I need new feet; these are all worn out;
I need a new head cause I'm all strung out.
I pull my hair, I scream and shout
To no one.
Lemony held the book in his trembling hands; two hundred pages of reasons detailing exactly why she couldn't commit herself to him, two hundred pages of tearstained ink and blurred pages, two hundred pages of misery. The ring still sparkled in his blurred vision, a broken promise on the edge of the table. A wave of anger flooded his senses, the ring landed roughly on the ground with a satisfying clunk.
Why was it that she had believed the Daily Punctilio, when she knew the lies it published, knew the misery it had caused? Why had he allowed himself to hope for forever when she had thrown his trust away for a despicable misprint? A million questions, no answers.
He wanted to rage, to scream, to hate her with all his might…but he couldn't. He still loved her, loved her unconditionally, loved her even as she sent his heartbreak by carrier pigeon, no less….He hated that he loved her, even as she slipped away.
I need to find a way to spend my time
So you're not always on my mind.
He had answer with a letter not nearly as long as hers, trying to answer each question as fully as possible; knowing this was her last wanted communication with him, he had spent hours trying to find the best way to answer, hours debating with himself, hours erasing, hours rewriting.
He had spent three full pages listing exactly how he loved her, begging with each fiber of his being that his commitment would make her come back, to make her want him to hold her once more. After weeks, all hope was gone, his hidden tears and torn up letters only increased his desperation until he wanted to wail with despair. He couldn't accept that she was gone forever, couldn't accept that she was committed to someone other than the one that she had promised was her only love.
Dreaming wasn't enough, wishing wasn't enough, she couldn't just leave him here with the shreds of hope and his continuously crushed heart.
I walk too fast, I walk the line,
I'm frozen.
And I'm trying to keep it together,
It's not getting better.
One couldn't assume that the more times one does a miserable, dreary thing that it gets easier. This is a terribly hypocritical lie, and anyone who thinks such should not. He had read the book fifty seven times, searching desperately for hidden meanings, jolting up at three am to reread a certain part only to be disappointed. The only thing he had concluded was that it was indeed a horrible mistruth, told only for hopes to be crushed.
He could feel his heart shrinking, nothing was right, everything was pain and headaches and just…wrong.
I'm falling faster,
I'm walking on the ashes.
One more time I'll say goodbye.
He never told anyone, ever, that every night he went to the balcony, breathing the crisp night air and talking to the stars. His father, the VFD member he could barely remember the face of, had once told him that everyone winds up as a star, someday. Wide eyed Lemony had cherished this thought, at first purely because of the poetic feeling of the words, then he began to cultivate thoughts to weave into those scraps of ideas he had come up with already.
Therefore, Lemony had concluded, since everyone will end up there someday, it makes sense to gaze, makes sense to speak since anyone he wished could hear him (theoretically). He had long since abandoned this childish theory; even the alluring mystery seemed a bit far-fetched. But the tradition stuck, and so he went out to gaze at the stars every night without fail.
But it was only recently that he had brought the thick book of Beatrice's, simply holding it in his hand as he whispered apologies, regrets, and farewells into the cool wind.
The last word echoed through his thoughts: Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye….
But I can't move on.
I go in circles, going down.
And take these dreams
Dreams had always been a mysterious and mystical thing, whether sparking otherwise un-thought-of ideas, or enlightening us to something we didn't know we knew. Therefore, dreams are used often in fantasies; Dreams can also mean blurring the fine line between visions and reality (daydreaming).
As painfully cliché as it undoubtedly was, his were all filled with her. Her smile, her uncertain chew on her bottom lip, her little imperfections that made her a true angel to him. He dreamt of her forgiveness, her warmth, her scent next to him. He always woke up to disappointing silence, the vacant space next to him mocking his fallen hopes.
'Cause they're killing me
Hanging by a thread
And I don't know how to get
Unaddicted.
I need your air
Beatrice could still remember his scent, the musky undertones and warmth, freshly cut grass and hope. She sometimes thought she caught a hint on the wind, almost as though it was sent to her, but it was gone before she could really know it was even there in the first place.
Whispers were "sent" as well, almost as though he was trying desperately to reach her somehow, but they danced temptingly on the edge of hearing, just light mutters of things. She strained, begged her ears to listen more closely, but that too was gone before she was sure.
Can I breathe you in?
Well you're my light
My prayer
My sin.
Bertrand was lovely to be sure, but he was so calm, so reasoning. Never had they not planned, never had they jumped into anything without proper precautions, never had she not wished for something more.
A friend with benefits, there was no spark, no crazy, burning, desperate needing to speak again, no…Lemony, as she had come to realize. It was hurting her, tearing her apart from the inside, she didn't want to hurt anyone, but she couldn't live like this.
But she did; every day. And it was killing her.
I'm going down, I'm sinking in
To nowhere.
Beatrice's number one claim to insanity was her sudden attacks of heartbreak. She sunk into them willingly, which was her other reason, delving deeper into her misery until Beatrice dissolved into tears and all that was left was a heartbroken little girl, sobbing hopelessly into the pillows. She dug so deep she didn't even know who she was anymore, where she was, couldn't feel pain above the throbbing in her head.
