Method of Mancy

Lately, I can feel my soul as if it would fill me physically. I feel tendrils of my Self snaking out like vines and roots, tiny leaves budding from the ends as I breathe in and out. I am no longer a stone, waiting to be eroded by some external force; I am a living, growing, expanding thing now, and I can feel every movement I make, no matter how small.

One bitterly cold afternoon, I attempt to convey this to my Dear Friend. I struggle a bit through the words, and by listening carefully, he meets me halfway.

But, before I can get far, the boy is suddenly there. He hasn’t been given his appropriate amount of attention yet and thus plops down in front of me, all bigness and shapes.

Unsurprised and unimpressed, I continue, it’s like I can feel myself physically growing leaves as I grow and change as a person–

The boy, desperate for the spotlight, begins a pantomime around my head as I’m speaking. I watch him for a few seconds, then stiffen, disdain slithering within me.

Are you… plucking my leaves?

Yeah, he replies easily (too enamored with his own joke to realize we’re teetering on the edge of a cliff).

I breathe it in, thorns sprouting through my skin.

I haven’t been looking him in the eye because it makes me weak, but this time I meet his gaze, demanding to know what’s behind it.

You do realize that’s kinda fucked up, right?

My Dear Friend reaches out, trying to give the boy a parachute on his way down. He’s pruning you, he suggests. (The implication: so I will grow stronger and healthier.)

The boy is the picture of innocence, completely unaware of where he stands as he shakes his head. He’s still smiling and I’m stiller than stone.

He opens his mouth, pouring his ignorance on me like rain. And even as his tongue shapes the words, none of us are prepared for the caustic accuracy of his statement.

I’m making you lesser.

One.

Two.

Three beats of silence.

A smile creeps onto my face, tasting of metal.

Oh-oh. The mussitation, from my left.

It’s such a funny thing, the pain. It churns within me, scraping at the soft tissue. Then it bubbles up from my chest and out of my mouth as hysterical laughter, a cistern of unstoppable giggles. The boy’s face slowly burns into confusion, shielding a glimmer of fear. (Because he doesn’t know how right he is. Because he made this choice again and again and again.)

I can tell he feels the weightlessness, the danger of his freefall. I’m still laughing but he doesn’t get The Joke and his smile becomes a grimace as he instinctively leans away from me.

I keep laughing–because there’s no good way to tell someone who loves you that they make you worse. Because it’s too late for him to take it all back. I keep laughing and I don’t try to break his fall this time.

He doesn’t feel the impact when he hits. And it’s not even the ground he’s met (with a sickening thud), but a concrete wall erected between us. We are blood and bruises and fragmented body parts, and he doesn’t even realize it yet.

But on the other side, I remain–stubbornly, lavishly green. Yes, despite it all, I’m even more verdant than before, fueled by spite rather than sun, so I stare him down.

I stare him down.

I stare. Him. Down.

And when he finally looks away from me, I silently begin to bloom.