I can't see in the dark.
Even semidarkness is opaque and solid blackness to my tarnished vison, leaving me effectively blind as soon as the evening shadow prowls across the heavens. I know I should be thankful that I am able to see anything at all, but knowing this doesn't make the unpitying reality of my life any easier to digest. Anger leaves a stale taint on everything that I once had, blinding me to my pain and allowing me to swallow my memories whole. Rage could make me forget why I was mad in the first place, and in this way I abused it like a drug. But it never lasted long enough, and soon everything began to feel raw and cracked when my thoughts eluded every carefully placed barrier and poured back over the shingles in my mind like a torrent of acid rain. Only in the light am I able to see, yet I am still a creature bound to the darkness because I can see things more clearly without my eyes.
Even sight tastes bitter to me because I will never witness the decadence of color, the illustrator of every story and emotion in every setting. My world is like a film under red light, and in some ways it was better to be blind. As a child I saw in colors, and I like to believe that I still remember what they look like, but how can I ever know if I am wrong? Feeling my recollection of color wilt was like watching an unblemished flower shrivel up and die. I knew it had to come eventually, and there was nothing I could do to make it live forever. Vibrant blues and purples began to corrode and jumble together, like petals turning brown with dehydration, then finally falling from the flower and turning to dust. I think green used to be my favorite, verdant, lush, electrifying green, but I could only imagine the green in my mind, attributing it to certain sounds I heard and things I felt. It will never be enough.
At the orphanage I was completely blind, and my mind became my escape. I locked myself inside my steel box and swallowed the key, lashing out at anyone who tried to reach me, because there I could pretend anything I wanted. I could pretend that I was still at home in my bed with my mother waking me up from the nightmare reality was, telling me there was no monster under my bed. I could pretend that I could see again, and I could pretend that I knew somebody who loved me and cared that I existed. People called me crazy. How could they know I was only trying to keep myself sane?
I'm still imagining to this day because only a thin cut of ruby quartz separates me from green and obliterating anything in my line of vision, including some who wouldn't think twice about killing me if the tables were turned. I'm still imagining that I am not alone.
These are all consequences of that prodigious affliction that transformed me before the watching eyes of the world into a being unfit for society, into something less than human. "Mutant" they would whisper, and even the name sounded harsh and steeped in animosity, the edges cutting through me until I believed their condemnations. The word called to mind an image of a half-formed creature with red eyes and blistering skin, mutated and forever damned. How could I be allowed to walk the earth?
The enmity of the masses doomed me to a life beyond the placid stone fortress that is normality. I used to believe that this sort of life was my cage, something that restricted my movement and placed shackles on every dream I once had. You were the one who showed me that the fortress was the cage. You showed me that the fearsome wilderness still held whispers of beauty that could not compare to cold stone and iron.
I have so many memories of you on the walls of my mind. Most of my memories are boxed away and covered in cobwebs, but every memory with you in it is as fresh as wet paint, staining my heart just a little more every time I have to look at them and accept that they are all you left in the fiery wake of your sacrifice. They are contained like photographs in burnished golden frames with all the colors faded away. Every other detail is captured in stark, brutally honest ink, haunting me with my own capacity to remember so accurately. I could take down any one of these snapshots of time, fall head first into the sea of my memories and never have to wake up to admit you are gone.
It was a wet and soppy April that year, the exact day is completely irrelevant, but I believe it was sometime close to Easter because both Bobby and Warren were gone to spend time with their families. Xavier had traveled to New York for a conference, and Hank had barricaded himself in the basement, making him effectively inaccessible. Perhaps this is the reason why I have always hated holidays. They always left me feeling alone, the orphan with no family to go to.
Your family tried to get you to come home as well, but you refused. I couldn't blame you, but I almost wished you went to see them because at least there I knew you would be safe. Instead, you had gone out with that detestable maggot of a boyfriend, in a flurry of silk, lace and perfume, while I stared on, wondering what compelled you to get dressed up for him.
I lied to you when I said that I also had a date that night. Susan had canceled at the last moment because she had suddenly acquired a babysitting job that was of dire importance. She meant nothing to me, so I was not saddened by the break off, but I couldn't bring myself tell you that I had just been discarded, especially with him standing there beside you with an offending hand placed casually on the swell of your hip, smiling like a jackal who had just devoured a canary, bones and all. He was always touching you. You knew something was wrong, but you played my game, your eyes tossing me questioning glances every time you thought he wasn't watching.
I hated him. He was a conceited blonde jerk with a visibly upturned nose and a narcissistic notion that he was God's gift to all women, which meant that naturally he had to have the best one, you. His flinty eyes held a certain predatory look all the time, like he was biding his time before he dogged you down and broke you into a million pieces, just because it thrilled him to see you suffer. Now those eyes were fixed on me, daring me to spring you out of his trap.
I knew the atrocities he had committed, the ones you begged me not to speak of, because as long as nobody said anything it didn't have to be real. I was too afraid for it to be real as well. He satisfied himself in knowing that I couldn't venture into the belly of the beast, even to protect you, and this shattered me inside as much as it did you. But by that point we were both living outside our bodies anyway, so the pain was almost surreal, and could be ignored. I tried to block the visions of what one of my optic blasts would do to him, but I couldn't help but feel a grim sense of satisfaction as I imagined him crashing through the wall, his bones snapping, his mocking eyes wide and the smirk completely gone from his face as he choked on scraps of drywall and his own blood. Both of you remained oblivious as I fought off the images in my head.
