She doesn't exist. Save for in the recesses of his mind and in stories told or written. Her impression first appeared in the reflection of Beautiful Water. An idea of something never lost, for it was never found, and never would be in A War To End All Wars. The impossibility of a perfect fit, including the people who would enter his life with her, In-Love-In-Law. Her body's Gravity, holding him more powerfully than Earth's. An initial encounter based upon being needed at the right time, creating a brief - and endearing - moment of culture shock... she tells him he shouldn't ask for candy, but Lollies, Stupid. A comparative and (mostly) honest analysis of how real women have enamored him in A-M-L-C-S. The anguish of a realization that she might be real, he might know who she is, but he's no clue where she exists other than the Window to his imagination. The visualized progression via the lustful warmth of Merlot and the comforting warmth of coffee, Vitis Coffea. Her very Image powerful in its inspiration. A beauty, inside and out, from visage to Décolletage.
She doesn't exist. A tactile sensation created only by imagination. But he takes her hand anyway, And They Dance... as long as the moment can and will allow. There is a fear, perhaps a realization, that nothing of her lingering impression will be left After Paris. An awareness that despite a desire as strong as the Sun, he will only bear reluctant witness to a Star Fall. A quiet mind, engulfing a quiet heart, where the only sound heard is a softly-played Requiem for a Satellite of Zeus. It's a sad song, but one that encourages him to take a hard look in the Mirror.
She doesn't exist. It doesn't matter; her idea is all he needs. He takes solace in the realization that An Absence of Proof is not a proof of absence. She doesn't exist. She's all he wants for Christmas.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Action
A kiss. Passionate. Wet. Arousing. She is beautiful. And he's no idea why she loves him.
But such things shouldn't be wondered about in the middle of a gunfight. She'll mention that later, he's sure.
Magazines empty from twin .40 cals. How they got here is unimportant; he's certain it's her fault. She's too daring.
But then, that's part of her attraction. She'll mention that later, too, he's sure.
The park is dimly lit, thanks to a new moon and her propensity to shoot out lights. Always in sunglasses, she claims it's so she can see better in the dark. This might be true, but he knows she's a fashionista. Accessorizing in every situation. There's no question why her pistol has a pearl grips. It looks good. And the white-gold tips on her tritium sights match her earrings.
Hunting criminals should not be this much fun. Or erotic.
Years of training allow him to watch her through peripheral vision while his aim follows overdressed thugs. Though dark, their flapping ties somehow make their silhouettes easier to identify. He loves the generation of hoodlums who were raised on The Godfather. He loves that they don't wear clip-on ties - some sort of dress code. He's lost count of how many of these idiots he's choked to death with their own clothing. Of course, he used to wear his hair long until he learned his lesson. He's lucky she was there to save his life.
The thought occurs to him that she still has long hair. Firing in rapid succession, he takes a moment to admire her flowing locks in the gun light. She'll scold him for wasting ammo later.
Moving to an overwatch position, he lets her do her thing. A few of the thugs rush her, intent on grappling her. She's trained in several fight forms - boxing and Tae Kwon Do, primarily - but she's not stupid enough to rely on them. Strength is an equalizer in close quarters and she knows it. Still, she lets one get close enough to grab his tie - her lover laughs from the shadows - and then twirls him like some strange type of shield as she carefully places bullets in the skulls of the remaining men. When tie-boy is the only one left, a well-placed heel crushes windpipe and another bullet ends a body's ability to respire.
"You just going to watch?" she calls out.
The maximum effective range of a .40 caliber H&K is published at 50 meters. The running man he shoots is easily at 75.
She turns and watches the man fall to the ground. "Touché," she remarks with a smile.
***
Burning the passports they entered Georgia with, she checks their new ones - Israeli - and laments, "Tbilisi was kinda growing on me."
"It's just a job, babe," he replies, but he knows what she means. Both are still young - neither over 35 - but both are beginning to quietly wonder what it would be like to settle down. She was quite content without having children, but is realizing the cliché of biological clocks is more than just. He was quite content without being married, but has realized that he's found one worth announcing to the world.
"What's next?"
"There's an offer in Ulan Bator..."
"Yuck."
"Or we can go home for a while."
She thinks about it for a few moments, then nods.
"Home?" he asks.
"Will you come with me?"
It's an alarming question and against their agreement. Theirs is an interesting relationship and neither actually knows the true identity of the other. Theirs is an interesting occupation and safety is the ultimate concern.
He thinks about it for a few moments, then shakes his head.
Part of her is relieved. She feels foolish for even asking, but it's an eventuality that she hopes for. "Meet me in Cairo, then? Three weeks?"
A smile. A nod. "What are we doing in Cairo?"
"Vacation."
*To be continued...
But such things shouldn't be wondered about in the middle of a gunfight. She'll mention that later, he's sure.
Magazines empty from twin .40 cals. How they got here is unimportant; he's certain it's her fault. She's too daring.
But then, that's part of her attraction. She'll mention that later, too, he's sure.
The park is dimly lit, thanks to a new moon and her propensity to shoot out lights. Always in sunglasses, she claims it's so she can see better in the dark. This might be true, but he knows she's a fashionista. Accessorizing in every situation. There's no question why her pistol has a pearl grips. It looks good. And the white-gold tips on her tritium sights match her earrings.
Hunting criminals should not be this much fun. Or erotic.
Years of training allow him to watch her through peripheral vision while his aim follows overdressed thugs. Though dark, their flapping ties somehow make their silhouettes easier to identify. He loves the generation of hoodlums who were raised on The Godfather. He loves that they don't wear clip-on ties - some sort of dress code. He's lost count of how many of these idiots he's choked to death with their own clothing. Of course, he used to wear his hair long until he learned his lesson. He's lucky she was there to save his life.
The thought occurs to him that she still has long hair. Firing in rapid succession, he takes a moment to admire her flowing locks in the gun light. She'll scold him for wasting ammo later.
Moving to an overwatch position, he lets her do her thing. A few of the thugs rush her, intent on grappling her. She's trained in several fight forms - boxing and Tae Kwon Do, primarily - but she's not stupid enough to rely on them. Strength is an equalizer in close quarters and she knows it. Still, she lets one get close enough to grab his tie - her lover laughs from the shadows - and then twirls him like some strange type of shield as she carefully places bullets in the skulls of the remaining men. When tie-boy is the only one left, a well-placed heel crushes windpipe and another bullet ends a body's ability to respire.
"You just going to watch?" she calls out.
The maximum effective range of a .40 caliber H&K is published at 50 meters. The running man he shoots is easily at 75.
She turns and watches the man fall to the ground. "Touché," she remarks with a smile.
***
Burning the passports they entered Georgia with, she checks their new ones - Israeli - and laments, "Tbilisi was kinda growing on me."
"It's just a job, babe," he replies, but he knows what she means. Both are still young - neither over 35 - but both are beginning to quietly wonder what it would be like to settle down. She was quite content without having children, but is realizing the cliché of biological clocks is more than just. He was quite content without being married, but has realized that he's found one worth announcing to the world.
"What's next?"
"There's an offer in Ulan Bator..."
"Yuck."
"Or we can go home for a while."
She thinks about it for a few moments, then nods.
"Home?" he asks.
"Will you come with me?"
It's an alarming question and against their agreement. Theirs is an interesting relationship and neither actually knows the true identity of the other. Theirs is an interesting occupation and safety is the ultimate concern.
He thinks about it for a few moments, then shakes his head.
Part of her is relieved. She feels foolish for even asking, but it's an eventuality that she hopes for. "Meet me in Cairo, then? Three weeks?"
A smile. A nod. "What are we doing in Cairo?"
"Vacation."
*To be continued...
Thursday, December 2, 2010
In the Wind
The vortex tears through the landscape, ripping apart everything in its unspoken need to feed oblivion. Objects passing by mere blurs in peripheral vision, though the roar in the air remains a deafening constant. Occasionally, there's a momentary scream, piercing and mercifully brief. He's labeled the ones higher in pitch as "children," and he'd be pained to learn how accurate the connection is. His muscles are exhausted; there are no calories left to burn. But he's holding on with fingers locked. He's no idea what foundation the metal bar is attached to, but he's certain it will not hold forever. For the life of him, he can't figure out why he just doesn't let go. Are seconds of life that precious?
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Reality turns inside out. Winds, usually invisible, paint themselves with remnants of dust and water. He can only look down, towards the gaping maw that wants to swallow him. Breathing is almost as difficult as hanging on, and each inhalation feels strangely like a lung has collapsed. He's always wanted to fly, but now only wants to kiss the Earth, even with pieces of it stuck in his throat. There's a chorus of screams, passing marginally slower, and below his feet he sees the bus disappear into the nothingness. A fleeting impression of pity gives way to the realization that, unlike him, they didn't die alone. Perhaps that's what he's waiting for. A companion to travel with to the other side.
The pursuit of knowledge is destroying existence, and the irony is laughable, but the fear of asphyxiation prevents the joke from being enjoyed. There's another joke in watching one's life flash before their eyes, but it's lost its humor in light of everyone's life flashing before his eyes. Density increases under rapidly strengthening gravity, compacting the whole of human history into one small molecule. He can feel his fingers about to snap, the bones fracturing and the ligaments stretching beyond recovery. Hearing more screams, he forces himself to look up. The shape of a body rapidly approaches and he lets go metal in order to grasp flesh.
He doesn't know who the body belongs to and doesn't really care. Eyes stay closed under the sensation of falling. Their embrace is tight, passionate, and cognitive of their ultimate fate. Giving in, he finally appreciates the wind. He's never been in love, doesn't know what it looks like, or even where it lives. Maybe it'll take him there.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Resignation
It is during Deborah's going away party that she realizes the young office attendant knows. She thought her 45 years of life gave her the advantage in effectively hiding her lascivious thoughts from him - Nathan being barely 23 - but it is clear that they did not. She's suddenly worried that the glass of champagne in her hand is one too many. Then again, he's the one who brought it to her.
Nathan's been Deborah's receptionist and assistant for the past 18 months, fresh from college and eager to start a corporate career. Her last assistant, Samantha, left to take a middle-management position at a competing firm. She had Samantha for nearly six years and, admittedly, was afraid to even look for new assistant. Hell, her retirement from the company was only a year-and-a-half away, and consideration was given to finishing out her time without an assistant at all. Her boss, Wayne, an over-eager divorcee who flirts a little too heavily with her, would hear none of it. In fact, Wayne's the one who hired Nathan as some weird gesture of eye candy that Wayne was hoping would result in some office sex.
He was wrong about the office sex. Deborah couldn't imagine sleeping with Wayne were he the last man on Earth. But he was right about the eye candy. Nathan was gorgeous, and not just in that youthful way. Everything from his cheekbones to his skin tone, his hair style to his lean musculature. Everything was just the way she likes it. The way she's liked it since she was a teenager.
And now he's sitting on an office table decorated with "Congrats, Debbie!" Handing her champagne. Leaning into her. Whispering rumors of other employees. Casting surreptitious glances down her cleavage. He's a little drunk, she knows - Hell, so is she - but seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. She should be grateful for the attention, but it's scaring her. Why can't he go mingle with the young admin girls?
She must have asked aloud.
"Because, Deborah," he states, his voice not absent a slur, "it's your fucking party."
He notices her champagne glass, not-quite-but-almost empty, and runs off to fetch another. Out of reflex she stares at his ass walking away. She's going to miss that ass. He's smiling as he returns with two full bottles. She's going to miss that smile.
"Your eyes give you away, you know." He moves in a little too close when he refills her glass.
"Pardon?" She holds still as he pours.
"They're very wanting." His free hand brushes her between her thighs, thumb to mons pubis and fingers between cheek. She spills champagne. But that's not what he felt was wet.
She gets up, pushing him aside. "Nathan..." She rushes to the restroom
"Shit, I'm sorry. Kinda clumsy." It's as rehearsed a statement as there's ever been.
***
Deborah was always one to get to know her co-workers. She once worked at a firm where no one spent any time together outside of the office - or even seemed to want to - and it drove her crazy. She could certainly understand any reluctance to go out on weekends or enjoy private dinners - they all had lives to live, after all - but none even bothered to share lunch. It was an alien concept to her and one she actively avoided when she acquired her job here. She wasn't sure anyone at her previous employer even knew she previously married - or even had three daughters - but everyone at her current employer certainly did. She could barely remember the last time she had lunch without at least one co-worker present.
Their relationship started innocuously enough.
"Nathan, would you like to join us for lunch?" Deborah was already on her way out, two ladies from the marketing department standing behind her. She was, admittedly, hoping that he would decline.
"No, thanks. I'm just gonna grab something from the kitchen."
She's not sure why, since she was happy with the response, but something about him - probably the smile - elicited a push. "I'm buying. And I'll probably never offer that again." She can't quite remember, but she has the feeling that she winked at him.
"In that case. Sold."
The two chatted at work and quite often. But in the open air of an alfresco cafe, he was in a different element. Not only did he charm her two marketing friends, she found herself completely taken in by the stories he regaled. He wasn't even 22 years old and she felt envious of his life. A traveler by whim and whimsy, finishing his degree primarily via exchange programs and semesters-at-sea, even a two-year stint in the Coast Guard that began four days after his 17th birthday and ended only due to a sudden onset of asthma that mysteriously disappeared upon his discharge. An awareness that the world was his in that subjective, liberating way that the world could be anybody's. Though she took little, if any, credit for it, she had seen that attitude blossom in one of her daughters. It instilled in her an overwhelming sense of pride. Here, it instilled in her an overwhelming sense of something else.
Within weeks she found herself inviting only Nathan out to lunch. She was remarkably diplomatic and conniving, and none of her previous lunch mates paid too much heed to their exclusion. Occasional gossip quickly dispelled by an incredulous expression or a purposefully-designed joke. She loved hearing about his trials and tribulations on the social front. He took everything to heart but nothing too seriously and this demeanor elicited her openness in return. Within months she was convinced he knew more about her than anyone else. Even her children.
One day, while watching him file paperwork and flirt with an admin girl, he caught her staring at him and smiled at her. She barely noticed, lost in daydream as she was. It wasn't until he started waving slowly that she snapped out of it.
***
She's splashed her face with water. Peed. Splashed her face with more water. Washed her hands. Twice. Three times. Peed again. It's only a matter of time before someone starts wondering where she's gone to. Or what she's doing in the bathroom. There's a temptation to do something else, but she's a lady and will not consider it. Still...
She's terrified of leaving this room.
It's a fear that keeps her there until long after her party is over. And long after everyone's gone home.
***
Almost everyone.
***
She opens the door slowly, unsure of when the custodians show up. Satisfied that she's alone in the building, she makes her way in the relative darkness to her office. It's unlocked, thankfully, since her keys are in her purse, which is in its usual place in her desk. Her cellphone has nearly three dozen missed calls and over a dozen new voicemails, a dozen text messages. She finds it sweet that everyone was looking for her. Or pretending to, at least.
The light knocking startles her.
"Where were you hiding?" Nathan's smiling his usual smile. He seems to have sobered up, but his collared shirt is half-way unbuttoned, his hair's a mess, and he seems to have misplaced his shoes.
"Oh, you know. Parties bore me a little, especially when they're mine." Deborah tries very hard to force a natural smile. A friendly gesture that she hopes will very quickly lead to a gratuitous goodbye.
He approaches her slowly and she suddenly regrets making eye contact. He'd mentioned her eyes earlier. Were they really that obvious? He doesn't even ask a question and she finds herself confessing.
"Okay, Nathan, okay. I admit I've ogled you a bit. Fantasized about you some. I'm a single woman who hasn't had sex in 20 years. It's what I do. I'm sorry."
"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not stupid. I've noticed," he says, removing his shirt. "You're fabulous. I want to do this."
Ordinarily, such a statement would render her speechless, but it has the opposite effect. Particularly as he finishes removing the rest of his clothing. "You don't. You're going to regret it. I have daughters your age, for fuck's sake. Let's go home. Oh... you don't want to do this."
"Shut up." His tone is commandingly stern, yet, somehow, pleadingly gentle. "Take your pants off."
She's shaking uncontrollably, but manages to obey. In the dark he hears her belt jingle to the floor and he fumbles for her. He slips himself into her and her inhibitions disappear.
Nathan's been Deborah's receptionist and assistant for the past 18 months, fresh from college and eager to start a corporate career. Her last assistant, Samantha, left to take a middle-management position at a competing firm. She had Samantha for nearly six years and, admittedly, was afraid to even look for new assistant. Hell, her retirement from the company was only a year-and-a-half away, and consideration was given to finishing out her time without an assistant at all. Her boss, Wayne, an over-eager divorcee who flirts a little too heavily with her, would hear none of it. In fact, Wayne's the one who hired Nathan as some weird gesture of eye candy that Wayne was hoping would result in some office sex.
He was wrong about the office sex. Deborah couldn't imagine sleeping with Wayne were he the last man on Earth. But he was right about the eye candy. Nathan was gorgeous, and not just in that youthful way. Everything from his cheekbones to his skin tone, his hair style to his lean musculature. Everything was just the way she likes it. The way she's liked it since she was a teenager.
