The Handkerchief

I was terrified.

   I was certain the lady in front of me had a bomb planted in her nose. The sound was sudden and deafening, like being hit in the back of the head with a gong. Not one of those pussy gongs either, but the kind that takes your abuses with cacophonic reverence, shaking your own fortitude. The familiar jerk of her cranium did little to unfog the visions; I found myself greeting the planets, exchanging bittersweet vows with Pluto as I was jettisoned from the Universe. The poor girl's arm defused the load. She struggled to recover from one hell of a sneeze, and I struggled harder still to recover a straight face. I was startled and shaken, but the doll's expectorations were not the source of my terror.

   I had been invited to the ball by my best friend, Sully. I met him early in life, and I'm thankful for that, because he'd be much too cool for me now. I could tell Sully many things, but I could never tell him how uncomfortable he made me feel. When he invited me to the party, I met him with great protest, but he's one persuasive son of a bitch. So, I did what I do best, and I submitted to his wishes. I didn't expect to fit in, and when I arrived, I wasn't disappointed. I took a deep breath, as deep as I could without looking too funny, and I convinced myself I was going to do something like face my fears. I walked with a most relaxed apprehension, fists swaying in a subtle clench. But my awkward strut ended prematurely, when the sinus mine crossed my path. There was a boom, and the security of obscurity was ripped away. There behind my cloak, were a mob of eyes like daggers. I lost my breath, but the pins and needles of their discerning gaze were not the source of my terror.

   Panicked, I shied away from their leering, and I caught a glimpse of my open hand. There in that empty hand, I found terror. Moments ago, when I was merely scared, and not being wrenched from my body by horror, that hand had held a handkerchief, my remnant of courage in this world of insecurities.

   As a child, I found myself constantly in question of myself. I was a grown man now, but the weight of my ridicule never let up. My mother was extremely supportive of me, even more so after the death of my father, but I just could not believe in her words. The first time I ever related to another person was the day I met Sully, in the fourth grade. Fifteen years later, at the age of 24, I still haven't managed to do it again.

   Four years ago, when I was still trying to decide what to do with my life, my mother hopped on the white pony and trotted right out of this world. I didn't cry at the funeral. I didn't cry when I sold her house. I didn't cry, smile, cough, or do much of anything for months. When I finally had the courage, or when I finally stopped respecting her privacy, I looked for refuge in her diary. The pages wove a scattered, incoherent story of loss and uncertainty. That was until the very last entry, which described the meeting of my mother and my father. My mother was a loving woman, but the words I read that day betrayed a giddiness that I never would have suspect she was capable of.

   Tucked between the decrepit pages of that entry, I found a brilliant white handkerchief, seemingly untouched by time.

   Something must have snapped in my mind that day. When I lost my mother, I did not want to continue to live. But through each passage, I felt that she had struggled with me. Her hopes had seemed impossibilities, the world a dark merciless pit stop. But her despairities seemed to vanish with the handkershief, and it became an artifact to me, one which I refused to part with. When it was with me, I felt as though my mother was there, and I dared to hope. But when I lost it, I could only see her lifeless body and a world that I could not face.

   But I had dropped the damn thing, and the face of the world pressed into me. Feverishly, I dropped to the floor, in pursuit of my talisman. I could feel the attention of the crowd like flying stones. I felt that without the handkerchief, a moment's eye contact would surge through me like a bolt of lightning, tearing my flesh from my withered spirit. I began to sweat hail. I swore I could hear a clock ticking in my head, my spinal cord pinched between its gears.

   I winced, clenched my teeth, prepared for it to snap, when a hand much fairer than death's dropped into view. I looked up, and saw the misfortuned beauty, offering me my prized possession. Her red dress blinded me, but I could make out her greenest of eyes, beacons in a blurry world I no longer understood. Her cheeks were nearly as red as her dress, and there was fear in her eyes. That fear belonged to the spectators, but she offered it to me, her outreached arm timid to my notice. I began to reach for the handkerchief, my hands steadier than expected, when I realized that I had forgotten the crowd. They were merely a reflection in those green eyes now, drowning in their splendor.

   Through cracked lips, and deliberate balance, I managed to speak.

   "Why don't you hold on to that for me?"

   She smiled and the whole world smiled with her.