Crosswired

Have you ever just sat down and wondered why? Like why is everything exactly the way it is? Are we all just the product of random circumstance, merely an accumulation of particles, simply existing in some period of time, floating freely somewhere in space? I often ask myself why… Why does a specific child come into the world and have their exact set of parents? Their characteristics? Their features? Is there some logical reasoning behind why we are who we are? Are we designed? Predestined to do what we do? Or do we just snap into existence as the result of crossing random wires on a circuit board, in this noisy machine known as life? Today, instead of grieving the loss of my parents, I'm sitting here before my mother's picture, in front of her ashes, wondering how exactly I came to be. If there's some higher power out there, one would think that they'd have better sense than to purposely create someone like me. That's why I always wonder if I just happen to be some kind of glitch in the system. My brain doesn't work the way everyone else's seems to. The best way to put it is that it's as if there are wires crossed somewhere. Even if I can say the words in my head, even if they sound smooth as butter before I speak them, I stutter as soon as I open my mouth. Not to mention, I get so anxious when people are around that when I do talk to others, my choice of words tends to be wildly inappropriate. Ever since I was a kid, I've been bullied about it. Everyone around me has always been able to make friends. It seems easy. Sit next to someone in class, say words, make a new friend, repeat. Walk down the street, wave hello, open mouth, make a new friend, repeat. Bump into new coworker at the coffee machine, smile, bond over some extracurricular activity, make new friend, repeat. Like a well lubricated machine, life keeps turning and happy people all around me continue to make new relationships, form new bonds, fall in love, and create yet another generation of functional engine parts that have a purpose. That's not how it happens for me. Don't get me wrong. I have every intention of making a friend when I meet people. But for some reason, no matter how much time I spend with someone, I never feel completely comfortable around them. I constantly wonder how my words will sound, if they will come out at all, or if I'll stand there sounding like a scratched CD at slumber party in 2003. What if I ruin the mood… Again? What if I mean to compliment them and I come off as creepy? What if it comes out wrong and they get offended? What happens if they misunderstand me? Reject me? Hate me? Just thinking about it makes me antsy. My fear is not totally unfounded, you know. When I was in middle school, I really liked a girl. I thought she was different. She didn't even make fun of my stutter. Bree was beautiful and popular. When I met her, she paid attention to me. Nobody else did. But I remember being so happy to see her in the hallways after class. She made me feel special. Like I was somebody just like everybody else. She made me think that maybe I wasn't as alone as I thought I was. That's a terrible age. Nobody should have to be 14. They're all fueled by hormones. Oh yeah, back to Bree. One day, she asked me to meet her after lunch in the hallway to the gym, outside the cafeteria. You better believe I was so excited that I couldn't even eat. I waited and waited for her and when she finally showed up, we walked down the empty hallway and stopped just in front of the gym doors. It was pretty loud because the basketball jocks were in there shooting hoops. I'll never forget how nervous I was when she leaned against the wall and told me she wanted to tell me a secret. My heart about pounded right out of me. I should have been smarter than to get so close to a girl at that age. It wasn't a wise decision. Not that I'm wise. But then again, that's the story of my life. I'm just a big mistake. Well, a stray basketball bounced into the hallway at that fateful moment. Teenage angst must have blocked out the sound because I don't remember hearing anything. But she did. By the time I realized what was even going on, a few of the guys had already run out into the hallway, chasing after the ball. Just like that, my reputation for the rest of my school years was royally f****d. "Ewww! Don't touch me, loser!", she shouted as she pushed me so hard that I fell. She ran into the gym and I don't remember seeing her after that. Of course, she did die, so it kind of makes sense why I wouldn't get to see her again. Yeah, this story takes place on a Friday and that Saturday night, she got hit by a drunk driver. She and 2 of her friends were crossing the street after walking to get some fast food. I don't remember the restaurant but I think they got tacos. Oh, right. I was telling you about what happened between her and I. After school that day, I was so hungry that I all I wanted to do was get home as soon as possible. Not to mention, I needed space to try and make sense of what had just happened to me. I was hurt, embarrassed, angry… I felt betrayed. I thought I'd finally had a friend, yet there I was. Her death affected me a lot. I'd wondered if I had caused it somehow by being angry at her. I never wished anything bad on her or anything. On the contrary, I wanted to ask her why she did what she did. But I never got the chance. She was gone and I wondered for years if I could have done something to prevent her from dying. But, back to that day. I'm sorry. I have a hard time staying focused for very long. After the last bell rang and school let out, I gathered up my supplies, my CD player, my abundance of library books, and my broken heart. I took a shortcut across the football field, behind the school to get home faster. Little did I know what was waiting for me. Apparently, Bree had told the group playing basketball that I'd come onto her while she was on the way to cheer them on. I'm sure she was embarrassed to be seen with me. I don't blame her. The beating they gave me was worse than any of the beatings I remember my father ever dishing out. They didn't leave me alone until the rain came along and spoiled their fun. As I lay there letting the downpour wash the blood from my face, I wondered for the first time what it would be like to die. Where does our data go when the hard drive craps out? I wish I could ask my mother. She would know. My whole life, I've watched her cover her bruises, cuts, and shattered dignity with designer clothes and makeup. I feel like we could understand each other a little. We were both victims of my father's rage. I'd always hoped she would just leave him but I guess she was just too attached to all the luxuries his wealth had to offer. All his money was never enough to fix me though. No matter how many doctors I'd been to, there was never a medication, a therapy, or an experimental trial that could make me 'normal'. My mom called me eclectic... My father preferred the word 'retard'. And he used it frequently to remind me just how much he resented the fact that I was his only child. Up to the very end, he hated the thought of it. I majored in the arts. Music is the only thing that's ever brought me any comfort, ever been an outlet for me to express how I feel. If you haven't picked up on it already, I have a problem with emotions. They're just too complicated. Anyways, back to the story of why we're here. As his sole heir, he wanted me to take charge of the company. But I have no interest in business or developing beauty products. That was his bag, not mine. Now that he's gone, I know that I'm in charge of things. And as a big fat 'f**k you', I fully intend to be involved as little as humanly possible. There are plenty of people working there who know what they're doing. I'm going to say 'yes' and 'no' and sign papers like a puppet. And avoid contact with people as much as I can, of course. Now, there's nothing my father can do about it. If he had other plans, he should've thought about it before he did what he did. What was I saying? Ah, yes. I probably forgot to say something important. My mind goes off on tangents, you see. I do apologize. Did I mention that I'm at the funeral home to say my final goodbyes? Well, I am. And I'm sad... Of course I am. But for some reason, I haven't been able to cry. Maybe at some point in time, it'll all set in and I'll bawl like a baby, right? For now, all I can do is wonder why. Why did he decide to finally do it? Why on that day? After 30 years of marriage, why did he choose that exact moment to kill the only person who's ever loved me? Why did he then decide to shoot himself? Did he feel guilty? That's hard to imagine. He's never cared about how others felt. Everyone was merely an NPC in his game. To him, people were just tourists on his power trip. That's what his life was all about. And all I want to understand is… Why? I'm trying so, so very hard. I inhale deeply as I place my hand on my mother's photo. Knowing I'll never see her again, I've never felt more alone than in this moment. Though imperfect, she loved me the best way that she knew how. She was the only human being I've ever been able to freely touch, hug, or talk to. 'So, Mom… Where did your data go?' I wonder to myself as I leave the dim mourning room and step out into the brightly lit hallway. There's not much choice other than to follow my twisted, tattered cable through this cruel, noisy machine. Pizza sounds pretty good right now.