And now he's sitting on an office table decorated with "Congrats, Debbie!" Handing her champagne. Leaning into her. Whispering rumors of other employees. Casting surreptitious glances down her cleavage. He's a little drunk, she knows - Hell, so is she - but seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. She should be grateful for the attention, but it's scaring her. Why can't he go mingle with the young admin girls?
She must have asked aloud.
"Because, Deborah," he states, his voice not absent a slur, "it's your fucking party."
He notices her champagne glass, not-quite-but-almost empty, and runs off to fetch another. Out of reflex she stares at his ass walking away. She's going to miss that ass. He's smiling as he returns with two full bottles. She's going to miss that smile.
"Your eyes give you away, you know." He moves in a little too close when he refills her glass.
"Pardon?" She holds still as he pours.
"They're very wanting." His free hand brushes her between her thighs, thumb to mons pubis and fingers between cheek. She spills champagne. But that's not what he felt was wet.
She gets up, pushing him aside. "Nathan..." She rushes to the restroom
"Shit, I'm sorry. Kinda clumsy." It's as rehearsed a statement as there's ever been.
***
Deborah was always one to get to know her co-workers. She once worked at a firm where no one spent any time together outside of the office - or even seemed to want to - and it drove her crazy. She could certainly understand any reluctance to go out on weekends or enjoy private dinners - they all had lives to live, after all - but none even bothered to share lunch. It was an alien concept to her and one she actively avoided when she acquired her job here. She wasn't sure anyone at her previous employer even knew she previously married - or even had three daughters - but everyone at her current employer certainly did. She could barely remember the last time she had lunch without at least one co-worker present.
Their relationship started innocuously enough.
"Nathan, would you like to join us for lunch?" Deborah was already on her way out, two ladies from the marketing department standing behind her. She was, admittedly, hoping that he would decline.
"No, thanks. I'm just gonna grab something from the kitchen."
She's not sure why, since she was happy with the response, but something about him - probably the smile - elicited a push. "I'm buying. And I'll probably never offer that again." She can't quite remember, but she has the feeling that she winked at him.
"In that case. Sold."
The two chatted at work and quite often. But in the open air of an alfresco cafe, he was in a different element. Not only did he charm her two marketing friends, she found herself completely taken in by the stories he regaled. He wasn't even 22 years old and she felt envious of his life. A traveler by whim and whimsy, finishing his degree primarily via exchange programs and semesters-at-sea, even a two-year stint in the Coast Guard that began four days after his 17th birthday and ended only due to a sudden onset of asthma that mysteriously disappeared upon his discharge. An awareness that the world was his in that subjective, liberating way that the world could be anybody's. Though she took little, if any, credit for it, she had seen that attitude blossom in one of her daughters. It instilled in her an overwhelming sense of pride. Here, it instilled in her an overwhelming sense of something else.
Within weeks she found herself inviting only Nathan out to lunch. She was remarkably diplomatic and conniving, and none of her previous lunch mates paid too much heed to their exclusion. Occasional gossip quickly dispelled by an incredulous expression or a purposefully-designed joke. She loved hearing about his trials and tribulations on the social front. He took everything to heart but nothing too seriously and this demeanor elicited her openness in return. Within months she was convinced he knew more about her than anyone else. Even her children.
One day, while watching him file paperwork and flirt with an admin girl, he caught her staring at him and smiled at her. She barely noticed, lost in daydream as she was. It wasn't until he started waving slowly that she snapped out of it.
***
She's splashed her face with water. Peed. Splashed her face with more water. Washed her hands. Twice. Three times. Peed again. It's only a matter of time before someone starts wondering where she's gone to. Or what she's doing in the bathroom. There's a temptation to do something else, but she's a lady and will not consider it. Still...
She's terrified of leaving this room.
It's a fear that keeps her there until long after her party is over. And long after everyone's gone home.
***
Almost everyone.
***
She opens the door slowly, unsure of when the custodians show up. Satisfied that she's alone in the building, she makes her way in the relative darkness to her office. It's unlocked, thankfully, since her keys are in her purse, which is in its usual place in her desk. Her cellphone has nearly three dozen missed calls and over a dozen new voicemails, a dozen text messages. She finds it sweet that everyone was looking for her. Or pretending to, at least.
The light knocking startles her.
"Where were you hiding?" Nathan's smiling his usual smile. He seems to have sobered up, but his collared shirt is half-way unbuttoned, his hair's a mess, and he seems to have misplaced his shoes.
"Oh, you know. Parties bore me a little, especially when they're mine." Deborah tries very hard to force a natural smile. A friendly gesture that she hopes will very quickly lead to a gratuitous goodbye.
He approaches her slowly and she suddenly regrets making eye contact. He'd mentioned her eyes earlier. Were they really that obvious? He doesn't even ask a question and she finds herself confessing.
"Okay, Nathan, okay. I admit I've ogled you a bit. Fantasized about you some. I'm a single woman who hasn't had sex in 20 years. It's what I do. I'm sorry."
"Don't say you're sorry. I'm not stupid. I've noticed," he says, removing his shirt. "You're fabulous. I want to do this."
Ordinarily, such a statement would render her speechless, but it has the opposite effect. Particularly as he finishes removing the rest of his clothing. "You don't. You're going to regret it. I have daughters your age, for fuck's sake. Let's go home. Oh... you don't want to do this."
"Shut up." His tone is commandingly stern, yet, somehow, pleadingly gentle. "Take your pants off."
She's shaking uncontrollably, but manages to obey. In the dark he hears her belt jingle to the floor and he fumbles for her. He slips himself into her and her inhibitions disappear.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
An Absence of Proof
"Who decides, huh? Who? This is bullshit."
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
"I don't know, man. Calm the fuck down."
"Fuck you."
No one's really sure what he's talking about, but everyone knows what he's talking about. Life, death. Maybe a woman. It doesn't really matter what the words are applied to. His mind is moving at the speed of light and every risk he's ever taken is being reevaluated whether he knows it or not. The creation of logic falls to the destruction of hope and back again. A never ending cycle of cognitive thought mixed with the fallacy that the heart can feel.
***
"What's he on about?"
"I dunno. I think someone died."
"Who?"
Some might think it sad that emotional reaction is based on the answer to that question. But he thinks it's natural. He neither cares if someone he's never met dies, nor if somewhere he's never been suffers from a natural disaster. Most of his friends call him apathetic, but a few know he carries a weight they could never bear. The weight of nothing.
***
"You know, if you keep trying to climb higher, it's just gonna hurt more."
"I once read that there's only one thing worse than being alone."
"What was that?"
"Settling."
The song claims that it's small world, after all. But it isn't. Even with dreams of sailing among the stars, no man will ever leave footprints across the entirety of Earth. No woman will ever walk the whole of her home. No one will ever even see it all. It is not knowledge held that destroys the myth that ignorance is bliss. It is the knowledge that there is always something to learn. Fear is not an evil. Fear is what makes something worth doing. "I am not afraid" is the motto of the complacent.
***
"It's a girl. Definitely a girl."
"Figures. Hopeless-ass-romantic."
"Nah. Too hopeful, I think."
"Semantics."
"A word makes all the difference in the world, brother."
Everything is interpreted the way the interpreter wants it. Propaganda is the only true force in human evolution; human civilization. It may or not be an abject lie, but it's a subjective truth and an objective motivation. Laws chip away at pieces of theories left by the wayside, leaving not evidence of fact, but raw impressions of an existence that needs no definition. His life is meant for service. Not because of fate; only because that's what he wants. An absence of self-concern, oft-mistaken for an irresponsible and irreverent attitude, is actually proof that he simply wants to take care of another. And be taken care of.
***
"Don't be an asshole. Be realistic."
"I'm a dick, not an asshole."
"What's the fucking difference?"
"The smell."
Someone once said that if you stand still long enough, the world will come to you. If this is true, the only hope for travelers searching for companions is if they're traveling in opposite directions. It is a chase that never ends and never should. If this is a lie, then a whole lot of people are wasting their time smelling the roses. Yet time is a commodity only valuable as long as it can be remembered. As such, it's worthless, for we will all forget eventually. Memory is the only reason you have something to lose. Imagination is the only reason you have something to gain.
***
"She's out there."
"You're fooling yourself."
"Nah."
"You're setting a standard that no one's ever gonna meet."
"I don't set the standards. People I meet do."
The heart can't feel. The mind does it all. The weight of nothing is overwhelming, lightened only when an emotion can be carried. Fear can lead to love, for a true love will intimidate, if only to test resiliency. He wants her. And he wants her to smile. It is an imagined memory that, one day, he hopes, will come true.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Out in the Open
So, I've been caught. Red-handed. After several months of trying to keep it under wraps, I've been called on it. I have, despite my best intentions, fallen head over heels in love with a fellow blogger. She's ignored my hints, my emails, my less-than-subtle yearnings hidden in "fiction" pieces. I've even strongly considered, to save myself from abject embarrassment, deleting many of the posts I've written about her.
The kicker came when she posted a poem about fake, virtual love. You can read it here: "Not Your Average Love Poem"
Yeah, I tried to play it off with a joke, but it hurt. Maybe you're thinking I'm a little crazy right now, but I don't care. I'm not about "fake, virtual love." That was uncalled for.
And I know you really love my writing - you're not fooling anybody - so here's your not-so-average love poem...
And the Muses...
To convince, of love, words as art
What better way to show you
Syllables from my heart
I could quote lyrics, and I would
But better they'd be mine own
As they should
To read of your other men
I feel sick, disgusted
My heart abandoned
No, I shall not devolve immature
But hold my head high
As I imagine our future
Please don't unfollow
Leave me on your blog roll
For its absence, as my heart...
Would leave me hollow...
You are, forever, my Muse...
***
Yeah, I'm pathetic. Sue me.
The kicker came when she posted a poem about fake, virtual love. You can read it here: "Not Your Average Love Poem"
Yeah, I tried to play it off with a joke, but it hurt. Maybe you're thinking I'm a little crazy right now, but I don't care. I'm not about "fake, virtual love." That was uncalled for.
And I know you really love my writing - you're not fooling anybody - so here's your not-so-average love poem...
And the Muses...
To convince, of love, words as art
What better way to show you
Syllables from my heart
I could quote lyrics, and I would
But better they'd be mine own
As they should
To read of your other men
I feel sick, disgusted
My heart abandoned
No, I shall not devolve immature
But hold my head high
As I imagine our future
Please don't unfollow
Leave me on your blog roll
For its absence, as my heart...
Would leave me hollow...
You are, forever, my Muse...
***
Yeah, I'm pathetic. Sue me.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Pearl, Harbour: Pearl in the Water
*Continued from Pearl, Harbour: Safe Harbour
He endures his internment peacefully. Outnumbered and unarmed, there seems little choice. Mistaken for one of over a thousand Japanese soldiers - confusion at his accent merely eliciting treatment as a possible spy - and with no paper to authenticate his claim of being Australian, he is ushered into No. 12 Prisoner of War Compound near Cowra. Just 800-yards across, fenced with nearly impenetrable barbed-wire entanglements, it is clear this will be home for some time to come.
She pines outside the perimeter while he's fed, learns to wrestle and play baseball. The camaraderie among his alien compatriots is strong, but his heart is not like theirs. He serves no emperor, no pantheon of god. Only a desire to return to suntanned arms and pale bosom of a lover impossibly near, and to take her with him to the coast he reluctantly left. She is the oyster too deep, barely visible amid the sea of incarcerated men and just out of reach.
He is outcast among outcast. His spirit does not rise with the rising sun. He doesn't know their tongue and he doesn't share their arrogance that his captors are weak and spiritually corrupt. He does not change his name to avoid family shame and he does not share their strange bravado in the face of death. Proximity alone dictates a reluctant friendship with a junior officer whose English is not as broken as the others.
"The white woman. She is with you?"
Kintaro withholds a smile, this place undeserving of such a gesture. A poetic sigh escapes lips, encouraged by the memory of soft flesh and inviting warmth. There is no answer, but its meaning universal and clear.
"Mono no aware." The lieutenant also withholds a smile, memory of wife and child left behind.
"What?"
"Ah. I apologise. She is your cherry blossom."
Kintaro shakes his head. His father sometimes called his mother this, but he never knew why. "I don't understand."
Pursed lips in concentration, the Jap officer struggles to find the proper word. "She is sensitive. To you."
A nod. "She's my cherry blossom." His pearl in the water.
***
She's been a regular and recognizable presence along the fence-line for months, so much so that several of the older Aussie sentries ignore her and younger believe themselves to be in love with her. Some have learned her name, attributing it to the span of post and wire she is most frequently stationed. The Elise Line. It is a hard, cruel joke, though the intent was merely one of immature convenience.
Elise was initially not allowed so close, held at bay by overly-paranoid men following overly-paranoid orders that resulted in Australian citizenry piled in with Japanese infantry for no other reason than they looked like each other. Day after day begot familiarity and once a private managed to retrieve her story, few had the stomach to prevent her touching the flexible metals that restricted her lover's movement. There were whispers of rescuing her from the wretched love of a yellow, degenerating quickly into wondering how tight her vagina was or how supple her breasts. She ignored it, unimportant to her purpose. Together they had run far enough, then not far enough at all. The war cannot last forever, and she wants him know that she is waiting.
He is still too far away. She remains vigil, ever visible, taking care to wear bright colors and let her hair sway in sympathetic winds. They do not speak, voice finding it too hard to carry and what wished to be spoken finding it too public for speech. He barely acknowledges her presence, refusing to wave or otherwise expose either of them to unnecessary risk.
***
There is gossip among the inmates. Plans are poor, but well afoot, as his comrades plot escape. Tonight, this spurious band of brothers are told that all interns but the officers and senior enlisted will be transferred. He hears the beginning of the ruckus when a small group rushes the barely guarded gates, shouting and gesticulating what looks like a warning to the handful of sentries. Unable to understand, he watches and waits, returning himself to shadow, seeking an opening, an opportunity in the dark to slip from his confinement.
A prisoner's bugle blares, a warning shot is fired. More gunfire releases airborne and three mobs scream 'Banzai,' pushing forward, breaking through the wire. Still crouched in his vantage point he waits, poised to slink through the breach. Bodies fling and dive across the wire, buffered by their army-issue blankets, armed with knives, baseball bats, clubs studded with nail and hook, wire stilettos and garotting cords.
Within minutes, 400 men break through, enduring fire from a Vickers gun, sinking poorly sharpened knives into the flesh of its operators and clubbing them to death. Half-clad, sleepy guards shocked into arousal fumble from their camp beds, frantically forcing rounds into and from their rifles, adding to confusion. Huts now ablaze as slaughter continues. Horror abounds as some Japanese slit their own throats rather than be captured - this the honourable thing to do - but Kintaro maintains his calm, recalling method used before attempting a dive possibly too deep. He lives by a different code and takes flight in the opposite direction, breaking free into open country. He maneuvers blindly through razor wire and pas palum before losing himself in the dark. He's wounded but oblivious to the stream of blood coursing from a deep wound around his thigh. It is not what he's running away from that preoccupies his mind, but what he's running to. She propels him, provides him with the strength and will to avoid capture. His shadow, barely visible under star and moonlight, leads the way, intent on finding hers.
***
Because the setting sun left her in the dark, he never knew she sometimes waited at night, studying Kintaro's silhouette until it was as familiar to her as his image. Now-friendly guards had guided her to safety, her eyes never leaving Kintaro's hut. Via starlight and lover's insight, she follows him until his wound allows her to finally surface in his embrace.
***
*Continued in Pearl, Harbour: Cherry Blossom
The Complete Pearl, Harbour
He endures his internment peacefully. Outnumbered and unarmed, there seems little choice. Mistaken for one of over a thousand Japanese soldiers - confusion at his accent merely eliciting treatment as a possible spy - and with no paper to authenticate his claim of being Australian, he is ushered into No. 12 Prisoner of War Compound near Cowra. Just 800-yards across, fenced with nearly impenetrable barbed-wire entanglements, it is clear this will be home for some time to come.
She pines outside the perimeter while he's fed, learns to wrestle and play baseball. The camaraderie among his alien compatriots is strong, but his heart is not like theirs. He serves no emperor, no pantheon of god. Only a desire to return to suntanned arms and pale bosom of a lover impossibly near, and to take her with him to the coast he reluctantly left. She is the oyster too deep, barely visible amid the sea of incarcerated men and just out of reach.
He is outcast among outcast. His spirit does not rise with the rising sun. He doesn't know their tongue and he doesn't share their arrogance that his captors are weak and spiritually corrupt. He does not change his name to avoid family shame and he does not share their strange bravado in the face of death. Proximity alone dictates a reluctant friendship with a junior officer whose English is not as broken as the others.
"The white woman. She is with you?"
Kintaro withholds a smile, this place undeserving of such a gesture. A poetic sigh escapes lips, encouraged by the memory of soft flesh and inviting warmth. There is no answer, but its meaning universal and clear.
"Mono no aware." The lieutenant also withholds a smile, memory of wife and child left behind.
"What?"
"Ah. I apologise. She is your cherry blossom."
Kintaro shakes his head. His father sometimes called his mother this, but he never knew why. "I don't understand."
Pursed lips in concentration, the Jap officer struggles to find the proper word. "She is sensitive. To you."
A nod. "She's my cherry blossom." His pearl in the water.