She couldn't feel her body, it was as though she was watching as a detatched sprit above the body of this horribly miserable girl, floating about and feeling empty, missing something important that lingered on the edge of memory, something that was just out of her reach.
I'm everything I don't want to be,
I waste my nights thinking you're thinking of me.
Beatrice's first night of desperate loneliness arrived the evening after she sent that heart wrenching novel. She had shed countless tears over that book, and a huge weight had lifted off of her shoulders the moment she bid those carrier pigeons goodbye.
She had sunk down in the cool sheets and thick pillows, expecting a warm, peaceful rest. Instead the black behind her eyes was replaced by a horrific slideshow of Lemony-Lemony sobbing, Lemony hating her, Lemony ripping her book apart, Lemony meeting someone new, Lemony jeering at her begging for forgiveness at his knees… She had jumped up, startled, and sobbed for at least two hours, until her eyes were painfully dry and out of tears.
She only consoled herself now with thoughts of Lemony still loving her, forgiving her, dreaming of her as she did him. She felt dirty hoping such when Bertrand lay next to her, but she couldn't help it. It felt wrong, like she was betraying his trust, which meant so much to her even though there was no romantic feeling anymore.
It was like she was Beatrice the Robot on Autopilot, saying things she couldn't remember later, going through everything as though acting out a part in a play.
I draw this line
I still unwind
It's poison.
She never thought one letter could mean so much to her.
Bertrand didn't even know it had arrived, just another secret to couple in with her lies. He had poured his heart into this letter, she could tell, and she knew she couldn't forgive herself if anything happened to it. She concealed it in the important atlas, the one her children knew never to touch, the one her husband thought she never did either. But she secretly snuck in every night, using the alibi of getting a glass of water, tiptoeing quietly down the halls.
Every secret reading felt like a shot of adrenaline, acid in her veins, poison injected to her heart with every proof of his love. Every sentence lifted and sunk her heart a bit more, cracked her armor larger and larger.
The real reason she was so angry, so separate from her tranquil personality when the atlas was ruined.
And I'm dying, I just need a savior,
Chaotic behavior, I'm my own traitor,
I'm sinking like a stone.
She could feel herself dropping, plummeting when he asked to see her again. In the midst of her emotional rollercoaster, she heard her own voice say "I'm sorry, Lemony, I'm married." And when his face crumpled, so did her world.
It sunk in a crushed ball, she could feel it slipping away. And her reality left with him, leaving her to believe that all this was a dream, a terrible nightmare that broke her soul.
One more time I'll say goodbye
But I can't move on,
I'm going in circles, going down.
Sometimes she felt chaotic, ready to rip and tear everyone until they felt as small and lonely as she did. There was a furious monster somewhere deep inside her, and she could feel it, waiting, watchful, patiently to lunge at her loved ones.
And that frightened her more than anything, that she could hurt the ones she cared deeply about by accident.
And take these dreams,
'Cause they're killing me.
Hanging by a thread.
Her daydreams, little fantasies that she spun into insane nightmares, were her reality now, all she had left. She was suspended by a thread, one simple snip was enough to send her screeching to Earth, one little infiltration to her safe haven of insanity was enough to break her metaphorical thread.
She was scared of the real world, it was something like a memory to her comfortably numb brain, but more like a legend of ghosts and monsters and things that go bump in the night. It was her horrible thought, that she could be broken from her docile numbness to be faced with all of the pain she could have otherwise kept lurking on the outside of her bubble, occasionally sending misery through the pores.
And I don't know how to get
Unaddicted.
It was her own private drug, her personal pain inflicting addiction, her own insight to her own pain through her transparent cage.
You're my judge, you're my favorite thing,
You're the only song that I want to sing.
Lemony could feel her breaking away, feel her growing further and further apart until pop! She was gone, and this new version, with her biting words and dull, lifeless eyes had replaced his love. It had broken his heart, and done it with seeming pleasure, glee even, at his broken spirit.
Beatrice loved to sing. She sung everywhere: at plays, concerts, in the shower, under her breath…. It was another thing that losing Lemony had ruined for her, she couldn't sing anymore. Her normally strong voice sounded strangled and scratchy, and she had no songs that didn't remind her of him.
Can I be your number one failure?
Your little piece of insane?
Just like a habit that I can't break,
Easier to say I learned my mistakes
She could feel her lies turning slowly into truth in her mind. It was a clever way to save her lies and not mix them up, but she felt her grip on what was really right and true slipping. So as she said she loved him, she believed it. Beatrice the Robot loved Bertrand. Okay, just another piece of information to file away.
But I just keep making them,
Over and over again.
Unlike her, who lived in blissful numbness, he could feel the pain every time he woke up, every second of his day, in his dreams even. It was like his life was just the same day repeated over and over again, there was no variety without Beatrice, no happiness without her warmth.
And it was him who hurt the most at her death.
And I don't know how to get
Unaddicted.