Now before you start clawing your own eyes out at the title of this article—to give them to me, because I’m a demon, and red-headed stepchildren like myself require such a steep price to pay the devil to relinquish our hell-forged souls—I can explain. I swear!
I still love you. I’ve always loved you. I will never stop loving you. You’re the reason I get drunk, the reason I run around in a manic fit every Thursday night pissed off at the whole world as it spins around me. And in that moment, I feel all the rage of a thousand lifetimes and poets and Arthur Rimbauds and Paul Verlaines and the bitter sadness of his wife Mathilde. How she must have hated him for cheating with such a foolish young boy, when she was with child who just as certainly grew up to become such a foolish young boy himself, and certainly at least half as much as her own foolish young lover.
You should have died with your rotten Communards! She must have thought to herself. How embarrassing to live with one’s parents into adulthood, even now.
I am jealous. I am anguished. Smitten. Vanquished.
Were there any chance of one small future with you, I would take the gentlest of care. Dress your wounds. Make you strong again, like a proper Union wife caring for her battle-scourged husband. I’d fear for the children, your brothers and sisters. I’d fear for your heart, though we’d place ours together. Once more into the fray, waving the banner high and vowing to Almighty God.
Once more…if only once more I could stay.
A hundred years later, I find myself tracing the beaten path once more to your door, a burnt house, a locked remnant of history too precious to disturb. Why prod? “It’s bloody useless,” they tell me, “been five years boarded up.”
I twist the cap of my flask once more, inhaling the purity of a particular old cocktail, the first I had ever drank to rid your memory from my conscious synapses. At least this way, I am free to move. My muscles relax, and I just coast.
Traveling through a daze, I spin content in my own room. And how many years will this continue on, I have to wonder. How many decades and lifetimes shall I be cursed by these strange visitors who refuse to leave me be? Spirits, they call this. Spirits in the bottle are combating the spirits of my head, and the rush I feel is their poison flooding the tunnels of my gut like some sad attempt at chemical warfare.
I quickly drink the bottle dry. Cry. Smoke another cigarette because life is endless with you, be the memories sweet or damning. One can bid goodbye, sure. But these elements never leave. That’s what my therapist says, the Freudian bitch. Always wanting to rehash everything. Over and over, an endless parade of flowing salty bitterness.
But why allow the sewers to overflow? Why dig a bottle of expired milk from a pile and start chugging the chunks?
That’s my theory, anyhow. There’s always a bigger fool than you, some shmuck who has it worse, right? What do you know of love, you selfish bastard. Never gave me an ounce, and I pity you for that. You and your gorgeous looks and sweet character, always with lonely eyes that looked everywhere but right in front of your own goddamn face.
But I love you, that’s why I always stuck around. And try how I might, I could never get you to notice that. To appreciate that. To feel THAT, to feel ME, to know what it was like to be invisible, you think you know because you dropped out of school and isolated yourself from everyone, but you can scarcely say you understand.
You love ghosts so much, but you don’t see when one is in love with you.
And that’s the dead irony, really. I’m the one who’s gone. To everyone, though most of all to myself.
And it all started with a kiss, it all began with you and my decision to leave the church, for I can think of no other reference point at which to place the grand fuckery of my life, but make no mistake, I will NEVER regret you.
No. My biggest regret was in not fighting for you as I should have. For not taking up the mast, for throwing down that sword and giving you up. For not making you understand how I felt by pushing that diseased intruder out of our camp.
I was so goddamn close…so close to having you.
And so this is why my novels concern loss. This is why my vampires feel anguish at the thought of separating from their makers, why young Christophe must make his way to Otherworld to repair the machines his father built to allow ghosts passage to the Earth plane, why no one understands Hux, why Colin is so young and naive, why no one ever fully notices.
Because how could you? I’ve yet to solve such an equation. And yet perhaps if i do…I could have my happy ending and continue on without you, or if fate chooses in its own good time to bring us together once again.
And how wonderful it would be, yes? If Christophe could fix his machines, if Seth understood the drone, if Nigel could gain back his family, if my characters were all safe in one piece.
