The grandeur of my accomplishment overrode the pain that wanted so desperately to be felt within me. Instead I beamed with joy, a grin so intense that it tickled my ears. I remained like this for some time, oblivious to everything not pertaining directly to my splits. It was some hours later that I eventually decided to exit my position and return inside. My stomach was groaning and I had several wounds that needed immediate attention. I attempted to move, barely lifting my crotch a centimetre from the grass before plonking back down. I tried again with similar results. I bit upon my bottom lip nervously as the reality of the situation dawned. I was stuck in the splits.
…
The days immediately following were a daze of pain and incomprehension. I was eventually discovered by my exasperated mother, who enlisted the aide of my father to help rationalise the situation. The best he could offer was a few meagre words of condolence and furtive glances skyward. Grey clouds were accumulating and the wind had a bracing quality that was hard to appreciate. My father spent more minutes than I could count erecting a frame over which he stretched some tarpaulin in order to protect me in some basic way against the elements. My mother was bringing out food at regular intervals and clearing away the dishes afterward. Tubing was installed to aid with my toiletries and I grew used to this quite easily. It was better than soiling myself.
Nights were the most difficult. The cold air swirled around me, easily bypassing the tarpaulin and licking at my face with frosty tongues. My legs had gone completely numb and my various wounds were hissing and moaning. Sleep nipped at me but never took satisfactory chunks.
I tried a few times to get up - all unsuccessful. The intervals between these attempts started to grow longer and, after the first week, I had given up all together. I remained in the splits – not exactly happy, but resigned. The more time that passed, the less my family seemed to care. The visits were becoming rare beyond the mandatory feeding and wound tending. By the end of the first month, I was beginning to wonder why no one had bothered trying to help me get up.
…
It was six months into my experience when the visitors began to drop by. At first it was friends of the family. They’d come out and just sit next to me, making small talk and gossiping about things I had no knowledge of. I had nothing much to say back. I just stared vacantly, nodded occasionally and pretended to listen. I was rather more concerned about my own predicament than the vacuous ramblings of others.
Then the strangers began to visit.
People I’d never met began coming to see me on an exhaustingly constant basis. These people seemed intent on confessing their secrets to me for reasons I couldn’t discern. A policeman admitted planting evidence to imprison the man screwing his wife. A catholic priest confided that he had recently turned to atheism, yet couldn’t bring himself to give up the “rush of the pulpit”. A shy woman admitted to inducing a miscarriage because she didn’t find the father very attractive. These people, from every walk of life, kept pouring into the backyard; seemingly on appointment; no two overlapping. I remained dismally trapped in the splits, forced to absorb their tawdry confessions. My parents would occasionally usher somebody away only for someone else to replace them seconds later.
With the arrival of each new guest, I hoped to see Molly, but she never came. Instead I endured one boring encounter after the other. I imagined Molly sneaking into the backyard at night when all the strangers had left. She would approach me joyously and embrace me warmly. She would acknowledge the overwhelming totality of my splits and give herself to me in admiration. Her tongue would run along my wounds, healing them instantly.
These flights of fancy continued for months and each time they weren’t realised, I’d die a little inside, as would my feelings toward Molly.
…
Years passed slowly and uncomfortably. My immobility had caused tremendous weight gain. I didn’t speak anymore. My ears had crusted over in wax, presumably as self-preservation so I wouldn’t have to endure further confessions. These people might as well have been talking to a statue. Each Christmas my mother would drape me in festive decorations and children from the neighbourhood would gather around and celebrate. I would watch their legs, their freedom of movement and feel a deep envy. I kept wondering why no one had thought to help me, how they could let me rot like this in such impossibly prolonged awkwardness. As much as I would have liked to think otherwise, there was no indication that I had a future beyond the splits.
Molly Sturgeon continued to enter my thoughts on occasion but rather than the love I once felt, there was now only resentment. Illogically I blamed her for my situation. I deconstructed her appearance in my head until she was a grotesque abomination, stripping her beauty (or what I remembered of it) and replacing it with vulgarity. How could innocent puppy love turn into this? How could nobody reach out a helping hand? I was a child when this began and I was approaching adulthood with none of the experience to back it up. Yes, October 12th 1993 was burnt upon my brain alright, but only for the chaos it wrought.
A day did finally arrive when I found the strength to ask my mother why no one had ever thought to help me get up. I likened the situation to abuse and relayed to her the pessimism and despair that now occupied most of my thoughts. She looked deeply saddened by it all, almost disappointed. She went into the house, eventually re-emerging with my father in tow, both of them sporting hangdog expressions that, for whatever reason, made me feel intense guilt. My father asked me if I needed any help getting up, to which I responded with a feeble nod. He sighed deeply and approached me slowly, eventually cupping his hands under each of my armpits. My mother moved in closer and manned my stagnant, dead legs. My father sighed deeply once more and my mother made a comment about how disappointing this all was. She began to admit that their hope had been that I would remove myself from this situation. My father nodded in solemn agreement as she continued. I was told that they were trying to instil independence in me, that by extricating myself from the splits, my character would grow. Leaving me to deal with the situation alone, although one of the hardest things they had ever done, was something they believed in totally. They just wanted me to learn how to look after myself. With these words now spoken, my father slowly began to lift me.
Roots that had bonded themselves to my legs snapped free. Insects that had made me their home began to scurry. The more I was lifted the more I thought about my parents’ intentions. I started to feel as if I were cheating myself, copping out. I wanted to be a son my parents could be proud of. If I allowed them to help me up they would forever look upon me with disrespect. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I asked my father to put me back down. He tentatively stopped and asked me several times if I was completely sure. I nodded confidently and reasserted my desire to be put back down. I saw a smile bloom on my fathers face as he gently lowered me. The insects scurried back to their home and my mother embraced my father with such pride. She moved toward me and gave me a kiss before wrapping her arms tightly around me. She told me that I was doing the right thing. My father nodded vigorously, giving me a double thumbs-up as he did. I managed a meagre smile and watched as my parents went back into the house. For the immediate future, I would remain in the splits.
How to Avoid Sex Page 17
