10/5/14

Trinity Moody

Rhetorical Essay

Mr. Bernier

Before the accident, Dean liked to think he was the hero of every action movie ever, immortal and all-powerful because his name was on the credits and his face was on the front cover, but you’ve always known him better than that. You’ve got a white-knuckled grasp on the handles of the wheelchair, fallen rain slicking its path and guiding it towards the car, and you halt to a stop by the trunk the moment you hear the clack of Dean’s teeth clattering against his tongue, his body tight and tense in the cold, a knot in the wheeled contraption. You sling a jacket over his quivering shoulders but he shrugs you off, his back turned to you. He hooks the jacket around one finger and tosses it to the ground, thrown under the back tire as he struggles to hoist himself up into the backseat by himself, arms spasming underneath him, desperate to collapse.

You snort and pick up the jacket and flip him off because hey, it’s Dean, and paralyzed or not, he’s still the same stubborn ---. You climb into the front seat and try not to look concerned when you catch a glimpse of him as you buckle your seatbelt. He is physically exhausted, eyes sunken in and pale clammy skin shining in the overhead light. It’s so tempting to turn around and help him get situated- at least a little comfortable for the ride home, but it’s Dean, so you turn back to the steering wheel and clear your throat. Dean grins at you in the rearview, and there’s stitches on his cheek but he’s still friggin’ devilishly handsome as ever and you’re falling apart.

It’s nearly 1 A.M. by the time you get back home, and Dean’s pushing himself up with twitching palms on the armrests, practically crying out to be left alone to do it themself. He’s inches away from the bed, and it’s not an impossible task, but Dean hasn’t got much faith left, so it greatens the burden. You fist his elbow with one hand, clenching your teeth as you attempt to pull him across the bedspread but he growls and you roll your eyes, palms in the air as you back away.

“Right, okay, do it yourself.”

You hole up in the bathroom to get away from Dean and to try not to think about anything at all. You wash your hair, letting the water evaporate on your skin, and it’s boiling-friggin’ scalding- but at least it washes away the knot in your stomach, so you comb your hair and brush your teeth until it’s easily early morning, but you’re using all the time possible before slinking back into the bedroom for Dean to holler at you for wasting precious water. He’s not mad, though, not really.

There’s leftovers in the freezer, so you creep to the kitchen and fix yourself a plate and think about how messed up this really is. It feels good to make Dean mad, or at least to know that you still can. To know that all of this isn’t as one-sided as it feels sometimes, that Dean’s got ---- too, even if it’s locked away, until he’s yelling at you again, and then you’re yelling back, all that hospital fever ---- and built up anger and resentment spilling over the rim, until all sorts of things are starting to go wrong again.

In the morning, you stand in front of the sink again and try to ignore the elephant in the room- Dean’s in bed and he can’t even get up to tuck his legs into his jeans but you’re not talking: haven’t been talking since that stupid argument last night. The TV’s on when you come out fully dressed, and there’s news of a hitchhiking serial killer making his way up through Montana but you’re busying yourself with your shoelaces, and Dean raises an eyebrow and tosses you your belt from the night stand. “Mornin’, to you too, good lookin’.” He snorts, and you help him into the chair with a weak smile.

It’s a diner like every diner you’ve ever been to before, and Dean’s still silent, a menu in his hands for an excuse not to look at you. Neither of you has mentioned it yet, and he worries you never will. He twists his hands in a knot under the table and gets the awful feeling that you two will spend the rest of your lives like this, with everything falling apart, various states of quiet like you’re forever waiting for a telephone to ring that doesn’t even work.

“You’re a real j------, you know that, Dean?” and he’s choking down a scalding sip of coffee to shield the tinge in his cheeks because you were talking about it. You’re stirring your coffee with Dean’s fork, and he’s pretending to ignore the grimace on your face when crumbs float up to the top. Times like these, it’s easy to get irritated at little things like that. Dean’s smirk is an awkward one, a fake kind of smug, that says “whatcha-gonna-do-about-it” but it’s transparent, at least to you, and you can see right through it.

