, how about."

He looked at me with his soft childish eyes. Maybe I was being too harsh. I was like the stern, strict teacher who had called him out for being naughty. Everyone would know that it was something about his work that had stopped the session. His hair was long and to his shoulders and he was wearing a brown tweed long coat with jeans and work boots. His turtle neck was black. There was something very interesting about him, you know.

"I'll stop worrying about the fish," he said, but he said it with somewhat of a whimper in his voice.

I came a little closer to him and showed him the page with the poem that was supposedly dedicated to me.

"Can you explain this to me?"

"It's a poem."

"Yes, I see that. Why don't you read it to me because the font is weird and the colour of the print is blending in to the dark green paper."

"I will follow you," he continued reading the poem in his barely audible voice and it was about stalking me.

I just kept staring at him as he continued reading, "I will kneel to you," then the poem shifted to submitting to me, the person he had stalked.  No, he wouldn't be 'scary' anymore, he would just totally submit and do anything I wanted, and so on, and so on.

I interrupted him, "Then do it now."

"What?"

"Kneel."

"But the carpet is dirty!"

"Do it, Brian."

He did as I commanded, and as he had said in his poem he would do, he knelt and he knelt on the dirty carpet.

I took the scrapbook from him and bent over, my face to his face, my cleavage right in his face and I whispered in his ear, "I will get you. You just wait, I will get you."

Then I turned and walked out the door and left him kneeling there.