***
She's been a regular and recognizable presence along the fence-line for months, so much so that several of the older Aussie sentries ignore her and younger believe themselves to be in love with her. Some have learned her name, attributing it to the span of post and wire she is most frequently stationed. The Elise Line. It is a hard, cruel joke, though the intent was merely one of immature convenience.
Elise was initially not allowed so close, held at bay by overly-paranoid men following overly-paranoid orders that resulted in Australian citizenry piled in with Japanese infantry for no other reason than they looked like each other. Day after day begot familiarity and once a private managed to retrieve her story, few had the stomach to prevent her touching the flexible metals that restricted her lover's movement. There were whispers of rescuing her from the wretched love of a yellow, degenerating quickly into wondering how tight her vagina was or how supple her breasts. She ignored it, unimportant to her purpose. Together they had run far enough, then not far enough at all. The war cannot last forever, and she wants him know that she is waiting.
He is still too far away. She remains vigil, ever visible, taking care to wear bright colors and let her hair sway in sympathetic winds. They do not speak, voice finding it too hard to carry and what wished to be spoken finding it too public for speech. He barely acknowledges her presence, refusing to wave or otherwise expose either of them to unnecessary risk.
***
There is gossip among the inmates. Plans are poor, but well afoot, as his comrades plot escape. Tonight, this spurious band of brothers are told that all interns but the officers and senior enlisted will be transferred. He hears the beginning of the ruckus when a small group rushes the barely guarded gates, shouting and gesticulating what looks like a warning to the handful of sentries. Unable to understand, he watches and waits, returning himself to shadow, seeking an opening, an opportunity in the dark to slip from his confinement.
A prisoner's bugle blares, a warning shot is fired. More gunfire releases airborne and three mobs scream 'Banzai,' pushing forward, breaking through the wire. Still crouched in his vantage point he waits, poised to slink through the breach. Bodies fling and dive across the wire, buffered by their army-issue blankets, armed with knives, baseball bats, clubs studded with nail and hook, wire stilettos and garotting cords.
Within minutes, 400 men break through, enduring fire from a Vickers gun, sinking poorly sharpened knives into the flesh of its operators and clubbing them to death. Half-clad, sleepy guards shocked into arousal fumble from their camp beds, frantically forcing rounds into and from their rifles, adding to confusion. Huts now ablaze as slaughter continues. Horror abounds as some Japanese slit their own throats rather than be captured - this the honourable thing to do - but Kintaro maintains his calm, recalling method used before attempting a dive possibly too deep. He lives by a different code and takes flight in the opposite direction, breaking free into open country. He maneuvers blindly through razor wire and pas palum before losing himself in the dark. He's wounded but oblivious to the stream of blood coursing from a deep wound around his thigh. It is not what he's running away from that preoccupies his mind, but what he's running to. She propels him, provides him with the strength and will to avoid capture. His shadow, barely visible under star and moonlight, leads the way, intent on finding hers.
***
Because the setting sun left her in the dark, he never knew she sometimes waited at night, studying Kintaro's silhouette until it was as familiar to her as his image. Now-friendly guards had guided her to safety, her eyes never leaving Kintaro's hut. Via starlight and lover's insight, she follows him until his wound allows her to finally surface in his embrace.
***
*Continued in Pearl, Harbour: Cherry Blossom
The Complete Pearl, Harbour
- Part 1: Rising Suns
- Part 2: Far Enough
- Part 3: Safe Harbour
- Part 4: Pearl in the Water
- Part 5: Cherry Blossom
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Pearl, Harbour: Far Enough
*Continued from Pearl, Harbour: Rising Suns
The three-day trip is intense and their conversations further revealing. Kintaro's looking to hide from the repercussions of his race. His mother, long in the grave, a white Australian who in the gentle paradise of Broome fell for a Japanese pearler. His father, dead of a diving accident timely in its proximity to the death of his mother. Born in a corner of Australia so remote, no certificate records the event nor his citizenship.
Long nights driving are countered by days spent with brief respite under shady eucalypts to avoid the midday sun. The trucker sleeps while the mismatched pair console each other and realise how similar they are. Dispossessed, disappointed but hopeful.
"How long do you think it will last?" Elise asks not of curiosity, but of waning concern for her father. Honor and duty bred in blood, he would no doubt seek entry into the Australian Army. There is also the hint of waxing concern for this man in front of her, a refugee in his own country, victim of appearance and choices made by men he's never known in lands he's never been. She's in danger of trivializing her own tribulations, those due to her own choices, made by a heart too eager and a mind too inexperienced.
He perceives the welling of tears at some subconscious revelation, allows a lopsided wry smile, quickly and adeptly changing the subject. Wind and tide carry the souls of men and women and his entire life has been dedicated to learning how to spread wing and fin. "How far do you think you have to go?"
Eyes close in defense of the unexpected question, its force not all too dissimilar from the blows of her former lover. The impact, though, is different. A genuine concern for her. At the very least a genuine curiosity. Memory struggles to recall the last time a voice pretended to care.
"I don't know." The admission is terrifying to her ears, destination never yet considered, its thought stifled by a singular need to only watch the landscape scream by. It's barely registered that Australia is but an island, and whether by will or by ocean, something will eventually stop her. She begins to cry and further recounts the details of her life.
He simply watches, waiting for the moment when the weight of insignificance instills the desire for a shoulder to grab, a bosom to empty long-held sorrows on, hands to reassure that they're still here. Still alive. Significant in the moment of a stranger. Two shadows converge in the broken shade of leaning eucalyptus trees, anonymous in their understanding of each other. His shirt soaks the evidence of her tears. Her hair guides the evidence of his down the back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders, falling into the dust of a country where both were born but neither belong.
***
The devolution to a carnal state is rapid, overwhelming. Physical pleasure enjoyed for the mere fact that mental anguish is momentarily pushed away. It is nothing more than intercourse between kindred spirits. Sex without love, only a burgeoning lust. A reminder that pain is as fleeting. He doesn't mind that she continues to shed tears. She doesn't notice that she does. Hard body glides into soft and convulsing eruption whispers a hint of fate forever intertwined. They are, so far, free to run. That is enough for today. Tomorrow comes the realization that neither's destination is a place. Merely a moment when shadows, bodies, converged. And that it was yesterday.
***
"It's almost the end of the road. Where do I need to drop each of you?"
"We'll get out together." It is Kintaro's voice, but Elise is certain she said it.
***
The road train terminates in Mildura, western New South Wales within the rich Riverina, home of citrus, wine and market gardens. A town where neither are known. She has some money, he has three pearls, enough to lead a quiet life. If only he were not so conspicuous.
Elise reaches into her bruised valise, hands him a broad-brimmed hat and hastily removes the feminine blue ribbon. "Put this on." She points to a paint-peeled wooden bench outside a small realtor's store. "Sit over there and don't say anything." He acquiesces, all too aware of his obvious point of difference.
Enquiring at the realtor as a woman alone goes unnoticed. Able men are waging war, leaving the infirm and old to fend in this bread-basket town. She secures a dilapidated shack amid the orchards in exchange for keeping house and a pittance of a wage. Her 'brother' will come with her as he's 'not quite right in the head' and unsuitable for soldiering.
The realtor vends a sympathetic smile. "Poor luvie. Must be hard for you, darls. All alone." He hands her the keys and directions to their new abode. Elise nods politely and exits, avoiding further inquisition.
***
As she plumps pillows and kneads bread, he tends a tiny garden. His once salt-bleached hands now tanned and calloused and grubbed with the earth. He is a fish out of water, a solitary man, unseen, unknown. Sadness wells within him but she keeps the tides at bay.
Elise loves to watch him labour, hat drawn to shade his face, crouched low with an arrow of sweat dampening his shirt. He is tender with his crop, stroking verdant leaves with a lover's hand, smoothing soil around their roots with a gentle caress. Sadness - and something else - stirs within her when she sees him there alone.
They never speak of their encounter beneath the trees. He, a little shameful of his loss of control. She embarrassed of her acceptance of it. They do not share a bed, he slumbers on the floor. They sometimes chat as they fall asleep, almond and oval eyes at rest, breasts gently rising and falling as dreams of limpid ocean and balmy breeze replace the waking heat of displaced desert.
It is an accidental encounter, but one that accelerates the inevitable and steals the breath from his lung. She does not feel his gaze upon her as she bathes. Brown arms raised high, she shampoos her thick brown hair. Slim fingers glide languidly among the suds smoothed across her skin. Water beading on her back then trickling across shapely hips and down her legs. Drops of water hypnotic in their transformation, mocking and faux soap-tinted pearls. Something stirs within him, too, but this time it isn't only lust.
***
*Continued in Pearl, Harbour: Safe Harbour
The Complete Pearl, Harbour
The three-day trip is intense and their conversations further revealing. Kintaro's looking to hide from the repercussions of his race. His mother, long in the grave, a white Australian who in the gentle paradise of Broome fell for a Japanese pearler. His father, dead of a diving accident timely in its proximity to the death of his mother. Born in a corner of Australia so remote, no certificate records the event nor his citizenship.
Long nights driving are countered by days spent with brief respite under shady eucalypts to avoid the midday sun. The trucker sleeps while the mismatched pair console each other and realise how similar they are. Dispossessed, disappointed but hopeful.
"How long do you think it will last?" Elise asks not of curiosity, but of waning concern for her father. Honor and duty bred in blood, he would no doubt seek entry into the Australian Army. There is also the hint of waxing concern for this man in front of her, a refugee in his own country, victim of appearance and choices made by men he's never known in lands he's never been. She's in danger of trivializing her own tribulations, those due to her own choices, made by a heart too eager and a mind too inexperienced.
He perceives the welling of tears at some subconscious revelation, allows a lopsided wry smile, quickly and adeptly changing the subject. Wind and tide carry the souls of men and women and his entire life has been dedicated to learning how to spread wing and fin. "How far do you think you have to go?"
Eyes close in defense of the unexpected question, its force not all too dissimilar from the blows of her former lover. The impact, though, is different. A genuine concern for her. At the very least a genuine curiosity. Memory struggles to recall the last time a voice pretended to care.
"I don't know." The admission is terrifying to her ears, destination never yet considered, its thought stifled by a singular need to only watch the landscape scream by. It's barely registered that Australia is but an island, and whether by will or by ocean, something will eventually stop her. She begins to cry and further recounts the details of her life.
He simply watches, waiting for the moment when the weight of insignificance instills the desire for a shoulder to grab, a bosom to empty long-held sorrows on, hands to reassure that they're still here. Still alive. Significant in the moment of a stranger. Two shadows converge in the broken shade of leaning eucalyptus trees, anonymous in their understanding of each other. His shirt soaks the evidence of her tears. Her hair guides the evidence of his down the back of her neck, the tops of her shoulders, falling into the dust of a country where both were born but neither belong.
***
The devolution to a carnal state is rapid, overwhelming. Physical pleasure enjoyed for the mere fact that mental anguish is momentarily pushed away. It is nothing more than intercourse between kindred spirits. Sex without love, only a burgeoning lust. A reminder that pain is as fleeting. He doesn't mind that she continues to shed tears. She doesn't notice that she does. Hard body glides into soft and convulsing eruption whispers a hint of fate forever intertwined. They are, so far, free to run. That is enough for today. Tomorrow comes the realization that neither's destination is a place. Merely a moment when shadows, bodies, converged. And that it was yesterday.
***
"It's almost the end of the road. Where do I need to drop each of you?"
"We'll get out together." It is Kintaro's voice, but Elise is certain she said it.
***
The road train terminates in Mildura, western New South Wales within the rich Riverina, home of citrus, wine and market gardens. A town where neither are known. She has some money, he has three pearls, enough to lead a quiet life. If only he were not so conspicuous.
Elise reaches into her bruised valise, hands him a broad-brimmed hat and hastily removes the feminine blue ribbon. "Put this on." She points to a paint-peeled wooden bench outside a small realtor's store. "Sit over there and don't say anything." He acquiesces, all too aware of his obvious point of difference.
Enquiring at the realtor as a woman alone goes unnoticed. Able men are waging war, leaving the infirm and old to fend in this bread-basket town. She secures a dilapidated shack amid the orchards in exchange for keeping house and a pittance of a wage. Her 'brother' will come with her as he's 'not quite right in the head' and unsuitable for soldiering.
The realtor vends a sympathetic smile. "Poor luvie. Must be hard for you, darls. All alone." He hands her the keys and directions to their new abode. Elise nods politely and exits, avoiding further inquisition.
***
As she plumps pillows and kneads bread, he tends a tiny garden. His once salt-bleached hands now tanned and calloused and grubbed with the earth. He is a fish out of water, a solitary man, unseen, unknown. Sadness wells within him but she keeps the tides at bay.
Elise loves to watch him labour, hat drawn to shade his face, crouched low with an arrow of sweat dampening his shirt. He is tender with his crop, stroking verdant leaves with a lover's hand, smoothing soil around their roots with a gentle caress. Sadness - and something else - stirs within her when she sees him there alone.
They never speak of their encounter beneath the trees. He, a little shameful of his loss of control. She embarrassed of her acceptance of it. They do not share a bed, he slumbers on the floor. They sometimes chat as they fall asleep, almond and oval eyes at rest, breasts gently rising and falling as dreams of limpid ocean and balmy breeze replace the waking heat of displaced desert.
It is an accidental encounter, but one that accelerates the inevitable and steals the breath from his lung. She does not feel his gaze upon her as she bathes. Brown arms raised high, she shampoos her thick brown hair. Slim fingers glide languidly among the suds smoothed across her skin. Water beading on her back then trickling across shapely hips and down her legs. Drops of water hypnotic in their transformation, mocking and faux soap-tinted pearls. Something stirs within him, too, but this time it isn't only lust.
***
*Continued in Pearl, Harbour: Safe Harbour
The Complete Pearl, Harbour
- Part 1: Rising Suns
- Part 2: Far Enough
- Part 3: Safe Harbour
- Part 4: Pearl in the Water
- Part 5: Cherry Blossom
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Mirror
In a far off place, on the other side of my mind, there's another side of my mind in a far off place. Through the mirror of sleep I can see it. Paradise. And Hell. Shattered imagery that will not stick to memory, instead bonding to strange laughter or beads of sweat noticed when eyes suddenly open. It is no threat in the daylight. Under the blanket of solar shadow, however, it is as terrifying and inviting as anything in waking life. Fear and love worth never waking from. False memories worth waking for. In a far off place. On the other side of the mirror.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Words spoken, unspoken, and understood. Language is not the barrier. Only impression. Adjective describes nothing, yet everything's in the detail. Adverb paces nothing, yet everything's in the movement. A revolution of revelation, whispered and warred in strange worlds that exist only in the chemical reactions of one. The serpent is terrifying, but it does not understand why. Though it may bite me, it is also the rope with which I pull myself from the cliff. An adversary with clawed gloves provides an outstretched hand. The blood here isn't real. But I won't learn that until I wake. When I'm on the other side of the mirror.
The closet is full of secret and skeleton. In a closeted world, there is no shame. The mirror is full of false light. It's no wonder that the suns here are not real. Water cannot be navigated except by flight. The mirror shatters when the fingers of the sea drop me. It is an abject failure that I've not yet learned to defeat Icarus. Or learned from his mistake. There is no need to, for this world is mine. Sanity defined by which side of the mirror I learned this from.
She's here somewhere. Always, hidden in the desires of shadows, constantly shifting with the comfort of a pillow I can't actually feel. I've heard her sing. Heard her whisper. Smelled her a thousand times. Touched her. Made love to her. I try to remind myself I've never seen her. But she's real. Radiated or reflected. She's real. The reason for the sweat on the sheets, for the blanket on the floor, for the loneliness when pupil adjusts to encroaching light. On the other side of a mirror whose waves reflect nothing but the setting sun. I need to figure out how to watch the sunrise of a far off place.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Requiem for a Satellite of Zeus
"You gonna kill her? What the Hell for?"
"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."
"You have a strange way of falling out of love."
"Don't I, though?"
The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.
***
Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.
How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.
***
"What are you writing?"
"A story about a falling star."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure."
His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.
"I thought you were letting her go."
"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.
***
Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.
***
"What's wrong?"
"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"
"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."
"How could I? She's beautiful."
"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."
He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.
***
Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.
Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.
***
He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.
His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.
"Nah, there's no need. She'll die on her own."
"You have a strange way of falling out of love."
"Don't I, though?"
The wink seems flippant, but it's hiding a sadness even he can't fully comprehend.
***
Aoede's voice is silent. Unable to sing, she instead writes her concerns on a tablet. It is a depressing lyric, one that springs her mother into action.
How dare this fool try to forget her daughter. Especially after having used her so. A Muse scorned might be something mortals can survive. Her mother is another matter entirely. She is Mnemosyne. This will be too easy.
***
"What are you writing?"
"A story about a falling star."
"Can I see it?"
"Sure."
His friend reads the genesis of the tale, surprised at the description of the woman.
"I thought you were letting her go."
"What? What do you mean?" He grabs his story from his friend and scans the words quickly, coming to the character of the woman. It is her. Described to her finest points. In spite of his intent.
***
Aoede goes about her business, unaware of her own influence in the world of men. Her mother smiles at her, wondering how such a beautiful creature can think she walks about unnoticed. There's a touch of melancholy to the thought, but also an enormous sense of pride. Aoede is not one to settle, even for a fickle poet who once wrote volumes of his lust for her. And, Mnemosyne almost giggles, will again. And forever.
