Sea Of Memories
I'm a bit camera shy. Funny thing for a guy like me, someone who likes to
have attention focused purely on him, someone with an ego the size of fucking
James Van Der Beek's head. It always seemed that, whenever someone snapped a
photo of me, they'd catch me in some unflattering position. Like, I'd have my
mouth open or I'd be looking off to the side, which would make me look all
scitzo, usually I don't like pictures of me because my eyes are always so
bloodshot and my hair is a bit ornery, doesn't like to stay in place,
especially after a long set. Pictures when I'm by myself are utter shit.
However, all the pictures I have with me and Oz together, I look fucking
great in. Don't get me wrong, it's totally not because standing next to Oz
makes me look good on pure principal, Oz is sexy. I don't know why it is,
it's just one of those things.
Since we got the new guitarist, I've been convinced that the band is doomed
to fail. Not because the guy is bad or anything. All truth be known, he's a
better player than Oz, although his lyrics suck shit through a straw. What
really gets me is that, a band's got to have a certain image to make it in
the biz, so how do you make it if the lead singer always looks like he's just
come off a two week bender in every picture that he takes?
Course, the band isn't what I'm really thinking of right now. Sitting on my
bed, a sea of memorandum surrounding me, pictures forming a small pool in the
gap between my crooked legs.
When I pulled out my junk box tonight, I was looking for the best picture I
have of Oz, but I can't find it. I remember it perfectly in my mind. It was
taken when we just started our freshmen year of high school together and it
was consequently the first time he'd ever dyed his hair. His hair has always
been a pretty, natural red, but in the picture, it's a freaky flame orange.
He's got on a pair of cut-off khaki shorts and a Nirvana t-shirt, the collar
tinted a darker shade of black from the sweat. It had been one of those
stiflingly hot Indian summer days and Oz was actually the only male in a
twenty mile radius that hadn't got shirtless that day. His eyes were squinted
and the glare of the sun had made his face scrunch up a bit, just enough to
where it looked like he had a big smile on his face. I think that's why I
love that picture so much, because it's the only one I have of him where it
looks like he's smiling.
My sister, Selena, took that picture. Matter of fact, she took most of the
pictures that I'm wading through right now. She was only eleven months older
than me, a pretty brown haired girl with the inspiration to become a
professional photographer, the proof of that strewn over my bed at the
moment. She didn't have the patience to make her dreams come true though and
she ran off with some scum bag to the big city. Did well at first, got a job
working at an Olan Mills, calling me on the phone every Friday to relate that
people in LA didn't care how old you were just as long as you had "The Eye".
But her boyfriend had a bit of a drug habit that was hard to keep under
control. One night, he came home demanding money for a short fix, and when
she denied it to him, he hit her over the head with a heavy, glass ashtray. I
don't think he'd actually meant to kill her with the blow, but it was made
of an incredibly thick glass, the kind that just don't shatter that easily.
After Selena died, who did I really have? My mom was always a workaholic and
when Selena died, she threw herself into it with a new fervor. I understand
her reasons, but she just forgot that she still had another kid, one who was
also trying to cope with the death of his older sister. Never knew my dad, my
grandparents were both dead. So, I had Oz. He was the shoulder that I cried
on. He never tried to tell me that things would be okay or try to pull me out
of it when I got depressed, he just sat there all quiet-like......Oz-like.
I can actually pinpoint the moment that my feelings for Oz changed. Halfway
through our sophomore year, on a night that my mom was at the office late,
working on an important case. It was just him and me and things were really
light-hearted. We'd just had a B-rated horror movie marathon with two large
pepperoni pizzas laid out before us on the floor, he'd made some smart-ass
comment, which he's naturally prone to do, so we started to wrassle in the
guy-way. Suddenly, it wasn't the guy-way anymore and I had him pinned to the
floor and my lips pressed against his.
Afterwards, when we were both pulling on our clothes and giving each other
nervous glances, I did the only thing that I knew how to do. I laughed it off
and told him that it was a teen male, sexual tension type thing. What really
got me was the look on his face when I said that, sort of a cross between
relief and an I-just-fell-into-a-pile-of-sharp-thingies look. But, things
continued and I don't think I ever felt more comfortable with my life than I
did when I was laying pressed up against Oz's naked back.
That's not the story of my life though. The story of my life is that I'm a
fuck-up. Pure, unadulterated, no holds barred fuck-up. Just like school, just
like my relationship with my mother and my sorry attempt to deal with the
death of my sister, I fucked up the thing that I had with Oz. I blew it off
as some teen fling and as a result lost him to someone that he had a chance
at a normal relationship with. Not that his relationship with Willow was all
Why am I doing this? Why am I sitting in a pile of pictures of me and Oz that
my dead sister took and feeling sorry for myself? Because a little more than
five hours ago, he left here. He showed up at my doorstep after being gone
for three months and mere minutes after he showed up, he went off in search
for someone else. Someone that can make him feel complete? Someone who
doesn't appreciate him the way that I do? Someone who isn't afraid to tell
him that they love him?
I'm just waiting, preparing myself for when he'll come back to collect his
things and leave again. Maybe this time for good.
It occurs to me finally now, where that picture is. I remember, a couple of
years ago when Oz came to me and asked me if he could have it. He never told
me what he wanted with it, but I was so full of bitterness towards him at the
moment, that I didn't even care. I was so bitter in fact, that I handed it to
him without so much as a blink of my eye, knowing fully well that it was
going to end up framed and placed on the night table of someone that he loves
more than me. Even with the stack of pictures I have of him, I'll never have
one that shows that Oz I remember the most fondly. The Oz that was mine and
belonged to me and only me.
I'm a selfish bastard in the end. I couldn't share him with anyone then and I
won't give myself the pleasure of sharing him now. He belongs to her now and
I.......well, I'll always belong to someone that doesn't love me.