If only just once, again, my love…
"Я тебя люблю," она сказала.
I broke my crucifix necklace as we stumbled out of the house, my father shouting hurtful words. It felt like forever, all in slow motion, and the noise of the golden cross hitting the wood of the porch sounded like a bomb. I looked down at it for a few moments before you took my hand and stared into my eyes with tears coming down your face.
I ran to embrace you and touched my lips to yours, that kiss providing the only heat in the cold winter…but we had to move quickly. Your kiss kept me warm inside for hours.
"Я тебя люблю."
Air raids were coming and we knew it, but my father could have cared less if we lived or died. We did not exist to him. I did not exist.
All I ever wanted from this day forth was to be in your arms, wipe away the tears like ashes, brush away the glass. We were talking to paper walls as we had walked in, and you held my hand.
We talked as if we were writing, words like pen tips to scratch a thin surface. We spoke of our love. My mother said nothing. Father began shouting and throwing things…the vase on our fireplace flew crashing into the wall a few inches from hitting my shoulder. You started yelling back, fighting for me.
I ran around as you argued with him, taking my family pictures. From when I was a little girl, learning how to ride my bike…to when I went into high school…he had always been there for me. I could not stop crying. As father noticed me, he shouted and I shook in fear.
"чего вы делаете?!?!"
I said nothing. I don’t remember what he was shouting as I took your hand and wanted to go. You wanted to fight for me, you would even have died for me.
The sirens began to sound. My mother became frantic, her words like a tiny spark compared to my father’s outraging explosion.
My mother started pounding her fists into his back as the siren kept sounding. The Germans were coming.
"Никак пожалуйста не сделайте это!" my mother screamed at father.
"выйдите теперь!" he yelled at us and tried to take my bag from me, but you pushed him back inside the house of paper and spilled ink as a strap tore on my bag of memories, but everything was still there. You were still there.
He slammed the door on our lives and I never heard him speak forever after that.
We stood on the porch for a moment after you kissed me.
The Germans were coming, planes and propellers shattering the silence, and a swift wind was coming on our backs. Sirens. The cold of Moscow. Us two girls. Freezing. Snowfall and ashes, broken glass. Silence. No words. Dead pulse. Then static.
Slow like heroin.
We look to the sky, holding on, frozen. No movements. Paralysis. Fire catches our eyes.
Our kiss like a spark ignites us aflame.
And we die.
.. ._.. ___ …_ . _.__ ___ .._
**NOTE: Apologies if the Russian translations are wrong as I do not personally speak the language and so used a translator, but I wanted to make a point of the characters not being understood for who they are in a similar context to how some speakers of different languages cannot be understood by one another. We think of languages today, definitely our native tongues, as often being trivial; we regard it as being a form of communication, and yet they are an intrinsic part of who we are and where we come from. Think of this, Russia, when you allow gays to be beaten down. We are all human, no matter our differences.**
Art is the lie that gets told while your life is lived. This is not a judgment, but an observation. The human brain wants to believe in a story, and so everyone has placed their faith in escapism despite the lie, because it is how we hold the belief that all things are connected and that the bad parts will get better. We need escapism, a suspension of disbelief, a flight of the mind. I realize this every time I get finished editing a video, creating a song, or writing a story.
Real life is not beautiful in itself; real life is ugly. It is the job of the artist to make it beautiful, to tell a story, to give you wings. But without your faith in it, without your interpretation, the illusion crumbles. It is interesting to me that when having taste in a certain art form, people are able to pick and choose what they like and ignore the bad. Imagine if we started doing that with real life…”this sucks, I don’t like this…” You have the advantage of being both the author and the reader of your world. Use your power.
If you’re a writer, if you’re a musician, if you’re a photographer or painter…focus on yourself. I’m not talking about working out your pain, I’m talking about really MAKE something that you feel is representative of your life as a whole, and if you don’t like something in it, don’t focus on it. Just imagine yourself somewhere else while taking inspiration from the present moment. Draw yourself a window and open it. Be where you want to be, not where you’ve already been. Feel the wind on your face. Today is a new day. Create your own escape, and see where the plot takes you =)