***
"What's wrong?"
"I need to get over her. But I can't. Why the fuck can't I?"
"Muses are rather tricky like that. Should've kept your intentions private."
"How could I? She's beautiful."
"Shouldn't have told her mother, at least."
He needs to write, but is afraid to. Memories, ideas, and impressions of her will threaten to permeate every single letter he puts to paper. Regardless, he writes.
***
Aoede asks her mother what Mnemosyne is laughing at. With a twinkle in her eye, Mnemosyne convinces her daughter that it's unimportant, though both know that's a lie.
Every word written by this fool gives Mnemosyne another perspective with which to interpret her daughter. Another color. Another shadow. It is quite wonderful to know there are those out there who might love Aoede as much as her mother does. Even if they are scarred by that love.
***
He can't forget her. She's everywhere. In heroes, villains, lovers, nobles, peasants, soldiers, slaves. Try as he might, the Muse never fails to find herself in his pages.
His friend was right. He should not have told her mother. For she is Mnemosyne. The Titaness. The mother of the Muses. Memory personified. Any who scorn her shall always remember. And always regret.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
With the Fade of the Tide, Part III
*Continued from With the Fade of the Tide, Part II
"How long have you been using?" It's a futile question. Benoit's already prepared to disbelieve her answer.
"Since I was 21. I dated a footballer after university."
She's a good liar. The footballer detail might be true, but he knows she doesn't use drugs. There is guilt here. That he also knows she's no fool adds doubt. Why would the drugs be here?
"Mother and I used to get high together." Melanie's surprised at her own voice. The admission is akin to a flinch; an attempt to deflect. Not only her own guilty conscious, but Benoit's unmistakable direction of thought. And it's another clear lie.
"Do not speak of your mother this way, Melanie." It is an uncharacteristically mature statement. And hypocritical. He himself had bad-mouthed his father since coming to Le Havre. But, then, his father was not dead.
She's caught, and she knows it. Still, she's certain that Benoit isn't sure of what she's been caught doing. Or refuses to be sure. She stares out the window to avoid his discerning glare. The moon is rising early, its third quarter just visible over the eastern cityscape. There's some solace in that she's managed to make him love her for this long. She's waited a long time. Ever since her mother pushed away her step-father with her unpleasantness and irrational demands. But she's also certain that Benoit is no fool, either. And their ending is nigh.
***
Hervé motions for Benoit to sit. "It could not be Melanie."
"Why not?"
"She was in Lebanon at the time. Travel records and passport verify this. As does the French consul in Beirut."
Benoit frowns. "Why did she go to the French consul?"
"They will not say."
"Seems rather convenient, don't you think?"
Resigning himself to the possibility, Hervé shrugs and nods. Possibility, of course, but likelihood? Hervé makes it known that he doesn't believe so.
"It was not her, Benoit. As much as I would like to be, it could not be Melanie."
A sigh. A regret. Many regrets. "So I owe her an apology."
"Yes."
***
It is an easy apology, yet a strange one. Melanie immediately breaks into tears. Benoit can't tell if they are false or not. Her sobbing respiration forces him to give her the benefit of the doubt. She apologizes profusely in return, perhaps once too often, but it persuades him not to ask about the drugs.
She's unsure of what to do. She's in love with Benoit. Always has been and always will be. She tells him so. His lips surprise her. There's something hidden in the kiss, though she imagines the whole of it to be heartfelt. Upon the break of the embrace, pragmatism takes over. Benoit will figure her out. This cannot last.
***
They sit at the cafe. Benoit notices the waning crescent appears as if it's about to strangle Melanie. The image disturbs him, so he shifts his chair. And again, once he notices the tip of the moon gives her the appearance of having a devil's horn.
"Did you see my father?" The question is abrupt. As if radioactive. Why it chose now to be asked is beyond Benoit.
Melanie turns her head sharply to stare at Benoit. "What? No. I was not here."
"I'm leaving soon. Returning to America." The statement is jilted, stunted. This conversation will have no flow. Facts attempting to escape their hiding places reveal themselves at random.
"You're not staying for the trial?"
"No. Father will be found guilty. There's nothing I can do for him."
"You believe that now?"
"It doesn't matter. Do you believe it?"
"No."
I wonder why that is. He does not share his thought, for it has no conclusion. He's not certain he wants it to.
They make love for the final time that night. She's all too aware of the conclusion between them. She doesn't want it to end, but knows it must.
***
"New moon," Melanie says. There is no one around, save a lover in memory. She looks out to the horizon, invisible between the sky and the sea, and throws the gun into the English Channel.
In her hand, an unopened farewell letter from Benoit. He's finally written her back.
"How long have you been using?" It's a futile question. Benoit's already prepared to disbelieve her answer.
"Since I was 21. I dated a footballer after university."
She's a good liar. The footballer detail might be true, but he knows she doesn't use drugs. There is guilt here. That he also knows she's no fool adds doubt. Why would the drugs be here?
"Mother and I used to get high together." Melanie's surprised at her own voice. The admission is akin to a flinch; an attempt to deflect. Not only her own guilty conscious, but Benoit's unmistakable direction of thought. And it's another clear lie.
"Do not speak of your mother this way, Melanie." It is an uncharacteristically mature statement. And hypocritical. He himself had bad-mouthed his father since coming to Le Havre. But, then, his father was not dead.
She's caught, and she knows it. Still, she's certain that Benoit isn't sure of what she's been caught doing. Or refuses to be sure. She stares out the window to avoid his discerning glare. The moon is rising early, its third quarter just visible over the eastern cityscape. There's some solace in that she's managed to make him love her for this long. She's waited a long time. Ever since her mother pushed away her step-father with her unpleasantness and irrational demands. But she's also certain that Benoit is no fool, either. And their ending is nigh.
***
Hervé motions for Benoit to sit. "It could not be Melanie."
"Why not?"
"She was in Lebanon at the time. Travel records and passport verify this. As does the French consul in Beirut."
Benoit frowns. "Why did she go to the French consul?"
"They will not say."
"Seems rather convenient, don't you think?"
Resigning himself to the possibility, Hervé shrugs and nods. Possibility, of course, but likelihood? Hervé makes it known that he doesn't believe so.
"It was not her, Benoit. As much as I would like to be, it could not be Melanie."
A sigh. A regret. Many regrets. "So I owe her an apology."
"Yes."
***
It is an easy apology, yet a strange one. Melanie immediately breaks into tears. Benoit can't tell if they are false or not. Her sobbing respiration forces him to give her the benefit of the doubt. She apologizes profusely in return, perhaps once too often, but it persuades him not to ask about the drugs.
She's unsure of what to do. She's in love with Benoit. Always has been and always will be. She tells him so. His lips surprise her. There's something hidden in the kiss, though she imagines the whole of it to be heartfelt. Upon the break of the embrace, pragmatism takes over. Benoit will figure her out. This cannot last.
***
They sit at the cafe. Benoit notices the waning crescent appears as if it's about to strangle Melanie. The image disturbs him, so he shifts his chair. And again, once he notices the tip of the moon gives her the appearance of having a devil's horn.
"Did you see my father?" The question is abrupt. As if radioactive. Why it chose now to be asked is beyond Benoit.
Melanie turns her head sharply to stare at Benoit. "What? No. I was not here."
"I'm leaving soon. Returning to America." The statement is jilted, stunted. This conversation will have no flow. Facts attempting to escape their hiding places reveal themselves at random.
"You're not staying for the trial?"
"No. Father will be found guilty. There's nothing I can do for him."
"You believe that now?"
"It doesn't matter. Do you believe it?"
"No."
I wonder why that is. He does not share his thought, for it has no conclusion. He's not certain he wants it to.
They make love for the final time that night. She's all too aware of the conclusion between them. She doesn't want it to end, but knows it must.
***
"New moon," Melanie says. There is no one around, save a lover in memory. She looks out to the horizon, invisible between the sky and the sea, and throws the gun into the English Channel.
In her hand, an unopened farewell letter from Benoit. He's finally written her back.
Friday, October 22, 2010
With the Fade of the Tide, Part II
*Continued from With the Fade of the Tide, Part I
"Why did you ignore my letters?" she asks, sure that he's awake. He was completely drunk when she found him, falling over and starting fights with anyone he thought might have shot him a concerned glance. The police in Le Havre recognized him from the newspapers - the murder was rather high-profile - and they immediately called Melanie. She brought Benoit back to the hotel, tucked him in bed, then fell asleep herself next to him, on top of the blankets. The gibbous moon shines through an open window.
"What?" he replies, voice still inebriated.
"I sent letters. You never responded."
He stares at the alarm clock on the nightstand, uninterested in answering the question. His head hurts and he's sure the pain isn't entirely from alcohol. Someone hit him. Probably a police officer. He can't remember.
Benoit does remember the letters. He won't admit it, but he still has them. A shoebox in his closet in New York. It's only contents are four letters from a step-sister. He was both shocked and amazed at how forward she was in them. The third letter, in particular. A 14-year-old explicitly expressing her love for him. Though a four-year age difference is nothing to him now, it was all-too-discouraging for one who was 18. Part of him was disgusted. Part of him was intrigued. He'd known she would grow into a beautiful woman, but the situation was just too odd for an immature young man to handle. Better to let her fade into memory.
"Why did you ignore me?" she asks again.
Her perfume makes it difficult to ignore her now.
***
Hervé grins widely, partially because of the new evidence he's about to share, but mainly because Benoit finally showed up to a meeting without Melanie in tow. "There was someone else there."
"And?" The revelation excites Benoit. Still, he takes care not get ahead of his emotions. Something he's been failing at lately.
"Could be the real killer."
"Provided my father is innocent."
Hervé's jaw drops open. He's not sure he heard what he just heard. "Pardon?"
Benoit mentally curses himself. He's always been one open to all possibilities in any situation, but he knows such skepticism in this case is better left unspoken. "Sorry. That was inappropriate."
"Heartless."
"I'm sorry. There was someone else in the room?"
Hervé hesitates, now unsure if he should even tell Benoit. Melanie's certainly to blame for Benoit's shift in demeanor. Melanie. Legally an adversary in the upcoming murder trial. Theoretically family. And, though Hervé is unaware of the development, technically a lover. "Yes. Our investigators turned up further evidence. No fingerprints or DNA, but shoe impressions on the carpet."
"Why didn't the police identify them?"
"They did, but attributed them to hotel staff. We have officially eliminated that option."
"So father will be let go?"
The lawyer coughs. It's an instinctual reaction, for he has no cold and his throat is not dry. "No. The blood and the drugs remain large hurdles to overcome, but..."
Benoit finishes the sentence. "It's progress."
***
Making love to a former step-sister had never crossed Benoit's mind. Much less making love while waist-deep in the ocean under a full moon. Even with the mixture of salt, he could taste the flavor of her skin as he kissed her neck. He'd never had sex in open water before and, for but a fleeting moment, wonders at how smoothly her vagina feels submerged in the salinated tides of Le Havre.
***
It feels good to be out of the hotel. Benoit often appreciates living out of a suitcase, but his room had become stifling. The whole situation had been stifling, but Melanie's presence has been slowly returning his ability to breathe. He laughs at the thought as he prepares to brush his teeth in her bathroom. A woman he'd feared not two weeks ago is now the sole calming factor in his life. He wonders how she isn't more dour as the case begins to unfold - it is her mother who is buried - but he's glad she isn't.
He lets loose a burst of pent-up energy and the cap to the tube of toothpaste falls to the floor, rolling behind the commode. Making a mental note to grab it later, he finishes with his teeth and grabs his shaving cream and razor. He's not seen his own smile in a few months and admires it for a moment.
Melanie is at work and he can't wait to see her when she comes home for lunch. Benoit has nothing scheduled for the day and he intends on surprising her with a prepared meal. His face smooth, he pokes his head into her bedroom and looks at the wall clock. Only 30 minutes before she gets back. He must have slept in a bit too long.
Chuckling, he walks to the phone on her nightstand and bribes a host at an expensive local restaurant to bring a meal worthy of his mood over. He's forced to agree to an extra 30 euros when he requests "as quickly as possible."
"Learn to wake up on time, Benoit," he says to himself as he hangs up the phone. He pulls his suitcase from under Melanie's bed and gets dressed. He's just finishing buttoning his shirt as he hears a car pull up. Then another. He chuckles again, abandoning any thought of trying to convince Melanie that he had actually prepared the meal. Staring out the window, he grins widely as he spies Melanie paying for the food.
Suddenly, randomly, there's a trigger in memory. He runs into the bathroom and kneels beside the toilet, feeling behind it for the errant tube cap. His hand brushes something plastic... a baggie. He pulls it out, curious. Squinting at the half-empty dime bag of marijuana, he almost giggles. He had no idea Melanie smoked. He's about to put it back when he sees Melanie at the bathroom door, her face in a state of horror.
"Sorry, I found your stash."
Her expression does not relax at his attempt at humor. It is then he notices the white powder lightly dusted on the bag.
*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part III
"Why did you ignore my letters?" she asks, sure that he's awake. He was completely drunk when she found him, falling over and starting fights with anyone he thought might have shot him a concerned glance. The police in Le Havre recognized him from the newspapers - the murder was rather high-profile - and they immediately called Melanie. She brought Benoit back to the hotel, tucked him in bed, then fell asleep herself next to him, on top of the blankets. The gibbous moon shines through an open window.
"What?" he replies, voice still inebriated.
"I sent letters. You never responded."
He stares at the alarm clock on the nightstand, uninterested in answering the question. His head hurts and he's sure the pain isn't entirely from alcohol. Someone hit him. Probably a police officer. He can't remember.
Benoit does remember the letters. He won't admit it, but he still has them. A shoebox in his closet in New York. It's only contents are four letters from a step-sister. He was both shocked and amazed at how forward she was in them. The third letter, in particular. A 14-year-old explicitly expressing her love for him. Though a four-year age difference is nothing to him now, it was all-too-discouraging for one who was 18. Part of him was disgusted. Part of him was intrigued. He'd known she would grow into a beautiful woman, but the situation was just too odd for an immature young man to handle. Better to let her fade into memory.
"Why did you ignore me?" she asks again.
Her perfume makes it difficult to ignore her now.
***
Hervé grins widely, partially because of the new evidence he's about to share, but mainly because Benoit finally showed up to a meeting without Melanie in tow. "There was someone else there."
"And?" The revelation excites Benoit. Still, he takes care not get ahead of his emotions. Something he's been failing at lately.
"Could be the real killer."
"Provided my father is innocent."
Hervé's jaw drops open. He's not sure he heard what he just heard. "Pardon?"
Benoit mentally curses himself. He's always been one open to all possibilities in any situation, but he knows such skepticism in this case is better left unspoken. "Sorry. That was inappropriate."
"Heartless."
"I'm sorry. There was someone else in the room?"
Hervé hesitates, now unsure if he should even tell Benoit. Melanie's certainly to blame for Benoit's shift in demeanor. Melanie. Legally an adversary in the upcoming murder trial. Theoretically family. And, though Hervé is unaware of the development, technically a lover. "Yes. Our investigators turned up further evidence. No fingerprints or DNA, but shoe impressions on the carpet."
"Why didn't the police identify them?"
"They did, but attributed them to hotel staff. We have officially eliminated that option."
"So father will be let go?"
The lawyer coughs. It's an instinctual reaction, for he has no cold and his throat is not dry. "No. The blood and the drugs remain large hurdles to overcome, but..."
Benoit finishes the sentence. "It's progress."
***
Making love to a former step-sister had never crossed Benoit's mind. Much less making love while waist-deep in the ocean under a full moon. Even with the mixture of salt, he could taste the flavor of her skin as he kissed her neck. He'd never had sex in open water before and, for but a fleeting moment, wonders at how smoothly her vagina feels submerged in the salinated tides of Le Havre.
***
It feels good to be out of the hotel. Benoit often appreciates living out of a suitcase, but his room had become stifling. The whole situation had been stifling, but Melanie's presence has been slowly returning his ability to breathe. He laughs at the thought as he prepares to brush his teeth in her bathroom. A woman he'd feared not two weeks ago is now the sole calming factor in his life. He wonders how she isn't more dour as the case begins to unfold - it is her mother who is buried - but he's glad she isn't.
He lets loose a burst of pent-up energy and the cap to the tube of toothpaste falls to the floor, rolling behind the commode. Making a mental note to grab it later, he finishes with his teeth and grabs his shaving cream and razor. He's not seen his own smile in a few months and admires it for a moment.
Melanie is at work and he can't wait to see her when she comes home for lunch. Benoit has nothing scheduled for the day and he intends on surprising her with a prepared meal. His face smooth, he pokes his head into her bedroom and looks at the wall clock. Only 30 minutes before she gets back. He must have slept in a bit too long.
Chuckling, he walks to the phone on her nightstand and bribes a host at an expensive local restaurant to bring a meal worthy of his mood over. He's forced to agree to an extra 30 euros when he requests "as quickly as possible."
"Learn to wake up on time, Benoit," he says to himself as he hangs up the phone. He pulls his suitcase from under Melanie's bed and gets dressed. He's just finishing buttoning his shirt as he hears a car pull up. Then another. He chuckles again, abandoning any thought of trying to convince Melanie that he had actually prepared the meal. Staring out the window, he grins widely as he spies Melanie paying for the food.
