Driven To Tears (The Darby Trilogy Book 1)

by Jason Jauron

  YOU WILL HAVE SEX WITH YOUR WIFE TWICE A MONTH.

  YOU WILL MASTURBATE 5 DAYS A WEEK.

  PEOPLE WILL ALWAYS SHUN AND PITY YOU.

  AND YOU WILL DIE EARLY - AN ANGRY, UGLY MOTHERFUCKER.”

  Jed sat up, threw the washcloth at the sink.

  Spent a minute redigesting.

  Gave up trying to recognize the voice.

  Then he spent the next five minutes crying.

  13.

  For the next several weeks, Jed continued to shave with a razor. Despite the fact his face looked like raw hamburger when he finished. His complexion just kept getting worse. He did manage to get another cyst to partially drain. Same weird circumstances. Spark. Pain. White liquid.

  But his fixation with his acne was no longer bordering on obsessive behavior.

  It was an obsession.

  It was compulsion.

  And as he skipped his classes that first Monday of December, it was apparent the Jed that had enrolled in August was no longer on campus. In his place was a lonely, devastated, and disturbed creature.

  Jed had gone from Smeagol to Gollum in four months.

  He was also talking aloud to Mister more.

  The majority of these “conversations” took place in front of the mirror.

  The conversation that night was typical – something like:

  “Ok. Here we go Mister. How are you feeling? I hope you’re still feeling sharp. I hope so because I have a nasty spitter under my right eye and I need your help.

  Ouch.

  That hurt. Had to squeeze that fucker twice. But good job Mister.”

  “I know. I know. I have to wash you off with hot water before we can pop another zit. My bad Mister. Ok. There you go. Now let’s pop that blackhead on my upper lip.

  “Ouch.

  “Fuck Mister. That hurt. My eyes are damn watering. Fucking blackheads. I’m going to stop for now and do some homework.”

  “What do you mean Mister?”

  “Funny.”

  “I do my homework.”

  “So why don’t I go to class?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have things under control.”

  “Whatever Mister. You’d like to think so.”

  “No. The zits don’t keep me from going to class. They don’t because I can always sit in the back row where nobody can see me. Ok. I just don’t feel like going sometimes.”

  “It’s not that simple Mister. I don’t always feel strong enough. You know, what with everyone giving me shit about my face.”

  “Why do they do that?”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Why?”

  “Because when I first got here I acted like a cocky prick. I just tried to act so cool. I don’t really know now what I was thinking. Trust me Mister. I now know beauty is only skin deep. Nobody bothers to look any further.”

  “Dave?”

  “What about Dave?”

  “No, I haven’t really tried talking to him. I haven’t really tried talking to anyone. Only you Mister.”

  “You’re probably right. It’s not good for me to stop interacting with the other students. That is important. I know. But I’m scared Mister. I’m ugly. I look like hell.”

  “Give it a rest Mister. The reason I don’t talk to anyone is because I am uncomfortable with myself. I hate myself. I hate what I’ve become. And I hate the fucking staring. Crossing their fingers and praying to God as I walk by. Praying that the zit plague passes by their door.”

  “Fuck I know I’m bitter. But fuck. Look at me. And it ain’t getting any better. I ain’t ready to take no first step and open myself up. I’m fucking imploding. I don’t know who I am anymore. I just wish I could shed this skin, start college over.”

  “No, my sabbatical will end soon. Has to. One way or the other. I just can’t accept the fact that I am going to have to pop 50 zits a day for the next decade. I just can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”

  “I know he is Mister.”

  “Dave is the key.”

  14.

  The next morning Jed decided to skip another day of learning. Besides, he had other things on his mind.

  Dave was the perfect choice.

  “What do you think Mister?” he asked, unwrapping the sewing needle from its plastic cocoon. “He is the perfect choice, right?”

  He peered at the needle in the palm of his hand.

  “Nothing to say huh? All that talk about me having to open up to someone. Dave is my choice.”

  Jed popped seven whiteheads before he felt he needed help. He slid Mister across his chin as he surveyed his face. There was a rather large, thick whitehead near his right ear. It was not completely ripe. But Jed decided a preemptive strike was necessary.

  Mister poked it twice.

  Both times Jed flinched.

  He squeezed hard.

  No pus.

  “Damnit!”

  He was instantly agitated.

  “I don’t need this.”

  Just calm the fuck down and take another look.

  His face felt hot. He was sweating. His pulse was racing.

  “Goddamnit. Just fucking pop!”

  He grabbed Mister, stabbed again.

  He squeezed as hard as he could.

  No pus.

  “Motherfucker!”

  He wheeled around, shook his fists. He walked over, punched his mattress several times.

  Just let this zit pop God and I will be done. Just let it pop. I can’t stop like this. It has to pop. Then I can stop.

  He was pacing.

  Fuck you Mister. Quit laughing at me. I’ll get it to pop.

  With your help.

  He jabbed Mister so hard into the zit he eyes watered. His nose started running.

  He squeezed.

  Nothing.

  He tried again.

