Endlessly -8-
:Dom:
I'd been complaining about how slow the time ticked away and decided that I should look for other things to occupy myself with. Sure, I technically could have been writing. But there's only so much one can write. Some say that these feelings are exactly the type of inspiration from which masterpieces are carved. The truth is, when one is truly immersed in such emotions, one loses the ability to do that which comes easily. Or the opposite extreme: one creates a piece that is so intimate that it is impossible to part with it. It becomes a part of one's soul.
I dusted the rooms, fixed crooked pictures, mended holes. I couldn't help but feel nostalgia as I flipped the pages of a cookbook, filled with mouth-watering pastries and cakes. As I passed my tongue over and around a piece, I blocked out the actual flavour of my mediocre creation. I thought about Matthew's cakes and how much effort he put into decorating them. Hours of work just so I could consume their sweetness in a matter of minutes. And yet, yet that was enough for him, even when all I had in return was a smile and a simple 'thank you.' He'd blush and his eyes would glow. And smile an honest, pure smile. A smile with no teeth, but all heart. And even if his cakes hadn't actually been so exquisite (which undoubtedly were) now, after I'd lost him, I could appreciate them. This plain sponge cake. . it tasted like heaven.
And yes, he still lived next door. Virtually a wall away. I could hear him as he sang himself to sleep at night. Or when he clicked the lamp off. I took some comfort in knowing he was fine. But if I ventured out my door and saw him, what would I say? What could be said to one that had been pushed away so coldly and was now desperately wanted back? And in this way, with this question in mind, I was able to resign myself to this loss. If I wasn't able to come up with a suitable manner of expressing my regret over the events, how did I expect myself to be worthy of his being?
He sang beautifully. I pressed my ear against the wall, trying to make myself one with it, so I could hear clearly. It was such a personal thing to him, I realised, that it was akin to drilling a hole to peep when he was dressing. I wondered, that even with this wall between us, if he could feel my presence. He probably didn't; otherwise he would have probably stopped. In that same way, he might feel it, being the over-sensitive creature he was, and instead was serenading me as a gift. A gift he could give me without making physical contact with me. As always. . .
The needles with which I mended those holes had pricked each and every finger. I had tiny reddish spots in my flesh. They were painless, until I actually attempted to hold something with my hands. The pain of mechanical pressure, traveling through my nerves, up my spine, to my brain. A pain that should been small, scattered. Some of that pain was rendered greater than what it should have been. A few meagre squirts of blood seemed to produce more substance than what the injury merited.
I decided to go and see if I could find something to numb the pain temporarily to get on with my task. As I looked at the red-tinted solution in its spray bottle, I wished that such a thing existed for emotional distress. I shook it briskly, not having even a foot out of the store and sprayed it liberally over my left hand. The pain I felt on my index finger as I pressed was excruciating; but it was the last one I would feel for a while.
Across the street I was distracted by a couple. Their wild gestures and agitated voices gave away their tense situation. I didn't bother to lose myself in the triviality of detail; I knew it all too well. I watched how she threw the bouquet in his face and the petals flew in the wind, as he stood there motionless. A world he had built in years came crashing down in a matter of a few seconds.
It was then I found myself walking towards him. The petals still flying around him, like flies. The scene was so magically ridiculously romantic I couldn't help myself in expressing my condolences. I placed my hand on his shoulder as our eyes met. It was understood as his eyes lowered. A crushed petal stuck to my hand, staining it with its colour.
It was then that I realised my hands were numb, there was no point in wasting time, however lovely and devastating the scene had been. I brushed my hand against a wet brick wall, so I could get rid of the stain. Instead I scratched my skin and the red rose pigment mixed with the dirty grittiness of the soiled wall. My hand was so numb I probably could have severed a finger and I wouldn't feel it.
As I entered the building and got closer to my flat, I heard the echo of a piano. A passionate outpouring of emotions, so intense, that I felt sorry for the person. They had no other choice by which to relieve their burdens and exposed their entire soul to a crowd of people who neither deserved nor understood any of it. When I realised that the sound was coming from next door, I began to panic. The palms of my hands began to sweat, entering the wounds in my hand.
I threw down the door, and stopped as I watched Matthew trembling, dancing wildly over the keys of the piano. His eyes closed, and his hands. . .his hands. . .their fingers. . .they were bleeding. Bleeding with every note. The blood splattered, the tips smudged it, until all 88 keys looked pink from my view. Splattered over his face, the curtains, the floor.
I stifled a scream. I shook my head and closed my eyes, rejecting vehemently the idea that this was reality. I couldn't understand how something like his could be happening. I wanted it to stop. I wanted to pick him up in my arms and run out of there with him and look at his hands. To be able to say that it was all a dream. But the pain came back and this was all real.
"Stop!"
I reached out for his hand with my own, trying to ignore the discomfort of feeling his hands drenched in blood. His body, in a zombie-like state, refused to cave in. I felt the pressure of my own hands causing more blood to gush out.
"Stop. Christ, please stop!"
I felt his body collapse against my chest as he breathed slowly. I shook and looked at the scarlet stains covering everything in sight. What was going on? Why hadn't I been warned? Why was it so sudden? And mostly, what was I to do now, when I felt that I was going to lose my mind. . .