Suddenly, randomly, there's a trigger in memory. He runs into the bathroom and kneels beside the toilet, feeling behind it for the errant tube cap. His hand brushes something plastic... a baggie. He pulls it out, curious. Squinting at the half-empty dime bag of marijuana, he almost giggles. He had no idea Melanie smoked. He's about to put it back when he sees Melanie at the bathroom door, her face in a state of horror.
"Sorry, I found your stash."
Her expression does not relax at his attempt at humor. It is then he notices the white powder lightly dusted on the bag.
*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part III
Thursday, October 21, 2010
With the Fade of the Tide, Part I
"New moon," he says. He's not really sure why; it was just something he'd noticed. Trying to break the ice, likely. He's not seen her in fifteen years. His former step-sister. Their parents were married for just two years. He was 17 at the time of the divorce. She was 13.
Melanie nods in response, preferring not to speak, keeping her eyes on the gently lapping waves and the smooth sand of the beach caressing her toes. Once upon a time she had a crush on Benoit. It quickly dissipated after the four letters she'd written to him following the divorce went unanswered. From then, she shut him out of her conscious mind, walling him behind justifications of interest due to the mere convenience of having lived together.
She'd picked him up at Charles de Gaulle four hours earlier. And, like Jericho, those walls came tumbling down. The drive to Le Havre was filled with awkward silences and what little conversation there was remained safely in the realm of small talk. She feels 13 again and hates herself for it. Melanie regrets not listening to her attorney. She should have avoided Benoit altogether. Or at least until after the trial. Or, perhaps, when there was a moon in the sky.
"I've missed you." He's repeating the lie. Benoit spoke it earlier as he tossed his luggage into the trunk of her Peugeot 207, but only after he caught her too-wide smile shift into a thoughtful scowl. The expressions were instantaneous transitions, dependent on whether or not he was looking directly at her. Benoit knows why, too. He should have written back.
The false smile returns, though less forceful this time. Both are glad for the dim light, lest the deception be more evident.
Benoit fakes a chill. "I should get to the hotel."
She takes his hand, not for affection, but to lead him quickly to the car. She knows his hotel isn't far from her home and there is unspoken regret for not having remained in Paris. A sudden thought that Le Havre is too small.
***
"Should she be here?" Benoit's family lawyer speaks perfect English, almost without accent. Hervé Gauloise is, in fact, the reason Benoit and his father moved to the United States. Hervé himself had spent over a decade there. He would always talk about the women. But an American woman is not the subject of his current question.
Benoit nods. "She's fine."
Melanie sits to Benoit's right and slightly behind. She smirks at Benoit's defense and glares at Hervé. She's never liked him. Even before he convinced Philippe to take Benoit to America.
Hervé notices her expression and ignores it, preferring to get right to business. He grabs a file from the top left drawer of his ornate solid oak desk and sets it down. "The evidence against your father is overwhelming." Hervé planned to pause - to let it sink in properly - but Benoit responds quickly, almost disinterestedly.
"So I've heard. I didn't even know he came back to see Émilie."
Hervé does not ignore Melanie's subtle wince at her mother's name. Years away from field police work mutes an old instinct to pursue questioning. Instead, Hervé's compassionate side chalks it up to reactive mourning.
"Neither did I. Philippe didn't even phone to let me know he was in France."
"And they found him with the gun?"
"No. He was at the beach, covered in her blood. Many drugs in his system. Hers, too."
Benoit fumes quietly. His father had been sober for over seven years. He'd even given up cigarettes. No alcohol, no marijuana, no cocaine. None of this made much sense to Benoit, but he's been around the world enough times to know that nonsense isn't unusual. Still, he should know his father well, if anybody.
He turns to Melanie. "What has your lawyer said?"
Melanie glances at Benoit; makes brief eye-contact. Had Benoit been paying more attention to her instead of the case, he'd have noticed the flutter. "You know I cannot tell you that."
***
It's a stirring memory. Hiding under the bed, staring at Benoit exiting his shower. She'd seen other penises before, innocently enough, but the sight of her step-brother's - and his quick, absent-minded stroking of it - is an image that has never left her mind. She still remembers the color of the towel he wrapped himself with. A shade of maroon. Almost the color of blood.
***
The moon waxes crescent as Benoit and Melanie sip coffee at a sidewalk cafe. The angle of the moon makes it appear that the crescent is stabbing Benoit in the neck. Melanie smiles, though without malice. It's simply a beautiful image.
"You did not know your father came to see my mother?"
Benoit shakes his head. He's not in a talkative mood. Since he read the brief, his mind has been a whirlwind of emotion and information. Unleashed and aimless. Just... spinning. He hadn't even realized that Melanie kissed him on the neck when she dropped him off after the meeting with the lawyer.
Her smile disappears. She doesn't want it to, but neither does she want to appear callous. Benoit's father is facing life in prison, after all. As she watches Benoit half-heartedly finish his coffee, she takes note of the irony. She'd been sure that he would have the emotional edge in their reunion. His departure from her life had hurt her deeply and she was afraid that his return would scar her further. But he's a wreck. And she's in control. As she'd learned a few weeks ago, control can be exhilarating.
"Perhaps we should walk along the beach."
Melanie stands and offers her hand, affectionately this time. He takes it, though his thoughts are elsewhere. His blank stare at nothing in general makes this obvious. She'll have to rectify that.
*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part II
Melanie nods in response, preferring not to speak, keeping her eyes on the gently lapping waves and the smooth sand of the beach caressing her toes. Once upon a time she had a crush on Benoit. It quickly dissipated after the four letters she'd written to him following the divorce went unanswered. From then, she shut him out of her conscious mind, walling him behind justifications of interest due to the mere convenience of having lived together.
She'd picked him up at Charles de Gaulle four hours earlier. And, like Jericho, those walls came tumbling down. The drive to Le Havre was filled with awkward silences and what little conversation there was remained safely in the realm of small talk. She feels 13 again and hates herself for it. Melanie regrets not listening to her attorney. She should have avoided Benoit altogether. Or at least until after the trial. Or, perhaps, when there was a moon in the sky.
"I've missed you." He's repeating the lie. Benoit spoke it earlier as he tossed his luggage into the trunk of her Peugeot 207, but only after he caught her too-wide smile shift into a thoughtful scowl. The expressions were instantaneous transitions, dependent on whether or not he was looking directly at her. Benoit knows why, too. He should have written back.
The false smile returns, though less forceful this time. Both are glad for the dim light, lest the deception be more evident.
Benoit fakes a chill. "I should get to the hotel."
She takes his hand, not for affection, but to lead him quickly to the car. She knows his hotel isn't far from her home and there is unspoken regret for not having remained in Paris. A sudden thought that Le Havre is too small.
***
"Should she be here?" Benoit's family lawyer speaks perfect English, almost without accent. Hervé Gauloise is, in fact, the reason Benoit and his father moved to the United States. Hervé himself had spent over a decade there. He would always talk about the women. But an American woman is not the subject of his current question.
Benoit nods. "She's fine."
Melanie sits to Benoit's right and slightly behind. She smirks at Benoit's defense and glares at Hervé. She's never liked him. Even before he convinced Philippe to take Benoit to America.
Hervé notices her expression and ignores it, preferring to get right to business. He grabs a file from the top left drawer of his ornate solid oak desk and sets it down. "The evidence against your father is overwhelming." Hervé planned to pause - to let it sink in properly - but Benoit responds quickly, almost disinterestedly.
"So I've heard. I didn't even know he came back to see Émilie."
Hervé does not ignore Melanie's subtle wince at her mother's name. Years away from field police work mutes an old instinct to pursue questioning. Instead, Hervé's compassionate side chalks it up to reactive mourning.
"Neither did I. Philippe didn't even phone to let me know he was in France."
"And they found him with the gun?"
"No. He was at the beach, covered in her blood. Many drugs in his system. Hers, too."
Benoit fumes quietly. His father had been sober for over seven years. He'd even given up cigarettes. No alcohol, no marijuana, no cocaine. None of this made much sense to Benoit, but he's been around the world enough times to know that nonsense isn't unusual. Still, he should know his father well, if anybody.
He turns to Melanie. "What has your lawyer said?"
Melanie glances at Benoit; makes brief eye-contact. Had Benoit been paying more attention to her instead of the case, he'd have noticed the flutter. "You know I cannot tell you that."
***
It's a stirring memory. Hiding under the bed, staring at Benoit exiting his shower. She'd seen other penises before, innocently enough, but the sight of her step-brother's - and his quick, absent-minded stroking of it - is an image that has never left her mind. She still remembers the color of the towel he wrapped himself with. A shade of maroon. Almost the color of blood.
***
The moon waxes crescent as Benoit and Melanie sip coffee at a sidewalk cafe. The angle of the moon makes it appear that the crescent is stabbing Benoit in the neck. Melanie smiles, though without malice. It's simply a beautiful image.
"You did not know your father came to see my mother?"
Benoit shakes his head. He's not in a talkative mood. Since he read the brief, his mind has been a whirlwind of emotion and information. Unleashed and aimless. Just... spinning. He hadn't even realized that Melanie kissed him on the neck when she dropped him off after the meeting with the lawyer.
Her smile disappears. She doesn't want it to, but neither does she want to appear callous. Benoit's father is facing life in prison, after all. As she watches Benoit half-heartedly finish his coffee, she takes note of the irony. She'd been sure that he would have the emotional edge in their reunion. His departure from her life had hurt her deeply and she was afraid that his return would scar her further. But he's a wreck. And she's in control. As she'd learned a few weeks ago, control can be exhilarating.
"Perhaps we should walk along the beach."
Melanie stands and offers her hand, affectionately this time. He takes it, though his thoughts are elsewhere. His blank stare at nothing in general makes this obvious. She'll have to rectify that.
*Continued in With the Fade of the Tide, Part II
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
A Lovely Discourse
"How does one fall in love?" It's a genuine question from a naive mind. He can't help that he's so superficial. Both of his parents were models. They married after discovering his mother was pregnant and divorced before he was even born. There was an attempt at an annulment, but they wound up with a judge who had no sympathy for stupidity. Why they even thought they could get away with an annulment when a child was involved is beyond the comprehension of most sane people.
"What kind of question is that?" It's a genuine response from a skeptical mind. She believes that there are definitely such things as stupid questions and, to her, that one is a doozy. Her father was an engineer and her mother was a physicist. They always encouraged her to look within and beneath things... to find out how everything works. They were killed in a car accident. Some drunk driver decided the world had too many engineers and scientists.
"There has to be a process, right? It doesn't just happen." The contradiction begins.
"Sure it does. Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"
"Well, yeah, but that's just sort of a myth."
"Only if you don't want to believe in it." And it finishes.
He wonders about beliefs for a few moments, then decides it's not yet worth the effort in thought. "You eat dinner yet?"
She tries to remember her appetite of the last few hours, then decides her thoughts are best utilized elsewhere. "Did you just ask me out?"
***
"So, this love at first sight, how are you supposed to know? And how come love doesn't last forever?" These are questions the superficial are supposed to know the answers to. But he's too busy being superficial to ask her anything more relevant.
"Well, you'll feel it. Nerve impulses will fire, certain parts of your body will flush. And nothing in the universe is permanent." These are not the answers to the questions. But she's too busy looking behind the curtain to notice the drama unfolding in front of it.
"Yeah, but isn't love eternal?" The revelation begins.
"What happens when we die?"
"I don't know. Heaven. Hell. Something."
"Or nothing at all." And it finishes.
He finally decides to give beliefs dedicated thought, then quickly decides that he's attracted to this analytical woman sitting across from him. "You want to head back to my place?"
She tries to remember the last time she's had sex, then shuts it out once she remembers how turned off she was. "You're not just going to sweat on top of me and grunt, are you?"
***
"Are we in love?" It is a risky question from one who almost never looks beneath the surface. But he's still naive and only asks because he wants it to be true.
"What is love, anyway?" A calculated riposte from one who may not even believe in love. She finds it odd that despite the whole of human art, the concept's never been plainly defined.
"It's, you know, when two people need to be with each other." The definition begins.
"Do we need to be with each other?"
"Well, I want to."
"Wanting is not needing." And it finishes.
His thoughts are frustrated. She's confused him from the get-go, unaware that she's been playing Devil's Advocate in order to prevent another broken heart. "I want to do this again."
Her thoughts are spinning. She's certainly not in love, but she loves the feel of his body and his endless patience, as based in naivete as it may be. He's not intimidated by her. The confession begins. "So do I." And it finishes.
"What kind of question is that?" It's a genuine response from a skeptical mind. She believes that there are definitely such things as stupid questions and, to her, that one is a doozy. Her father was an engineer and her mother was a physicist. They always encouraged her to look within and beneath things... to find out how everything works. They were killed in a car accident. Some drunk driver decided the world had too many engineers and scientists.
"There has to be a process, right? It doesn't just happen." The contradiction begins.
"Sure it does. Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?"
"Well, yeah, but that's just sort of a myth."
"Only if you don't want to believe in it." And it finishes.
He wonders about beliefs for a few moments, then decides it's not yet worth the effort in thought. "You eat dinner yet?"
She tries to remember her appetite of the last few hours, then decides her thoughts are best utilized elsewhere. "Did you just ask me out?"
***
"So, this love at first sight, how are you supposed to know? And how come love doesn't last forever?" These are questions the superficial are supposed to know the answers to. But he's too busy being superficial to ask her anything more relevant.
"Well, you'll feel it. Nerve impulses will fire, certain parts of your body will flush. And nothing in the universe is permanent." These are not the answers to the questions. But she's too busy looking behind the curtain to notice the drama unfolding in front of it.
"Yeah, but isn't love eternal?" The revelation begins.
"What happens when we die?"
"I don't know. Heaven. Hell. Something."
"Or nothing at all." And it finishes.
He finally decides to give beliefs dedicated thought, then quickly decides that he's attracted to this analytical woman sitting across from him. "You want to head back to my place?"
She tries to remember the last time she's had sex, then shuts it out once she remembers how turned off she was. "You're not just going to sweat on top of me and grunt, are you?"
***
"Are we in love?" It is a risky question from one who almost never looks beneath the surface. But he's still naive and only asks because he wants it to be true.
"What is love, anyway?" A calculated riposte from one who may not even believe in love. She finds it odd that despite the whole of human art, the concept's never been plainly defined.
"It's, you know, when two people need to be with each other." The definition begins.
"Do we need to be with each other?"
"Well, I want to."
"Wanting is not needing." And it finishes.
His thoughts are frustrated. She's confused him from the get-go, unaware that she's been playing Devil's Advocate in order to prevent another broken heart. "I want to do this again."
Her thoughts are spinning. She's certainly not in love, but she loves the feel of his body and his endless patience, as based in naivete as it may be. He's not intimidated by her. The confession begins. "So do I." And it finishes.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
So Cruel; C'est la Vie
*Read while listening... it's kinda cool.
We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?
"Take my hand."
"No."
"You'll fall."
"I will if I take your hand."
It was then he learned that broken trust shall not be mended.
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
"On the right! Engage right!"
The squad shifts, trying to save what's left from the ambush. He's certain he issued the wrong orders.
It was then he learned that any action is better than none at all.
We're cut adrift
We're still floating
"I should've been there, you know?"
"You can't save the world, man."
"I don't want to save the world. I want my friends back."
"You can't save the world, man."
I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love
"Do you even love me?"
"No."
"Did you ever?"
"Does it matter?"
I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me
"I can't see."
"Calm down, bro. Just some blood in your eyes."
"I can't see."
"Calm down. I'm right here."
It was then he learned the true value of a shoulder to lean on.
I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted
"Don't you just, you know, want to be happy?"
"Sure. Who doesn't?"
"Then why don't you smile?"
"I haven't earned it yet."
The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost
"Shit, dude. She's fucking beautiful."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"That's what bothers me."
It was then he learned when to walk away.
They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere
"I'm not saying you should. But I'm not saying you shouldn't."
"I don't play vague, yo."
"Neither do I."
"That's specific, then?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Stay on my six. Follow me out."
"I'm scared, Sergeant."
"It's cool. I've already shit my pants. On three, okay?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Desperation is a tender trap
It gets you every time
"You've never seen a woman that just took your breath away?"
"Sure, I guess. That scares you?"
"Yeah, that scares me."
"Life ain't worth living if you're not afraid."
It was then he learned the value of a cliché.
You put your lips to her lips
To stop the lie
"I think you're a coward."
"Never said I wasn't."
"You're a walking contradiction."
"Never said I wasn't."
Her skin is pale like God's only dove
Screams like an angel for your love
"I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."
"None of us are. We just pretend to like it."
"Do you like it?"
"Fuck no, it's terrifying. But what a fucking rush."
It was then he learned he was meant to be a paratrooper.
Then she makes you watch her from above
And you need her like a drug
"If I leave, I'm not coming back."
"I'm counting on it."
"You never loved me, did you?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"You're obsessed."
"I know, I know. I'll get over it."
"When?"
"When the time is right."
It was then he decided to shoot for the stars.
She wears my love like a see-through dress
Her lips say one thing
Her movements something else
"I was a dick to him the last time I saw him."