“Are you even listening, you stupid, reckless-” Dean tears his eyes away and takes another sip of their coffee. Nothing is ever going to be as it used to be, Dean decides. Dean’s always going to be dodging bullets or missing your point. He’s always missing your point.

“I hear ya.” Dean smirks, a kind of default setting when he’s got nothing left to say.

“Do you, Dean? Because last time I checked-” Dean’s hand slams down on the table with a blunt smack, pinning a five dollar bill to the checkbook.

“Don’t.” It’s meant to be commanding, dark and harsh, but it just sounds pleading and pathetic as you’re wheeling him out of there, and he knows it too. You’re talking again, two miles down the road, and it’s far away and barely audible, and it’s getting harder for Dean to listen. He cuts you off mid-sentence.

“See, this is why we don’t talk about it. Stuff happens, good days and bad, remember? And we can’t change it and your little pity party over here isn’t gonna bring my legs back. M’just sayin’, maybe you should accept the fact that-”

You’re clutching the wheel like it’s a crucifix in a room full of vampires, glaring at Dean, and they’re starting to feel really friggin’ unsettled.

“Accept it?” Dean’s frozen in place, running on adrenaline and the sound of your voice, and it’s echoing through their ribcage.

“You’re paraplegic, Dean. Tell me what part of that I’m supposed to accept, because really, I’d love to know.” You’re pulling away from your seatbelt, tall enough to brush the sun visor with the top of your head, and you’re squinting at him, looking pained as ever. Dean shakes his head, dazed and unfocused, and he can’t keep his eyes on the road. This whole conversation feels unusually scripted to him, and he doesn’t even remember what he’s supposed to say. It goes differently in his head. The air is thick with unanswered questions and Dean knows you won’t let him hold them back much longer, but he’s definitely not going to answer. and he’s really friggin’ tired so he swings one arm under your headrest and ruffles your hair with a smirk. “M’exhausted.”

And then, if you’ll believe it, two years passed.

You’re watching him too carefully, across the room eyebrows knitted together and mouth drawn in a tight line, searching for something that Dean isn’t going to give you without a fight.

“You scared?” It’s a stupid question, but it’s your only chance at breaking the ice. Dean rolls his eyes, cheeks flushed from exhaustion and his eyes barely open. He wheels his chair away from the table to stretch as he yawns.

“Well gee, you tell me.” He cracks one eye open at a time, but to his dismay, you’re still there on the bed watching him, impatient curiosity burning into a blistering anger, and Dean can see it on your face.

“M’serious. How am I supposed to sit around and watch you fall apart my whole life, if you’re gonna be constantly in denial about the whole thing?”

At first glance, Dean’s easy. You spend a month with him, and you think you know him real well. You spend years with him, though, you pick up a few things. Spend that long with him, studying him and knowing him and becoming his echo, and you learn to read him like a weathervane reads a storm. You can tell what he’s feeling by how tight his jaw is, or how much he bites his bottom lip. You figured out how to sink into his bones and burrow into his ribcage a long time ago, and you know what makes him tick like it’s your own heartbeat. He’s Dean and you know everything about him, but you just don’t get him.

“You’re not.” And you know that; know that it was always building up to this, but it came from Dean, and so you both saw the tremor. The inside shakeoff of your heart. You scratch the back of your neck, eyes cast down.

“It’s not you. God, you gotta know it’s not you. I just- I want to be more than a paraplegic’s wife.” He lets out a shaky sigh and shrugs. That macho act-it’s back now, and his wall is up, like he’s been waiting for this impact for decades; known it was coming from the very start.

“Yeah.”

“There’s no other way. If you get anything out of this, please know that if there was another way, and I could make this work, I’d do it. In a friggin’ heartbeat. But I-”

“Yeah.”

“It’s just never gonna happen. You keep it all locked away and you never let me help and you think you can do this by yourself but you just can’t and I-” you take a breath and run a hand through your hair. “I’m all out of options.”

“Yeah.”

‘Yeah’. That’s all you’re going to get, and you know it too.

“I can’t live like this anymore.”

This is how you leave him, blank-faced and staring at the wall, fists clenched tight and so, so silent. You can’t help thinking as you walk away:

A heartbreaker and the heartbroken.
The two worst things to be.