(no subject)
It's scrawled in his messy cursive on a spare piece of paper somewhere, crumpled, unfolded, and crumpled again, then stuffed into the bottom drawer of his desk. It's dated Saturday, April 29.
People ask stupid questions. Such as "how are you?" No one really cares how anyone else is. "How's the weather?" Such a fucking inane piece of shit, that one. I don't know anyone who gives a fuck about the weather. "Where do you see yourself in so-and-so number of years?"
Most people answer that hopefully, I believe. (Hope, in my opinion, is the virtue most calculated to bring about pain.) They'll be successful, they'll be happy, they'll be smiling and laughing in the company of people they love. (I always said that I don't love. I wonder if I do now. Is it love or is it just another downward spiral of obsession -- I'm an obsessive fool, if you'll recall -- and lust and self-loathing? I have to remind myself that more than anything else -- anything else in this entire fucking godforsaken world -- I want his happiness. That's why I keep my jealousy as much to myself as I can, not that that works half the time. I don't tell him how much I want to kill that demon just for the satisfaction of it, how much I want to have him all to myself. When I'm gone, he'll only have the demon and I don't have the right to care the way I do, much less complain.)
If you ask me that question with enough years tacked onto it, I can give you an entirely accurate forecast of my life in the future. Or, as the case may be, my afterlife. I'll be sitting somewhere deep in the pits of Hell, watching the fires eat away at my flesh over and over again and feeling the pain as if it were fresh and new every time. I'll be reminding myself that the most pathetic thing I could possibly do would be to cry where no one who cares (there's only one person who cares anyway) can hear me. I'll be struggling to remember what he looked like, to remember the exact shade of ridiculously fucking blue in his eyes. I'll be closing my eyes and covering my ears and watching my own memory fade until I can no longer remember the things he said to me that made me so goddamn happy, the promises of love, always, no matter what. I'll be completely prepared to sacrifice anything I have left then to see him one more time. I'll be forcing myself to face that demon, to endure that fucking infuriating little smirk he has, to put up with the fact that seeing him, I'll have to remember. Gabriel will be all his. His angel. No longer mine.
I think -- I know -- that that's what I fucking hate about this. I spent the first half of my lifetime completely lost, trying to stay standing on a foundation of dried blood and ashes. I'm no less lost than I was, but for the first time someone stops by occasionally, holds my hand, tells me that it'll be all right someday, tells me that there's something in me, something beneath the layers of psychosis and hatred and rage, something worth loving. I'd love to know what that is, but for now I'll trust his judgement.
In so-and-so number of years, I'll have lost that again. I hate to be so fucking melodramatic, but I don't think there are words adequate to describe how much remembering that hurts. Losing the only thing you have. That’ll be the last anyone’ll ever see of my peace of mind.
People ask stupid questions. Such as "how are you?" No one really cares how anyone else is. "How's the weather?" Such a fucking inane piece of shit, that one. I don't know anyone who gives a fuck about the weather. "Where do you see yourself in so-and-so number of years?"
Most people answer that hopefully, I believe. (Hope, in my opinion, is the virtue most calculated to bring about pain.) They'll be successful, they'll be happy, they'll be smiling and laughing in the company of people they love. (I always said that I don't love. I wonder if I do now. Is it love or is it just another downward spiral of obsession -- I'm an obsessive fool, if you'll recall -- and lust and self-loathing? I have to remind myself that more than anything else -- anything else in this entire fucking godforsaken world -- I want his happiness. That's why I keep my jealousy as much to myself as I can, not that that works half the time. I don't tell him how much I want to kill that demon just for the satisfaction of it, how much I want to have him all to myself. When I'm gone, he'll only have the demon and I don't have the right to care the way I do, much less complain.)
If you ask me that question with enough years tacked onto it, I can give you an entirely accurate forecast of my life in the future. Or, as the case may be, my afterlife. I'll be sitting somewhere deep in the pits of Hell, watching the fires eat away at my flesh over and over again and feeling the pain as if it were fresh and new every time. I'll be reminding myself that the most pathetic thing I could possibly do would be to cry where no one who cares (there's only one person who cares anyway) can hear me. I'll be struggling to remember what he looked like, to remember the exact shade of ridiculously fucking blue in his eyes. I'll be closing my eyes and covering my ears and watching my own memory fade until I can no longer remember the things he said to me that made me so goddamn happy, the promises of love, always, no matter what. I'll be completely prepared to sacrifice anything I have left then to see him one more time. I'll be forcing myself to face that demon, to endure that fucking infuriating little smirk he has, to put up with the fact that seeing him, I'll have to remember. Gabriel will be all his. His angel. No longer mine.
I think -- I know -- that that's what I fucking hate about this. I spent the first half of my lifetime completely lost, trying to stay standing on a foundation of dried blood and ashes. I'm no less lost than I was, but for the first time someone stops by occasionally, holds my hand, tells me that it'll be all right someday, tells me that there's something in me, something beneath the layers of psychosis and hatred and rage, something worth loving. I'd love to know what that is, but for now I'll trust his judgement.
In so-and-so number of years, I'll have lost that again. I hate to be so fucking melodramatic, but I don't think there are words adequate to describe how much remembering that hurts. Losing the only thing you have. That’ll be the last anyone’ll ever see of my peace of mind.