"He forgives you, man. Don't let it get to you."
"I know, but... fuck, dude."
"We've all been there."
Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour
"Why didn't you answer the phone?"
"Kinda tired of your shit."
"I needed you."
"No, you didn't."
You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
"You've fallen in love with an impression."
"That impression has been better for me than reality."
"You say that now, but you're gonna be disappointed."
"I'm already disappointed. Might as well enjoy the view."
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
"What are you running from? Nobody's pushing you."
"I'm not running from anything."
"Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit."
"I'm gonna go now."
It was then he realized he was running.
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
"Help me. Please."
"I've got you. Hang on."
"I can't feel my legs."
"Hang on."
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"I don't know what to do. I don't even care."
"Yeah, well, you'll never change."
"Scary, isn't it?"
"Not really. Just remember, it's all so fucking hilarious."
To stay with you I'd be a fool
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Wherever you go, there you are."
"That's my line."
"I'm stealing it. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't. I'll be back."
It was then he found his smile.
We crossed the line
Who pushed who over?
"Take my hand."
"No."
"You'll fall."
"I will if I take your hand."
It was then he learned that broken trust shall not be mended.
It doesn't matter to you
It matters to me
"On the right! Engage right!"
The squad shifts, trying to save what's left from the ambush. He's certain he issued the wrong orders.
It was then he learned that any action is better than none at all.
We're cut adrift
We're still floating
"I should've been there, you know?"
"You can't save the world, man."
"I don't want to save the world. I want my friends back."
"You can't save the world, man."
I'm only hanging on
To watch you go down
My love
"Do you even love me?"
"No."
"Did you ever?"
"Does it matter?"
I disappeared in you
You disappeared from me
"I can't see."
"Calm down, bro. Just some blood in your eyes."
"I can't see."
"Calm down. I'm right here."
It was then he learned the true value of a shoulder to lean on.
I gave you everything you ever wanted
It wasn't what you wanted
"Don't you just, you know, want to be happy?"
"Sure. Who doesn't?"
"Then why don't you smile?"
"I haven't earned it yet."
The men who love you, you hate the most
They pass right through you like a ghost
"Shit, dude. She's fucking beautiful."
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"That's what bothers me."
It was then he learned when to walk away.
They look for you, but your spirit is in the air
Baby, you're nowhere
"I'm not saying you should. But I'm not saying you shouldn't."
"I don't play vague, yo."
"Neither do I."
"That's specific, then?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Stay on my six. Follow me out."
"I'm scared, Sergeant."
"It's cool. I've already shit my pants. On three, okay?"
"Yes, Sergeant."
Desperation is a tender trap
It gets you every time
"You've never seen a woman that just took your breath away?"
"Sure, I guess. That scares you?"
"Yeah, that scares me."
"Life ain't worth living if you're not afraid."
It was then he learned the value of a cliché.
You put your lips to her lips
To stop the lie
"I think you're a coward."
"Never said I wasn't."
"You're a walking contradiction."
"Never said I wasn't."
Her skin is pale like God's only dove
Screams like an angel for your love
"I'm not sure I'm cut out for this."
"None of us are. We just pretend to like it."
"Do you like it?"
"Fuck no, it's terrifying. But what a fucking rush."
It was then he learned he was meant to be a paratrooper.
Then she makes you watch her from above
And you need her like a drug
"If I leave, I'm not coming back."
"I'm counting on it."
"You never loved me, did you?"
"Is that a rhetorical question?"
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"You're obsessed."
"I know, I know. I'll get over it."
"When?"
"When the time is right."
It was then he decided to shoot for the stars.
She wears my love like a see-through dress
Her lips say one thing
Her movements something else
"I was a dick to him the last time I saw him."
"He forgives you, man. Don't let it get to you."
"I know, but... fuck, dude."
"We've all been there."
Oh love, like a screaming flower
Love, dying every hour
"Why didn't you answer the phone?"
"Kinda tired of your shit."
"I needed you."
"No, you didn't."
You don't know if it's fear or desire
Danger the drug that takes you higher
Head in heaven, fingers in the mire
"You've fallen in love with an impression."
"That impression has been better for me than reality."
"You say that now, but you're gonna be disappointed."
"I'm already disappointed. Might as well enjoy the view."
Her heart is racing, you can't keep up
The night is bleeding like a cut
"What are you running from? Nobody's pushing you."
"I'm not running from anything."
"Bullshit. Bull-fucking-shit."
"I'm gonna go now."
It was then he realized he was running.
Between the horses of love and lust
We are trampled underfoot
"Help me. Please."
"I've got you. Hang on."
"I can't feel my legs."
"Hang on."
You say in love there are no rules
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"I don't know what to do. I don't even care."
"Yeah, well, you'll never change."
"Scary, isn't it?"
"Not really. Just remember, it's all so fucking hilarious."
To stay with you I'd be a fool
Sweet heart, you're so cruel
"Wherever you go, there you are."
"That's my line."
"I'm stealing it. Don't be a stranger."
"I won't. I'll be back."
It was then he found his smile.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Killing Softly, Part III
*Continued from Killing Softly, Part II
Sliding glass door shatters and a puff of down and cotton springs from a puncture through the bottom corner of the mattress. The lovers react instinctively without breaking their intercourse, though labia stretch uncomfortably for an instant. His right hand reaches for his pistol on the left night stand. She reaches for her pistol on the right.
***
They've been partners for three years now and have even spoken of marriage. Such a thing is unlikely, however, since their line of work would make the arrangement more dangerous for the both of them. But Jonathan Ferrari and Gemma Bianci are very much in love. As much now as they were three years ago.
Donnie had been right. The cliché fit. Violently lonely souls found peace in the violent hearts of each other. As she sleeps, silhouette reflecting blue-white glow from a filtered moon, he traces a finger from her nude thigh to her neck. She moans softly, dreamlike, and turns over onto her stomach. He gently kisses her between shoulder blades, then shifts her hair to the side and kisses again on the back of her neck.
He can't sleep and very much wants to make love, but she is exhausted from a harder-than-expected assignment and he takes care not to wake her. Instead, he places his head just below his pillow - his nose mere millimeters from her left shoulder - and inhales the scent of fading perfume interrupted by a hint of sweat.
There was a time in life in which he would not even allow himself to imagine such moments. He still doesn't really believe he's living this one.
***
Shards of glass begin their musical percussion on hardwood floor as ballistic zips permeate the room from two sides. Wet tongues maintain their taste of each other as silenced flashes from the ends of pistols return fire. With simultaneous quiver there is an acknowledgment - cognitive and carnal - that they are already dead.
***
Work had been difficult lately. A young enforcer began a power-play for Donnie's position and the body count kept getting larger. So tight was security that Donnie felt the need to bring in his assassins as body guards. He held off calling in Jonathan and Gemma - they were his best, after all - until he decided he had no other option. Their reputations, internationally renown among organized crime and law enforcement circles, helped to stem some of the attempts on Donnie's life, but not all of them.
Reactive defense quickly became aggressive offense and, though their protests remained silent, Jonathan and Gemma soon found themselves soldiers in a war happening in the shadows of New York and New Jersey. For a time, Jonathan and Gemma would continue to operate together - often accompanied by several others - but constant betrayals and shifting of loyalties forced Donnie to send them on different assignments at the same time. Neither minded to the point of refusal, having been solo operators before, but circumstance led to a drastic drop in the amount of time Jonathan and Gemma could spend in each other's company.
Donnie was aware of this, for it eventually reflected quite evidently in the moods of each, but there was nothing he could yet do about it, save cut them loose from their responsibilities. He wasn't willing to take that chance.
***
A 5.56 mm round tears through the flesh of breast and passes near the heart of the other. Crimson from exit wound sprays lover. The assailants move loudly and .45 caliber bullets blaze atmospheric paths towards any sound created by boot and foot. The legs of man and woman straddle each other, continuing to foster oscillating motions as adrenaline adds to lust and regret of dying reminds of love.
***
She massages his shoulders, careful to avoid the black and purple of the fist-sized bruise near the top-right of his ribcage. He loves her hands and their professional technique. And, in his case, their loving technique. The movements of her fingers and thumbs threatens both to induce sleep and elevate libido. As he adjusts his hips to make room for the encroaching discomfort, she gently rolls him over. His eyes are closed but he's smiling. Fingertips glide from chest to stomach; from stomach to inner thighs, then slightly higher. She removes her shirt in a smooth, almost choreographed transition, and she grabs him, drawing him into her in a seamless glide.
His eyes open and palms extend, just barely allowing erect nipples to brush them while her body begins its slow bounce. Watching her for a few moments - this, one of his favorite views - he slides his hands to her hips, palpating her buttocks and finding her ticklish spot on the rear-right of her pelvis. She squeezes him in playful response and he lets go, finding the urge to gasp overpowering.
***
Another bullet cracks scapula, pushing bodies downward for an instant, posture righting itself with an orgasm of life that will end in seconds. The kiss fades, replaced by embrace, neck to neck. Blood rushes from eyes in an attempt to keep bodies and lust alive. With their fading sight, attacking silhouettes are effectively engaged, ensuring that Orpheus and Eurydice will have plenty of fresh company in Hell.
***
Donnie enters the bedroom, unsure of how he'll react. The Handler was right. A massacre was expected and a massacre is what was delivered. Outside of the room are four dead. Inside are six more. Four enemy. Jonathan. Gemma. Were this anyone else, Donnie would take heart in the 8-2 score, but here the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. Even he's failed to realize how much he loved Jonathan and Gemma. They had saved him as much as he'd saved them.
Donnie runs out into the hallway, trying to catch his breath and fight back tears he didn't think existed. He slumps into a chair and pulls out a cigar and his cellphone. His fingers fumble the lighter and it falls to the floor. He's shaking too badly and knows he won't be able to retrieve it.
The cigar thrown across the room, Donnie finds that neither can he dial the number. Holding down voice-dial, he commands, "Call Handler."
A few rings.
"Send in the boys. I can't do it." Donnie hangs up.
He closes his eyes, a numbing sadness forcing a sense of sleep he's not had since he was too young to remember. In his mind, he snaps a photograph of Jonathan and Gemma posed in their final moment of life.
Lovers until the end. Covered in blood. Eyes open, pistols in hand, bodies locked in coital embrace.
Sliding glass door shatters and a puff of down and cotton springs from a puncture through the bottom corner of the mattress. The lovers react instinctively without breaking their intercourse, though labia stretch uncomfortably for an instant. His right hand reaches for his pistol on the left night stand. She reaches for her pistol on the right.
***
They've been partners for three years now and have even spoken of marriage. Such a thing is unlikely, however, since their line of work would make the arrangement more dangerous for the both of them. But Jonathan Ferrari and Gemma Bianci are very much in love. As much now as they were three years ago.
Donnie had been right. The cliché fit. Violently lonely souls found peace in the violent hearts of each other. As she sleeps, silhouette reflecting blue-white glow from a filtered moon, he traces a finger from her nude thigh to her neck. She moans softly, dreamlike, and turns over onto her stomach. He gently kisses her between shoulder blades, then shifts her hair to the side and kisses again on the back of her neck.
He can't sleep and very much wants to make love, but she is exhausted from a harder-than-expected assignment and he takes care not to wake her. Instead, he places his head just below his pillow - his nose mere millimeters from her left shoulder - and inhales the scent of fading perfume interrupted by a hint of sweat.
There was a time in life in which he would not even allow himself to imagine such moments. He still doesn't really believe he's living this one.
***
Shards of glass begin their musical percussion on hardwood floor as ballistic zips permeate the room from two sides. Wet tongues maintain their taste of each other as silenced flashes from the ends of pistols return fire. With simultaneous quiver there is an acknowledgment - cognitive and carnal - that they are already dead.
***
Work had been difficult lately. A young enforcer began a power-play for Donnie's position and the body count kept getting larger. So tight was security that Donnie felt the need to bring in his assassins as body guards. He held off calling in Jonathan and Gemma - they were his best, after all - until he decided he had no other option. Their reputations, internationally renown among organized crime and law enforcement circles, helped to stem some of the attempts on Donnie's life, but not all of them.
Reactive defense quickly became aggressive offense and, though their protests remained silent, Jonathan and Gemma soon found themselves soldiers in a war happening in the shadows of New York and New Jersey. For a time, Jonathan and Gemma would continue to operate together - often accompanied by several others - but constant betrayals and shifting of loyalties forced Donnie to send them on different assignments at the same time. Neither minded to the point of refusal, having been solo operators before, but circumstance led to a drastic drop in the amount of time Jonathan and Gemma could spend in each other's company.
Donnie was aware of this, for it eventually reflected quite evidently in the moods of each, but there was nothing he could yet do about it, save cut them loose from their responsibilities. He wasn't willing to take that chance.
***
A 5.56 mm round tears through the flesh of breast and passes near the heart of the other. Crimson from exit wound sprays lover. The assailants move loudly and .45 caliber bullets blaze atmospheric paths towards any sound created by boot and foot. The legs of man and woman straddle each other, continuing to foster oscillating motions as adrenaline adds to lust and regret of dying reminds of love.
***
She massages his shoulders, careful to avoid the black and purple of the fist-sized bruise near the top-right of his ribcage. He loves her hands and their professional technique. And, in his case, their loving technique. The movements of her fingers and thumbs threatens both to induce sleep and elevate libido. As he adjusts his hips to make room for the encroaching discomfort, she gently rolls him over. His eyes are closed but he's smiling. Fingertips glide from chest to stomach; from stomach to inner thighs, then slightly higher. She removes her shirt in a smooth, almost choreographed transition, and she grabs him, drawing him into her in a seamless glide.
His eyes open and palms extend, just barely allowing erect nipples to brush them while her body begins its slow bounce. Watching her for a few moments - this, one of his favorite views - he slides his hands to her hips, palpating her buttocks and finding her ticklish spot on the rear-right of her pelvis. She squeezes him in playful response and he lets go, finding the urge to gasp overpowering.
***
Another bullet cracks scapula, pushing bodies downward for an instant, posture righting itself with an orgasm of life that will end in seconds. The kiss fades, replaced by embrace, neck to neck. Blood rushes from eyes in an attempt to keep bodies and lust alive. With their fading sight, attacking silhouettes are effectively engaged, ensuring that Orpheus and Eurydice will have plenty of fresh company in Hell.
***
Donnie enters the bedroom, unsure of how he'll react. The Handler was right. A massacre was expected and a massacre is what was delivered. Outside of the room are four dead. Inside are six more. Four enemy. Jonathan. Gemma. Were this anyone else, Donnie would take heart in the 8-2 score, but here the thought doesn't dare cross his mind. Even he's failed to realize how much he loved Jonathan and Gemma. They had saved him as much as he'd saved them.
Donnie runs out into the hallway, trying to catch his breath and fight back tears he didn't think existed. He slumps into a chair and pulls out a cigar and his cellphone. His fingers fumble the lighter and it falls to the floor. He's shaking too badly and knows he won't be able to retrieve it.
The cigar thrown across the room, Donnie finds that neither can he dial the number. Holding down voice-dial, he commands, "Call Handler."
A few rings.
"Send in the boys. I can't do it." Donnie hangs up.
He closes his eyes, a numbing sadness forcing a sense of sleep he's not had since he was too young to remember. In his mind, he snaps a photograph of Jonathan and Gemma posed in their final moment of life.
Lovers until the end. Covered in blood. Eyes open, pistols in hand, bodies locked in coital embrace.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Killing Softly, Part II
*Continued from Killing Softly, Part I
"You need a woman," Donnie said, with that half-smile that made it hard to tell if he were joking. Donnie wanted to tell Gemma that she needed a man, but knew Gemma would react more than poorly to the suggestion. So Donnie figured to tell the man he had in mind for her instead.
Donnie knew people. And he knew that Jonathan and Gemma, despite having not yet met, were lost souls who could find themselves in each other. Donnie couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that the cliché fit.
"I don't have time for a woman, Donnie." Jonathan's answer was blunt; emotionless. The sentiment behind the response was clear, even if the words were somewhat of a lie. When he wasn't working, Jonathan did little save read books and watch movies. In essence, he had all the time in the world. That it was painfully obvious Jonathan was depressingly lonely was what sprung Donnie into doing something about it.
Donnie knew people. And the subtle and devious machinations of his demented crime-boss of a mind would, Donnie was sure, eventually come to fruition. He thought briefly of some law of attraction or magnetism he once read about when he was a kid in high school. He didn't understand it then - doesn't understand it to this day - but he figured the principle had to work.
"You need a woman."
***
Gemma Bianci is intrigued. Jonathan's laughter means he's either sick and twisted like damn near every other man she's met, or that he gets it. It's against her nature, but she's leaning towards the latter. She thought she recognized something different when they met. Something in his posture, in his eyes. Part of her even knows that he thought the same of her.
"So, what about you?" she asks, uncharacteristically wanting to keep the silence broken, though she still does not look directly at him.
"How'd I get into killing?" Jonathan asks in return, flicking what's left of his cigarette out the car window.
"Yeah." She almost smiles. Almost.
He studies her for a moment. He knows he's older than she is, but she looks like she might be the older one. Rough lines from a rough life. He briefly wonders what gene determines how a person's appearance is aged by stress.
"It's kind of a boring story, compared to yours."
