I have to apologize to my ego before I begin to write this…I know we told each other that we would never recall this again, but perhaps it lays out why I have been such a sentimental fool this entire month. Once again…I’m sorry.
I remember walking into that hotel room, while reading texts that read “Fine. If you won’t meet me, just know that I’ll always love you. I’ll be in room number 7 at the usual place” on my mother’s phone, I remember losing my breath. They were both going through their divorce, but my Mom still loved the sex so…she still chose to keep in contact with my father; completely aware of how volatile the situation was. I was 15 and I had just come back to my house after having been kicked out for a while.
Her and I had argued a bit prior to the texts that were sent. She came to the room my sister’s and I had originally been sleeping in and asked me to come with her to check up on these texts because she was “worried”. I remember the door to the hotel room being open and, as soon as my Mom had turned on the light, she sprinted to his side where he lay, peaceful..who was I to know that, despite everything my Dad had ever said to me…nothing I knew was real.
Turning on the lights, she burst in to prop up my father and wake him up. Kicking around what seemed to be 70 bottles of beer and a more than full ashtray of cigarettes, my father had consumed several boxes of sleep aid along with everything else in his room. My mother panicked for evidence and ways to reverse time while I just stood there and watched as time, itself, stopped. That day…the me prior to everything I’ve made for myself…the “Nicholas Vilchis”; the kid no one really knew, died. These passed few months have been the days for his mourning.
He died after finding out his father was never a man of his word, that he would leave him alone just as everyone else had, and after seeing his father peacefully asleep…peaceful without the son who he said he loved. He died when his father attempted suicide and realized that he was never really important. He was never really a factor, in the marriage. He was simply a bonus. He died alone, just as he was left by the desecration of his father. He was left silent just as he was when he asked his father to wake up. He died running, just as he did during that day when he ran around the hotel only to find a nurse who could help while the ambulance arrived. He died saving his father’s life.
I never wanted to remember this. I’ve never wanted to recall anything like this ever again and I will put it to rest. However, should anyone ever ask why I crave affection from everyone…why I crave touch…why I am constantly seeking a response; an answer to my own constant questions…this is why. My entire life, I rarely received affection from either of my parents. So, if anyone notices me being emotional during a handshake…holding on an awkward moment longer during an embrace, seeking close contact with others, holding constant conversation…just know that it’s not because of anything regarding “human desire”.
Understand that I have never experienced being a kid. I’ve always been an adult and sometimes those moments where people humble themselves to contact…sometimes those moments are the ones that allow one to feel more human and more childlike. It’s then when you’ll understand why I am the way I am. Call it sick. I would never question you because it’s what I have to stare at in the mirror. My sickness is my hidden badge. All I crave is to feel human again. That’s who I am.
You’re safe in our haven, Nick. Sometimes I’ll channel you to get to feel like myself again…but I’m not you and I never will be. So, I hope to maybe get a chance to see you soon. Other than that, I will be me and not model myself in your image. I will be better and I will grow. I will become change…for the two of us.
Tanya Batura, Achromic B, 2011, clay, acrylic, 21 x 18.5 x 14 inches, 62.5 x 24 x 15 inches with pedestal
Brittany Nelson - Mordancage III