  Nothing.

  Grabbed a washcloth, got it wet. Scrubbed the area hard with it. The pain was piercing.

  Squeezed again.

  “Fuck!”

  He turned, punched his dorm door twice with his right hand.

  Jed, you have to relax. Things are changing. Your face is changing. For the better. You just don’t see the positive changes to your face because you see your face everyday. So you aren’t going to notice them Jed. But they are there. You are going to have to stop yourself from getting so fucking caught up in this shit. You have to. You have to stop letting a stupid thing like a zit not popping enrage you. You have to let it go.

  He stopped, set Mister on the sink, plopped onto the couch.

  He was shaking. His right hand, now visibly bruised, was stroking the zit near his ear.

  Seconds later, he was crying.

  “Whom the fuck am I kidding?” he sobbed. “God please just heal me. Please heal me.”

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe any of this. I just want to wake up one morning God and not have to drain the bumps on my face. Haven’t I suffered enough? Haven’t I?

  He lay back on the couch, closed his eyes.

  Half a minute passed.

  You’re right Mister. Let’s do it.

  He jumped up, ran to the sink. He plunged the Mister into the zit over and over. His face was bleeding badly.

  He squeezed the zit, crying out in agony.

  A mass of liquid spewed onto the mirror.

  We can stop now.

  Relief.

  He closed his eyes, got control of his breathing.

  When he opened them moments later, his reflection mortified him.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the saddest, ugliest fuck of them all?

  He hobbled backwards. Fell onto the floor.

  I’m just so fucking tired of hurting myself. Everybody stares at me God. I just can’t take it anymore. But there’s nothing I can do. These zits aren’t going away. I’ve learned my lesson God. You can stop this tutoring session anytime now God. I’ve learned my lesson. Please stop this. Being me sucks.

  Tears streamed down hi
s face.

  He was exhausted.

  His nose was running.

  Fuck this life. I mean, how the hell am I supposed to go on? Another day. More zits. They are my new reality. My new companion. They are all I know anymore.

  He crawled into bed.

  Tomorrow is the day I open up to Dave.

  He slept for next 15 hours.

  15.

  When Jed finally woke up, his roommate Dave was watching The Simpson’s.

  “Hey, you missed lunch again Jed,” said Dave matter-of-factly.

  Jed cleared his throat.

  “Long night,” he shot back. “You know, of doing nothing.”

  Dave chuckled.

  “Guys on the floor say you are a hermit,” continued Dave, not even turning around to look at his roommate. “What is the deal man?”

  “It ain’t been easy to be me lately,” stammered Jed.

  Dave thumped the couch a few times with his right hand.

  “Come on down, watch some fucking tube,” he blurted. “Just sit back, have some laughs.”

  Those were the words Jed wanted to hear.

  So he did as he was told.

  He sat down, took the Dew Dave offered, and rubbed the crusties from his eyes.

  He did nothing to conceal or change how awful he looked.

  He exposed himself, his situation, to his roommate.

  And for 30 beautiful minutes, he relaxed, laughed.

  His cystic acne played second fiddle to Homer and the gang. His hands were at his side. He never once reached up to stroke his face.

  Not soon after that, Dave and Jed became good friends. Even after Jed transferred schools, they kept in touch. Dave got married his senior year. Jed was his best man.

  16.

  “Chug.chug.chug.chug.chug.chug.chug.chug.chug.”

  Most common phrase uttered at a fraternity

  7:50pm.

  Jed walked over to the refrigerator, grabbed a Heineken. He felt pissed and overwhelmed. He was back to pacing, trying to clear his mind. Memories were trapping him in his hotel room.

  He needed to get out of the room.

  He needed some kind of distraction.

  But something wouldn’t let him leave. Something was fighting him.

  Unresolved conflicts?

  Subconscious desires?

  Regrets?

  My parents.

  “They never understood how the zits methodically took away my humanity,” he mumbled. “They never got how the zits were destroying one life, creating another.”

  His talking aloud did not alarm him. Hell, he didn’t even notice it. He had been doing some form of this for many years now. Sometimes in the car. Sometimes in the kitchen of his apartment. Sometimes as he shaved in the morning.

  He stopped, slammed the dark beer, tossed the bottle on the bed, and continued.

  “My parents were always fucking riding me about my acne.”

  He shook his fists.

  “And they never fucking got how desperate the acne was making me.”

  Christmas Break of my freshmen year was clearly the worst.

  ***

  It was about three weeks into the second semester of his first year of college when Jed’s life would again change.

  For the better.

  For the worse.

  He was glad to be back at school, away from home. The Christmas break had lasted too long. He had gotten lucky over Thanksgiving; the bad weather prevented his parents from visiting.

  He had to go home for Christmas. There was no getting out of it. But a sense of dread consumed him the entire trip home.

  His parents had not seen him since the transformation.

  They were expecting Jekyll.

  They got Hyde.

  The month off for Christmas was too much time for him to fill up. There was not anything for him to do. He did not want to see any of his old high school friends; he did not want to play card games with his family. And he got so fucking frustrated with the constant interrogations about his acne.