"Not sure there's such a thing as a boring how-I-got-into-killing story." Gemma senses Jonathan readying to recount his tale and she pulls another cigarette out of his pack. He stares at it, surprised at her intuition, and licks his bottom lip in burgeoning curiosity - he finds himself wanting to really know her. Noticing his hesitation, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it. Taking a drag - a false one, Jonathan guesses - she hands it to him. He can taste her lipstick.
***
The first time Jonathan ever killed somebody, he was only 16. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense... some gang-banging hoodies tried to rip off Jonathan's skateboard and when Jonathan put up a fight, one of the thugs whipped out a knife. In what Jonathan himself calls the quickest reaction of his life, he swung the skateboard into the knife, deflecting the weapon into the assailant's own ribcage. The knife pierced the heart. In shock, Jonathan couldn't do anything but stand there and watch him die.
When the cops showed up, they quickly realized what happened - plenty of witnesses confirmed Jonathan's story - and went easy on him. Though Jonathan was still taken into custody, the arresting officer put on the cuffs as loose as they could get without falling off. Jonathan spent less than two hours in the holding cell.
He, too, wound up with an abusive partner. Amanda Pratt. She had a scolding scream that still causes him nightmares.
Ostensibly abused herself by a high-school boyfriend, she became a self-professed defender of the abused. Amanda was overweight for most of her life and after leaving the abusive boyfriend she resolved to get into shape. Starting with Tae Bo, she engaged in a variety of physical exercise. Rock climbing, Kempo, scuba. There was no activity she wasn't willing to try. She never quite lost all of her weight - though much of it was replaced by muscle - but that didn't stop most men from finding her attractive, particularly Jonathan. Less for her appearance and more for her confidence, he was enamored.
A few months into their relationship, he was slowly exposed to her dogmatic view that men were essentially scum that needed to be cleansed and controlled. He also learned the details that constituted the abuse she endured. Speaking to her sister, he discovered that her "abuse" consisted of a boyfriend slapping her once - by all accounts, the only time this boyfriend ever struck Amanda - at a high school dance. Without excusing the slap, Jonathan realized that Amanda's outspoken defiance was misguided and due more to a public embarrassment, rather than any true sense of abuse.
Finding Jonathan mysteriously against her - so she perceived - she began a quick spiral into abusing him. At first the abuse was emotional, no physical contact at all. But one day she went too far and, in the heat of an argument, grabbed him by the throat. He broke. Feral instinct took over. An elbow to the neck and a violent yank of a pony tail - accompanied literally by a bone-chilling snap - resulted in Amanda's death.
Frightened - both by his own action and of its potential punishment - he fled overseas. He eventually joined the French Foreign Legion - at the time they still fostered changes of identity - and soon became a decorated soldier. Then a mercenary operating out of South Africa. Then a hit-man out of Austria. It was there he first worked for Donnie.
***
"So your name's not really Jonathan Pino Ferrari?" She takes notice that he's let the now-extinguished cigarette dry to his lower lip. It still has her lipstick on it.
"Nope." He spits the cigarette butt out. Point of fact is that he's not even Italian.
"Pino?"
"I love horses."
"And fast cars, I'm guessing." She, too, loves horses, often finding long rides her only form of solace.
He laughs. "Yeah, but I prefer Jaguars."
She understand it's a joke, but doesn't quite find it funny. She's not a car person. Nevertheless, she accepts that he definitely intrigues her. It doesn't hurt that she finds him attractive.
"Huh," she says, finally looking at him. "That was kinda boring."
This time, she joins him in his laughter.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part III
"You need a woman," Donnie said, with that half-smile that made it hard to tell if he were joking. Donnie wanted to tell Gemma that she needed a man, but knew Gemma would react more than poorly to the suggestion. So Donnie figured to tell the man he had in mind for her instead.
Donnie knew people. And he knew that Jonathan and Gemma, despite having not yet met, were lost souls who could find themselves in each other. Donnie couldn't help it; the thought made him laugh. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that the cliché fit.
"I don't have time for a woman, Donnie." Jonathan's answer was blunt; emotionless. The sentiment behind the response was clear, even if the words were somewhat of a lie. When he wasn't working, Jonathan did little save read books and watch movies. In essence, he had all the time in the world. That it was painfully obvious Jonathan was depressingly lonely was what sprung Donnie into doing something about it.
Donnie knew people. And the subtle and devious machinations of his demented crime-boss of a mind would, Donnie was sure, eventually come to fruition. He thought briefly of some law of attraction or magnetism he once read about when he was a kid in high school. He didn't understand it then - doesn't understand it to this day - but he figured the principle had to work.
"You need a woman."
***
Gemma Bianci is intrigued. Jonathan's laughter means he's either sick and twisted like damn near every other man she's met, or that he gets it. It's against her nature, but she's leaning towards the latter. She thought she recognized something different when they met. Something in his posture, in his eyes. Part of her even knows that he thought the same of her.
"So, what about you?" she asks, uncharacteristically wanting to keep the silence broken, though she still does not look directly at him.
"How'd I get into killing?" Jonathan asks in return, flicking what's left of his cigarette out the car window.
"Yeah." She almost smiles. Almost.
He studies her for a moment. He knows he's older than she is, but she looks like she might be the older one. Rough lines from a rough life. He briefly wonders what gene determines how a person's appearance is aged by stress.
"It's kind of a boring story, compared to yours."
"Not sure there's such a thing as a boring how-I-got-into-killing story." Gemma senses Jonathan readying to recount his tale and she pulls another cigarette out of his pack. He stares at it, surprised at her intuition, and licks his bottom lip in burgeoning curiosity - he finds himself wanting to really know her. Noticing his hesitation, she places the cigarette in her mouth and lights it. Taking a drag - a false one, Jonathan guesses - she hands it to him. He can taste her lipstick.
***
The first time Jonathan ever killed somebody, he was only 16. It was a clear-cut case of self-defense... some gang-banging hoodies tried to rip off Jonathan's skateboard and when Jonathan put up a fight, one of the thugs whipped out a knife. In what Jonathan himself calls the quickest reaction of his life, he swung the skateboard into the knife, deflecting the weapon into the assailant's own ribcage. The knife pierced the heart. In shock, Jonathan couldn't do anything but stand there and watch him die.
When the cops showed up, they quickly realized what happened - plenty of witnesses confirmed Jonathan's story - and went easy on him. Though Jonathan was still taken into custody, the arresting officer put on the cuffs as loose as they could get without falling off. Jonathan spent less than two hours in the holding cell.
He, too, wound up with an abusive partner. Amanda Pratt. She had a scolding scream that still causes him nightmares.
Ostensibly abused herself by a high-school boyfriend, she became a self-professed defender of the abused. Amanda was overweight for most of her life and after leaving the abusive boyfriend she resolved to get into shape. Starting with Tae Bo, she engaged in a variety of physical exercise. Rock climbing, Kempo, scuba. There was no activity she wasn't willing to try. She never quite lost all of her weight - though much of it was replaced by muscle - but that didn't stop most men from finding her attractive, particularly Jonathan. Less for her appearance and more for her confidence, he was enamored.
A few months into their relationship, he was slowly exposed to her dogmatic view that men were essentially scum that needed to be cleansed and controlled. He also learned the details that constituted the abuse she endured. Speaking to her sister, he discovered that her "abuse" consisted of a boyfriend slapping her once - by all accounts, the only time this boyfriend ever struck Amanda - at a high school dance. Without excusing the slap, Jonathan realized that Amanda's outspoken defiance was misguided and due more to a public embarrassment, rather than any true sense of abuse.
Finding Jonathan mysteriously against her - so she perceived - she began a quick spiral into abusing him. At first the abuse was emotional, no physical contact at all. But one day she went too far and, in the heat of an argument, grabbed him by the throat. He broke. Feral instinct took over. An elbow to the neck and a violent yank of a pony tail - accompanied literally by a bone-chilling snap - resulted in Amanda's death.
Frightened - both by his own action and of its potential punishment - he fled overseas. He eventually joined the French Foreign Legion - at the time they still fostered changes of identity - and soon became a decorated soldier. Then a mercenary operating out of South Africa. Then a hit-man out of Austria. It was there he first worked for Donnie.
***
"So your name's not really Jonathan Pino Ferrari?" She takes notice that he's let the now-extinguished cigarette dry to his lower lip. It still has her lipstick on it.
"Nope." He spits the cigarette butt out. Point of fact is that he's not even Italian.
"Pino?"
"I love horses."
"And fast cars, I'm guessing." She, too, loves horses, often finding long rides her only form of solace.
He laughs. "Yeah, but I prefer Jaguars."
She understand it's a joke, but doesn't quite find it funny. She's not a car person. Nevertheless, she accepts that he definitely intrigues her. It doesn't hurt that she finds him attractive.
"Huh," she says, finally looking at him. "That was kinda boring."
This time, she joins him in his laughter.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part III
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Killing Softly, Part I
The Handler eyes his boss carefully. Initially, he thought that the request might have been some sort of twisted joke - the boss certainly has a reputation for those - but the sadness so clearly painted on Donnie Adduci's face dispelled the notion.
"You sure you want to do this yourself?" the Handler asks. "We have people already on their way."
Donnie sighs. He does not like to be second-guessed. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably put out his Dominican cigar on the Handler's arm. These are not normal circumstances.
"Yes, I'm sure. I should do it."
"You haven't cleaned up in a while." The Handler adds more respect to his tone, noticing too-late Donnie's subtle ire with the previous question.
Donnie probably should let the others take care of the mess, but this is far more personal than any other mess Donnie can recall at the moment. Far more personal than any of his people could possibly realize.
"Doesn't matter. They were mine. It's my fault."
"What do you mean?" There's alarm in the Handler's tone now. Something's definitely off. Whatever it is, Donnie's not singing.
"Just get me a car, will you?"
***
Jonathan Pino Ferrari eyes the woman sitting next to him. He feels insulted that Donnie gave him a partner - outside of his first three assignments, Jonathan's always worked alone - and even more so that the partner is female. There was a moment that he thought it was a joke. When that proved not to be the case, he surmised that he was expected to train her. The woman - Gemma Bianci - is, however, already a reputable killer. Jonathan couldn't fathom why they were put together. As he sits next to her in a brand new black Chevrolet Impala, he still can't.
He also can't shake the fact that she's... strangely magnetic. Ever the gentleman, he quickly resigns himself to the situation and, finally seeing opportunity, tries to break the ice.
"How'd you get into killing?" It seems a natural thing to ask, though its awkwardness makes even Jonathan cringe as he hears his voice speak it.
There's a moment of silence, barely broken by the almost inaudible separation of wet lips. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?" She doesn't turn to look at him.
"It was meant to be." Jonathan pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket - both killers are dressed in Armani - and tears the plastic wrap, placing it in the cup holder in the driver's door. Before he can tap a cigarette out for himself, she fingernails one out and hands it to him. It is not a gesture of friendship, merely the result of being trained to seduce marks. Jonathan recognizes the professionalism behind it and allows a smirk.
"You want the long version or the short version?" she asks.
"I want the however-much-time-we-have version," he replies, lighting the smoke.
***
Gemma was once the girlfriend of Gabriel Adduci, the son of deceased mob boss Alfonso Adduci, Donnie's brother. She was 19, just starting her junior year at Seton Hall. Gabriel was 22, a fresh baccalaureate, though there were questions as to whether or not he truly earned his degree in economics. She didn't care. Gabriel had the look of a movie star and the money, to boot. He bought her expensive things and all of her friends were jealous. Things were great.
Until she graduated and Gabriel asked her to move in with him.
She'd heard the stories of mob kids. Spoiled brats, usually, and not fans of not getting their way. She wanted to apply to graduate school. Gabriel objected. The arguments came to a head and, finally, she threatened to leave him. But instead of having asserted her independence, she provoked Gabriel's wrath and he struck her.
"You leave me when I say you leave me," Gabriel informed her.
For the next two years she dealt with the abuse, afraid that Gabriel would follow-through with his myriad of threats.
One day, he'd come home drunk and wanted to fuck. At first she was going to allow him to masturbate with her body - as she referred to it, for the love was long gone - but it was clear that Gabriel had recently fucked another woman... maybe more than one, and Gemma refused. Not more than a second passed from her screaming, "Not a chance in Hell," to the butt of his Colt Super .38 connecting with her jaw. The blow drew blood and spun her around onto the bed. He spread her legs apart and pulled her towards him, intent on ripping her sweats and panties off. But he made one mistake. He placed the .38 on the corner of the bed.
Not thinking - indeed, not even sure how to fire a pistol - she grabbed it, turned over kicking, shoved it into his belly and pulled the trigger. Gabriel, mainly from shock, backhanded her across the face. While trying to cover her head from further blows, she instinctively pulled the trigger again, blowing out her left ear drum. She couldn't hear a thing.
But then, there was nothing to hear. The second bullet entered Gabriel's nose, traveled into his brain, deflected off the top of his skull, and exited his head from just above the left ear. The sight froze her. She couldn't even bring herself to resist when some enforcers showed up to apprehend her.
It was then she finally met Donnie Adduci. Everyone around the situation thought Donnie would kill her right then and there, but Donnie instead got her medical attention. He told her she was going to be all right.
Donnie, in fact, hated Gabriel. Hated the thought of Gabriel advancing through the ranks. Gabriel was an out of control punk in his eyes. In everyone's, really, but he was Alfonso's kid and, as such, had to be looked after. But Donnie didn't care. Both Gabriel and his brother, Michael, would eventually cause trouble for the Family. Donnie was convinced of this.
So he made Gemma a deal. Kill Michael, too, and all would be forgotten. She didn't think she could at first, but Michael resembled Gabriel in appearance - quite closely - and that made it easier. That was the day after her 24th birthday. Eight years ago. She's been killing ever since. And, outside of her assignments, hasn't allowed a man to so much as hold her hand.
***
"Damn," is all Jonathan can bring himself to say.
"Yeah, Lifetime movie stuff, isn't it?"
Jonathan laughs. She turns her head further away from him and he sees her purse her lips, then frown, in her vague reflection in the car window. He can tell there's still a lot of femininity inside of Gemma, and he's glad for it. Nobody should have to shut off their identity completely. Psychological survival or not. He should know.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part II
"You sure you want to do this yourself?" the Handler asks. "We have people already on their way."
Donnie sighs. He does not like to be second-guessed. Under normal circumstances, he'd probably put out his Dominican cigar on the Handler's arm. These are not normal circumstances.
"Yes, I'm sure. I should do it."
"You haven't cleaned up in a while." The Handler adds more respect to his tone, noticing too-late Donnie's subtle ire with the previous question.
Donnie probably should let the others take care of the mess, but this is far more personal than any other mess Donnie can recall at the moment. Far more personal than any of his people could possibly realize.
"Doesn't matter. They were mine. It's my fault."
"What do you mean?" There's alarm in the Handler's tone now. Something's definitely off. Whatever it is, Donnie's not singing.
"Just get me a car, will you?"
***
Jonathan Pino Ferrari eyes the woman sitting next to him. He feels insulted that Donnie gave him a partner - outside of his first three assignments, Jonathan's always worked alone - and even more so that the partner is female. There was a moment that he thought it was a joke. When that proved not to be the case, he surmised that he was expected to train her. The woman - Gemma Bianci - is, however, already a reputable killer. Jonathan couldn't fathom why they were put together. As he sits next to her in a brand new black Chevrolet Impala, he still can't.
He also can't shake the fact that she's... strangely magnetic. Ever the gentleman, he quickly resigns himself to the situation and, finally seeing opportunity, tries to break the ice.
"How'd you get into killing?" It seems a natural thing to ask, though its awkwardness makes even Jonathan cringe as he hears his voice speak it.
There's a moment of silence, barely broken by the almost inaudible separation of wet lips. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?" She doesn't turn to look at him.
"It was meant to be." Jonathan pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket - both killers are dressed in Armani - and tears the plastic wrap, placing it in the cup holder in the driver's door. Before he can tap a cigarette out for himself, she fingernails one out and hands it to him. It is not a gesture of friendship, merely the result of being trained to seduce marks. Jonathan recognizes the professionalism behind it and allows a smirk.
"You want the long version or the short version?" she asks.
"I want the however-much-time-we-have version," he replies, lighting the smoke.
***
Gemma was once the girlfriend of Gabriel Adduci, the son of deceased mob boss Alfonso Adduci, Donnie's brother. She was 19, just starting her junior year at Seton Hall. Gabriel was 22, a fresh baccalaureate, though there were questions as to whether or not he truly earned his degree in economics. She didn't care. Gabriel had the look of a movie star and the money, to boot. He bought her expensive things and all of her friends were jealous. Things were great.
Until she graduated and Gabriel asked her to move in with him.
She'd heard the stories of mob kids. Spoiled brats, usually, and not fans of not getting their way. She wanted to apply to graduate school. Gabriel objected. The arguments came to a head and, finally, she threatened to leave him. But instead of having asserted her independence, she provoked Gabriel's wrath and he struck her.
"You leave me when I say you leave me," Gabriel informed her.
For the next two years she dealt with the abuse, afraid that Gabriel would follow-through with his myriad of threats.
