The song she had replayed nearly 50 times that night seemed to be slowing, less recognizable, and more painful with every measure. It was the way that he said, 'now if you don't mind, leave', it was those words that danced down her spine, it was a farewell to arms all over again. She was simply walking, periodically picking up a piece of gravel from the broken road and throwing it as far away as she could. Headphones in, a rarity- she always let the music echo, but not tonight. It wasn't supposed to end this way. He had given her a letter after he ran his fingers through her hair at their departure, his touch was different and that she was sure of.
She had the unopened envelope at hand, feeling that there was more than just paper inside. She already knew what it said, she already felt the pain that the silent words would bring, and she knew it was the last of these letters. These letters. These letters in cheap white envelopes, these letters inscribed on scraps of copy paper, these letters written in the kind of ink that bleeds through the sheets so that he could only write on the front. She would miss those obvious things about the letters- the frequency, the seductive loops of the s's and y's, the same but never monotonous terms of endearment. 'Darlin', he would call her.. She would miss that the most, it was always her favourite. This letter, this letter with the number 94 circled in the top right corner, this letter would be it.
Continuing her stroll in a 'mas despacio' manner as the Spanish would say, she ran the sides and tired edges of the envelope over her lips as if they were the tips of his fingers- the song seemingly fading despite its volume. It was nothing she did, it was without provocation, and unquestionably inevitable. That, she had known from the beginning. She always asked him why he continued to do things if he knew that they would hurt him in the end but now she knew why, words couldn't explain it but she knew. Nowhere to be, no clock constricting, no one to see- it was time. Time, she always thought was one of those sacred ambiguous kind of things because it is something that people always have and never have simultaneously. It was time for that ending he always asked about, time to encounter the final 'last' of what once was.
Perched upon some random ledge now, headphones out, staring at the envelope. She had always opened envelopes like her father did, tearing from the left side fold because of her inability to properly and wholly lift a sealed top flap. She had learned that tearing things apart in one shot was always much easier and durable than shredding them bit by bit anyways. As she tore this one she felt her heart tear with it, the kind of tearing that brings an everlasting scar with it. She could always tell you how many pages were stuffed inside an envelope by its weight, she knew there were 4 in this one. She tugged at the contents, pulling the weight of the foreign object still hidden within. The sound of paper against paper was one she enjoyed, one of those sweet sounds of life. Before reading those familiar scrawls, this time in the deepest of blue inks, she shuffled the sheets until she found what that object taped to the last paper was. That nervous, sad laughter she had no control of leaked out as her eyes watered up and she grasped it tightly. He knew how to make and break her.
She finally began, hand clasped over mouth and violent silent shakes as she read the words she had already guessed. Surprise was never the issue. The first two pages were his apologies, his reasons, and his pains in having to do such a thing. The third page was his favourite memories, the things he wished they had done, and his assurance that everything they did was true and without regret. Horrific yet beautiful pains swelling inside her, waves of bittersweet memories, bursts of a wide range of unstoppable emotions. The first three pages were the ones she could have guessed, the ones that would haunt her, and the ones that she would reread until she could recite in entirety but it was the fourth and final page that she had no words or exact feelings for. Written so orderly and seemingly yet unusually planned, the fourth page was a list of promises and lies that he had kept to himself all this time. Every lie he told her, every promise he wanted her to keep, every word he thought she deserved. It was so unsettling, so despicable, so full of beauty- the truth. It was all so surreal, every word.
She looked at the half inch leather bracelet resting in her palm and felt her favourite words of his pressed on its insides this time in Latin, 'sunt paratum te pro carmine, deliciae?' and 'omnia ieram.' There were no other words that needed to be said, no other feelings that possibly could have been exerted, no other way to end such a thing that had never really started. It was all lovely, every moment, and she couldn't take that away if she tried. Some things really could not be and if they tried to exist in whatever form they surely would not last, as much as she tried to fight the concept, he had been right about it. If she could put the whole experience into just a few words she would say that it was a candle with both ends burning. His world moved too fast and her's burned too bright, and the horror of it all was that they couldn't do a thing about it, they had to go mad and accept things for what they were as they watched the last page of their story turn.
No comments:
Post a Comment