  So between breaks from dinner and television, Jed put in many hours working on his new hobby.

  Sleeping.

  It was his only escape.

  He and his parents argued quite a bit.

  Mostly at the dinner table.

  Always about his acne.

  “Come on mom, I thought you said you were going to try harder to not stare so much,” he barked.

  “I’m sorry son, I just can’t help it,” replied Jill Darby, reaching out, taking her son’s hand. “Besides, you won’t even look your mother in the eye anyway, so how can you tell where I’m looking?”

  Jed pounded the table.

  “Was I wrong mom?”

  “No, you were right, I was looking.”

  Not even a minute passed.

  “Are you sure your acne isn’t from steroids?” asked his mom. “You can tell me the truth Jed, you’re my son.”

  He shook his head.

  “It’s not steroids mom,” he said slowly. “Do I look any stronger? I mean, give me a break.”

  Jill Darby nodded.

  “I wasn’t really staring son,” she said softly. “I just wanted a closer look. I mean I’m your mother. There shouldn’t be a problem with me doing that. Are you sure those big ones don’t hurt son? I mean, that one on your chin looks painful.”

  Jed raised his left hand.

  “Thanks mom,” he said sarcastically. “Can I please be excused?”

  No response.

  “I just want to go downstairs, eat in silence,” he continued, fighting his nerves. “That way I won’t feel like a living work of art on display.”

  He shook his head.

  He was losing control.

  “I mean I’m trying to deal with my acne the best way I can. But let’s face it. I look like hell. And it’s going to be that way for a long time.”

  His eyes were beginning to water.

  “No matter how many prayers I say or how much water I drink, I am going to look like hell the next morning. Probably the next decade. But it’s my problem alone. And all your words of encouragement and prayers are appreciated. But none of you have to walk down the street knowing that after people see you, the only emotion they feel is pity. I have everyone’s pity mom. Goodnight.”

  Jed left the table, walked upstairs to his room. He choked back tears the entire way. When he reached his room, the floodgates opened. He cried himself to sleep.

  December was a difficult month for Jed. He hoped being home would bring him comfort, peace of mind. Instead, it brought him confrontation, cabin fever.

  Everyone wanted to question him, quiz him about his acne. As if there was nothing else to talk about. Nobody wanted his thoughts on President Reagan and his deregulation of industries, or President Reagan and the military mistake that was Beirut, or President Reagan’s efforts to under fund the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) and the Occupational Health and Safety Administration (OSHA).

  Nobody wanted to discuss why the Live Aid and Farm Aid concerts failed. Nobody wanted to discuss the global terror known as AIDS. Nobody wanted to discuss the U.S. and its emerging economic rival – the European Union.

  Why do you have so many zits on your face?

  Now that was fucking worth talking about. And it needed to be discussed ad nauseum, because Jed so enjoyed chatting about his new appearance and station in life.

  His new caste.

  He was now officially a card-carrying member of the American Untouchables.

  But is was during these discussions, these “enlightenments” of sorts, these “Sherlock Holmes-like” brainstorming sessions, that no stones were left unturned in the never ending quest for closure as to why all this acne suddenly appeared on Jed’s face.

  There were many reasons given.

  From the obvious to the superfluous.

  Some items on the list include:

  Too much chocolate.

  Too much caffeine.

  No
t enough sleep.

  Not enough sex.

  Too many French fries.

  Too much waxing the carrot.

  Too much pizza.

  Experimenting with drugs.

  Too much alcohol.

  Sloppy hygiene.

  No hygiene.

  Not enough reconciliation.

  Too much sunscreen.

  Stop wearing hats.

  Lack of Vitamin A.

  Too many bad thoughts.

  Too much stress.

  Hard water.

  Too much sweating.

  Too much greasy food.

  Steroids.

  Too much Vitamin E.

  Washing face too much.

  Not enough sweaty exercise.

  Too much sugar.

  Too many carbs.

  Not enough Vitamin D.

  Too much hair spray, gel.

  Not washing face enough.

  Too much puberty.

  Not enough tanning.

  Bad diet.

  Sleeping on dirty sheets.

  Watching too much porn.

  That’s why when he walked into his dorm room and greeted Dave after the Christmas break, he was ready to go out, socialize.

  Jed just went about it the wrong way.

  He started to party.

  With his new pals Jimmie Beam and a Mad Dog.

  What a pair they were.

  Jed even earned a nickname – “Drinking Buddy that passed out quickly and then we did cruel things to him.”

  And during the next few hectic months, he had convinced himself that alcohol consumption was a necessary evil when it came to meeting people. Alcohol was the common denominator for fun on campus.

  No matter how big and bad the hangovers were, no matter how many times he woke up with shit written on his face and arms in permanent marker, no matter how many times he woke up to find shampoo and shaving cream in his hair, and no matter how many times he woke up in the lounge on a different dorm floor, he convinced himself that these things were better than sitting alone in his room picking at his face.

  His acne was getting worse.