One day, he'd come home drunk and wanted to fuck. At first she was going to allow him to masturbate with her body - as she referred to it, for the love was long gone - but it was clear that Gabriel had recently fucked another woman... maybe more than one, and Gemma refused. Not more than a second passed from her screaming, "Not a chance in Hell," to the butt of his Colt Super .38 connecting with her jaw. The blow drew blood and spun her around onto the bed. He spread her legs apart and pulled her towards him, intent on ripping her sweats and panties off. But he made one mistake. He placed the .38 on the corner of the bed.
Not thinking - indeed, not even sure how to fire a pistol - she grabbed it, turned over kicking, shoved it into his belly and pulled the trigger. Gabriel, mainly from shock, backhanded her across the face. While trying to cover her head from further blows, she instinctively pulled the trigger again, blowing out her left ear drum. She couldn't hear a thing.
But then, there was nothing to hear. The second bullet entered Gabriel's nose, traveled into his brain, deflected off the top of his skull, and exited his head from just above the left ear. The sight froze her. She couldn't even bring herself to resist when some enforcers showed up to apprehend her.
It was then she finally met Donnie Adduci. Everyone around the situation thought Donnie would kill her right then and there, but Donnie instead got her medical attention. He told her she was going to be all right.
Donnie, in fact, hated Gabriel. Hated the thought of Gabriel advancing through the ranks. Gabriel was an out of control punk in his eyes. In everyone's, really, but he was Alfonso's kid and, as such, had to be looked after. But Donnie didn't care. Both Gabriel and his brother, Michael, would eventually cause trouble for the Family. Donnie was convinced of this.
So he made Gemma a deal. Kill Michael, too, and all would be forgotten. She didn't think she could at first, but Michael resembled Gabriel in appearance - quite closely - and that made it easier. That was the day after her 24th birthday. Eight years ago. She's been killing ever since. And, outside of her assignments, hasn't allowed a man to so much as hold her hand.
***
"Damn," is all Jonathan can bring himself to say.
"Yeah, Lifetime movie stuff, isn't it?"
Jonathan laughs. She turns her head further away from him and he sees her purse her lips, then frown, in her vague reflection in the car window. He can tell there's still a lot of femininity inside of Gemma, and he's glad for it. Nobody should have to shut off their identity completely. Psychological survival or not. He should know.
*Continued in Killing Softly, Part II
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Driven
Headlights go dark upon impact with the barrier. Wrenching metal twists and snaps, scraping an expensive paint job, one designed to stand out in traffic. But there are no witnesses here. There might have been a squeal of tires and the reverberating hum of anti-lock brakes... except there was no hint of regret; no thought of reversing a decision, until the Ascari A10 was already airborne.
***
Kyle's running full-speed in what will be his final professional game. He has no idea that his leg will momentarily twist violently, shredding both cruciate, both collateral, and his patellar ligaments in his left knee. He's already internationally famous in the football world. And the YouTube replay of a leg heading one direction while a body heads another will make him an Internet sensation.
He's flanking the the opposing striker, dutifully engaged in a battle for position as an attacking midfielder sets up what would otherwise be a breakaway. But Kyle's challenge fails. And since a fellow defender had been drawn hopelessly out of position, he finds himself alone on his side of the field. Another fellow defender rushes towards the goal, but he's too far away. It is the attacking midfielder that Kyle fails to see who charges him, freeing the opposing striker to fire a shot into the goal.
It bounces safely off the crossbar and into the hands of Kyle's goalkeeper while the attacking midfielder, unable to change his momentum, knocks Kyle to the ground while Kyle's left cleat is planted firmly in the grass.
The goal is saved and the red card awarded. But Kyle cannot get up. He hasn't screamed this loud since his brother was killed.
***
As if some futile cosmic joke, the Ascari's brake lights engage in mid-air as the top of a Jeffrey Pine snaps, throwing needles to the ground like confetti in a welcome-home parade.
***
In the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, Kyle gradually accepts that his playing career is over. His agent, unwilling to let a friend and client worry about the future, quickly obtains an assistant coaching position for Kyle in America's nascent Major League Soccer organization. Kyle remains understandably upset over his situation, but he appreciates the gesture. He's been a football mentor since his high school days, often volunteering to coach in local youth leagues, and many agree - the press benevolently included - that the switch will fit him like a glove.
It is only two weeks into his physical therapy that Kyle receives his second injury of the year. A childhood friend has committed suicide. The news is hard to accept and, upon acceptance, even harder to bear. Though Kyle never mentions exactly why, those closest to him accurately surmise that Kyle somehow blames himself... just like, years before, he blamed himself for the death of his brother.
His agent tries unsuccessfully to convince Kyle to remain in therapy; to forgo the funeral. Not out of disrespect for the dead - quite the opposite, in fact. Kyle's agent seems to know what seeing a friend, lying dead in a casket, will do to the former football superstar. Particularly this friend. Whose picture - known only to Kyle's teammates, coaches, and his agent - lovingly adorns Kyle's locker. The agent realizes that he never knew the girl's name until the funeral notice arrived. And even before he told Kyle, he knew the notice was of the girl in the photograph.
***
Another tree shifts the trajectory of the sports car, initiating a spin that is only stopped by yet another tree. Bark and pine needles fire their way through shattering safely glass and transmission axle begins to cut through foliage. A deploying airbag mercifully deflects the end of a branch away from the driver's face, resulting in only a burning cut on right cheek.
***
Kyle lost his virginity to Elise in high school, even though he had been dating someone else at the time. He was 18; Elise was 17. It happened in a guest bedroom at a friend's Valentine's Day party. Kyle knew Elise and his brother were practically an item, but he justified it in that neither Elise nor his brother ever came out and said it. Kyle was - is, really - also in love with Elise. Both were drunk, and he makes no excuses for taking advantage of the situation. He asked her several times if it was okay. She only responded by opening her legs to him or squeezing them around him. When he felt unable to resist his lust for her any longer, he unzipped his trousers, flipped her dress, and entered her body. Though completely drunk, it is his most powerful - and favorite - memory.
He left her there by herself when they finished. She passed out after faking her orgasm and though he tucked her under the blankets, he failed to lock the door behind him. She was raped by a teammate while Kyle was off having sex with his girlfriend. He's never forgiven himself. For leaving her there. For being with another girl. For betraying his brother. And for not killing the rapist, though he tried.
To this day, he knows why Elise ran to Keith and not Kyle after the incident, even though Keith had not come to the party. She must have known where Kyle was and what he was doing. She must have figured that Keith loved her more than Kyle did. Kyle's since refused to determine for himself if that was the case or not. But he did love her. Still does.
She moved away shortly after the rape. Kyle never saw her again. He wanted to, of course, and was planning on doing so. But Keith's death changed everything. And Kyle couldn't live with any more guilt.
***
The chassis' forward progress is halted by a sturdy trunk and the car begins to slide straight down. A branch bends but does not break, flinging the Ascari into a rolling descent. Seat-belt burns a mark into neck as wooden hands begin tearing apart carbon-fiber and leather.
***
Kyle remembers the calming nature of the Sierra Nevadas. The crisp mountain air, the moon's reflection on mountain lake. He's tried everything to outrun his ghosts - both of them - but nothing's seemed to work. The winding highways through the mountain range offer brief solace. He drives dangerously and it's making him focus.
At least for a while.
He can smell the brakes heating up. He can feel the transmission struggling through constant downshifting. He can see the red-line on the tachometer. He can hear his brother. He can hear the lover he always wanted. And he wants to join them.
A guilty conscious makes for a poor passenger. Kyle is well-aware of this, having lived with one for years. He decides to finally let it drive.
There is no hint of regret; no thought of reversing a decision. Until the sensation of flight reminds him of what it means to be alive.
***
Kyle's running full-speed in what will be his final professional game. He has no idea that his leg will momentarily twist violently, shredding both cruciate, both collateral, and his patellar ligaments in his left knee. He's already internationally famous in the football world. And the YouTube replay of a leg heading one direction while a body heads another will make him an Internet sensation.
He's flanking the the opposing striker, dutifully engaged in a battle for position as an attacking midfielder sets up what would otherwise be a breakaway. But Kyle's challenge fails. And since a fellow defender had been drawn hopelessly out of position, he finds himself alone on his side of the field. Another fellow defender rushes towards the goal, but he's too far away. It is the attacking midfielder that Kyle fails to see who charges him, freeing the opposing striker to fire a shot into the goal.
It bounces safely off the crossbar and into the hands of Kyle's goalkeeper while the attacking midfielder, unable to change his momentum, knocks Kyle to the ground while Kyle's left cleat is planted firmly in the grass.
The goal is saved and the red card awarded. But Kyle cannot get up. He hasn't screamed this loud since his brother was killed.
***
As if some futile cosmic joke, the Ascari's brake lights engage in mid-air as the top of a Jeffrey Pine snaps, throwing needles to the ground like confetti in a welcome-home parade.
***
In the Royal National Orthopaedic Hospital, Kyle gradually accepts that his playing career is over. His agent, unwilling to let a friend and client worry about the future, quickly obtains an assistant coaching position for Kyle in America's nascent Major League Soccer organization. Kyle remains understandably upset over his situation, but he appreciates the gesture. He's been a football mentor since his high school days, often volunteering to coach in local youth leagues, and many agree - the press benevolently included - that the switch will fit him like a glove.
It is only two weeks into his physical therapy that Kyle receives his second injury of the year. A childhood friend has committed suicide. The news is hard to accept and, upon acceptance, even harder to bear. Though Kyle never mentions exactly why, those closest to him accurately surmise that Kyle somehow blames himself... just like, years before, he blamed himself for the death of his brother.
His agent tries unsuccessfully to convince Kyle to remain in therapy; to forgo the funeral. Not out of disrespect for the dead - quite the opposite, in fact. Kyle's agent seems to know what seeing a friend, lying dead in a casket, will do to the former football superstar. Particularly this friend. Whose picture - known only to Kyle's teammates, coaches, and his agent - lovingly adorns Kyle's locker. The agent realizes that he never knew the girl's name until the funeral notice arrived. And even before he told Kyle, he knew the notice was of the girl in the photograph.
***
Another tree shifts the trajectory of the sports car, initiating a spin that is only stopped by yet another tree. Bark and pine needles fire their way through shattering safely glass and transmission axle begins to cut through foliage. A deploying airbag mercifully deflects the end of a branch away from the driver's face, resulting in only a burning cut on right cheek.
***
Kyle lost his virginity to Elise in high school, even though he had been dating someone else at the time. He was 18; Elise was 17. It happened in a guest bedroom at a friend's Valentine's Day party. Kyle knew Elise and his brother were practically an item, but he justified it in that neither Elise nor his brother ever came out and said it. Kyle was - is, really - also in love with Elise. Both were drunk, and he makes no excuses for taking advantage of the situation. He asked her several times if it was okay. She only responded by opening her legs to him or squeezing them around him. When he felt unable to resist his lust for her any longer, he unzipped his trousers, flipped her dress, and entered her body. Though completely drunk, it is his most powerful - and favorite - memory.
He left her there by herself when they finished. She passed out after faking her orgasm and though he tucked her under the blankets, he failed to lock the door behind him. She was raped by a teammate while Kyle was off having sex with his girlfriend. He's never forgiven himself. For leaving her there. For being with another girl. For betraying his brother. And for not killing the rapist, though he tried.
To this day, he knows why Elise ran to Keith and not Kyle after the incident, even though Keith had not come to the party. She must have known where Kyle was and what he was doing. She must have figured that Keith loved her more than Kyle did. Kyle's since refused to determine for himself if that was the case or not. But he did love her. Still does.
She moved away shortly after the rape. Kyle never saw her again. He wanted to, of course, and was planning on doing so. But Keith's death changed everything. And Kyle couldn't live with any more guilt.
***
The chassis' forward progress is halted by a sturdy trunk and the car begins to slide straight down. A branch bends but does not break, flinging the Ascari into a rolling descent. Seat-belt burns a mark into neck as wooden hands begin tearing apart carbon-fiber and leather.
***
Kyle remembers the calming nature of the Sierra Nevadas. The crisp mountain air, the moon's reflection on mountain lake. He's tried everything to outrun his ghosts - both of them - but nothing's seemed to work. The winding highways through the mountain range offer brief solace. He drives dangerously and it's making him focus.
At least for a while.
He can smell the brakes heating up. He can feel the transmission struggling through constant downshifting. He can see the red-line on the tachometer. He can hear his brother. He can hear the lover he always wanted. And he wants to join them.
A guilty conscious makes for a poor passenger. Kyle is well-aware of this, having lived with one for years. He decides to finally let it drive.
There is no hint of regret; no thought of reversing a decision. Until the sensation of flight reminds him of what it means to be alive.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Star Fall
There is a certain hardy professionalism involved with soldiers who volunteer for atmospheric assault units. Most military movies these days concern themselves with AAUs, despite the fact they make up less than five per cent of combat rolls. For decades, AAUs have had a reputation - earned or not - for being the best of the best. One thing's for sure, Humphries muses, they're the craziest of the crazy.
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
The fact that he's smiling as he plummets at terminal velocity towards the surface of an alien planet is more than enough proof of that.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
For some reason, the ballistic personnel carrier fired his unit's pods at too shallow an angle and Humphries quickly recognized that he was in danger of taking a one-way trip into deep space. There was no time to determine what happened - the BPC probably came under orbital flak, panicking the pilot into firing his payload too early - so Humphries ejected from his pod, hoping his suit's jets were enough to carry him close enough to the planet's gravity well to bring him in. Once he got situated, a sensor check assured him that most of his unit made it into the atmosphere. Only a handful of transponders were silent, but those could have simply been out of range or already well into the ionization blackout.
At any rate, he has more pressing matters to worry about. Without the drag chutes on the pod, he might not be able to slow down enough for his suit's drag chutes to deploy successfully. Not to mention he's already burned some of his jet fuel.
Forget the peace inside
You’ve given way to the gods of destruction
Full of desire
You feel afraid that there’s nothing left
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over." The radio call is probably futile, since there has never been a recorded incident of an AA trooper in uncontrolled descent - oddly referred to as a cigarette burn in some strange homage to the ancient days of paratroopers - being successfully saved from the inevitable splat. But, Humphries is a hopeless optimist, and futility has never been reason enough not to try. Besides, the thought of his drinking buddies haunted by being the last to hear Humphries' voice is strangely appealing. Selfish, he knows, but who's going to hold that against him in this moment?
"Open net, Thorne 2-6, over."
The ocean is dry
Do you feel hollow?
Nowhere to hide
And nothing to swallow
The wind pummels his suit and maintaining form during descent slowly becomes an exhaustive exercise. A man who once completed a military 30-kilometer march in just over three hours suddenly finds himself angry at the thought of lacking the endurance to fall properly. The irony only makes matters worse and Humphries' open net calls are soon laced with expletives.
And when you can’t recognize
Anything solid
Where do you turn?
When you can’t buy it?
Managing to calm himself down, Humphries tumbles into a fetal position then gradually extends limbs, gaining control of his spin. His suit has control surfaces, but he fears that deploying them will only result in them breaking off at these speeds. Entering the upper level of a thundercloud, he inhales deeply and slowly exhales. Zipping by multi-colored bolts of lightning, he notices how beautiful storms can be.
As a child who once spent countless hours finding shapes in masses of water vapor, he withdraws into his past and begins to create shapes in his mind. Though he is far too close - within, really - and moving far too fast, it is almost immediately that he begins to see her. His visor now riddled with drops of water, even an onlooker directly in front of him would not be able to tell that Humphries has started to cry.
What can you believe in now
With no love to follow?
Now that you have lost yourself
Oh, can anything help you now?
He fell in love with her upon first glance. Though she was dressed in a silly getup supposedly resembling a Middle Eastern princess, he recognized the subtle smile of one whose love of life was only matched by an unspoken loneliness. She learned to enjoy the small things as much as possible, for the large things seemed elusive. Having endured similar heartbreak, he knew that someone must have recently hurt her. At the time, she should've been far too young to be familiar with such pain. But the universe doesn't care to wait when teaching such lessons. Nor, it seemed, did it care to wait when alleviating them.
It would be months before he could get her to talk to him. An emotional eternity, entirely subjective to itself. A free fall into her embrace that seemed to last forever.
What did you learn?
What was it worth?
What did you yearn for?
Everything’s lost now
... and not alone
She finally agreed to spend significant time with him after, he lamented, he received his orders to deploy. It was a repetitive story, and sad, that everyone seemed to wait until he was leaving. But in her case, it was enough. Her initial resistance to him was due to nothing more than she knew he was a soldier and would often be absent from her life. She never told him that she loved him, even as he boarded the shuttle for orbit, but her kiss spoke more to him than anything he could remember. In spite of her pragmatic hesitance, her lips made no secret that they were aware she is loved in return. It was an impact upon both their psyches unlike any other.
Including, he's confident, the impact that will momentarily end his life. His smile returns as he imagines her hair violently whipping in the free fall. Though his desire is to spend the rest of her life at her side, he's content with having been a part of her journey. Perhaps that is the only reason he was born in the first place.
A foolish thought, he knows, as he lets his smile evolve into laughter. He hopes that she will remember a falling star that once wished upon her. And that the universe gets the joke.
Just let your fears go
You might find your way back home
Let your fears go
You might find that you’re not lost
*Lyrics from Sunlounger's "Lost"
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