I stood in the doorway and saw you off, pretending to be waiting for someone who wasn't coming to go somewhere I wasn't going. I even checked my watch with feigned impatience every now and then, casting hooded glares in his direction. Then you were gone, leaving me to stand on the doorstep and gaze after my goddess as you disappeared into the night. Once his car turned the last bend and vanished into a clump of trees, I slouched against the molding and growled in frustration, like an animal tethered to a post. I let you go with him. I was suffocating in my starchy dress clothes and perfectly inclined to wallow in misery and contempt for myself. Why did I always let you go?
You never realized how much it hurt me to see you with him, but then again, how could you? I never protested, I had perfected the skill of being able to look disinterested when it came to matters like your love life, and I was full of hurts that I never dealt with, making it hard to tell what the cause of my grief truly was. It hurt me because I was too much of a coward to tell you how I felt, and to you I was nothing more than a best friend. It hurt me because I was the one who tended to you when you 'Feel down the stairs' and sat up beside you when you cried yourself to sleep. It hurt me because I loved you, and I was too afraid to protect you.
I felt too dejected to change out of my crisp, clean costume, so I moped over to the living room and plopped bonelessly into a couch. It creaked indignantly in protest, outraged and anguished, but yielding out of habit, just like me. I sat alone in the dark and stared into the abyss. It would be easy to turn a light on, but I didn't feel like seeing the world that night. The world was a wreck that turned everything into sour murmurs of my former life. Nothing was linear anymore, pain was today, yesterday, a year ago, and even father into the past and it all ran together like colors into water. My thoughts tumbleweeded and began to bounce across my mind in disjointed fragments.
"Your not protecting her by keeping silent."
You, draping yourself across the doorway, giving me a burning stare and asking me in a mock sultry voice, "How do I look?"
"She's so perfect, she doesn't have any problems."
Running from deamons in my own mind, losing myself inside a void of blindness and feeling there was nothing left to live for.
"You're not blind, you're a chicken."
Meeting a girl with a silver voice and a violet touch. Loving her before I could see her face or know her name. You.
"He hit her."
You, fingering a large ominous bruise hiding in the lace on your milky collarbone and turning to me with guilty eyes, "It's not what you think. Please don't tell."
"How can you just let her leave?"
I was reminded of the kids on the playground back in grade school. Tommy Fin caught a swallowtail butterfly and everyone gathered around to see. It was the most prepossessing creature I had ever seen, with painted eggshell wings of butter yellow spattered in blots of red and blue. It struggled feebly against its captor, glorious wings beating frantically in a mad search for freedom spreading effervescent clouds of powder everywhere. This only seemed to excite Tommy all the more. In liquid chill of a voice that raced through my bloodstream he declared that the tiny defenseless creature in his hand would never fly again. And the butterfly fought helplessly, never understanding its sentence.
I was horrified when Tommy took one of its wings between his fat dirt splotched fingers and began to tear it off. With a sickening sound like a band-aid being ripped from a wound, the wing was amputated in one swift motion. The other kids stared in awe as the butterfly began to bleed translucent yellow blood, flopping around in muted agony like a drunken sailor with its one wing still fluttering listlessly. I felt sick. I wanted to stop him, but I was too scared to face the biggest bully in school. It was either me or the butterfly, and I did not want to end up like the pathetic creature writhing in his palm that was now so despondent that death would be a mercy. With another heart-wrenching rip the other wing was now gone and the insect that remained was no longer beautiful, bleeding and dying, too broken to be put back together. Next came both the feelers and then the legs, one by one, but by that time I was no longer watching.
I still remember how he tortured it to death, and how the bright powder stained his muddy fingers to show everyone what he had done. When all was over and done, he offered me the crumpled wings. I imagined him suffering the same fate as his murdered victim, but even that could not dispel the feeling of injustice that was beginning to form tiny pinpricks behind my eyes.
I buried the butterfly on a small plot of soil underneath the slide. Then I cried because I did nothing to stop Tommy when I could have. I cried because the butterfly didn't deserve that sort of fate. It had committed no crime, except for the mistake of being beautiful. The other kids beat me up and called me a baby, but I was too numb to care and all I heard from their lips was one word, "Coward."
"How can you just let her leave?"
"Please don't tell."
"Now you'll never fly again."
"It's not what you think."
"Never again."
"Don't tell."
"So beautiful."
"So broken."
"Coward."
I was not aware that I had fallen asleep until the sound of the front door opening and closing jolted me awake. It was impossible to tell the current time, or how long I had been asleep. Everything was still pitch black to me. Then I heard footsteps approaching and stood up to turn on a light, but before I could grope my way over to the switch, something barreled into me, almost knocking me off my feet.
I knew it was you the instant your body poured into my arms trembling with suppressed tears. I barely had time to restore my equilibrium before you slipped your slender hands around my shoulders and held fast, nestling your face in my shirt. Once I got over the shock of suddenly having what I wanted most delivered right to me, I realized that all was not well. You were shaking like you were about to crumble and clinging to me, as if at any moment I might vanish. Hesitantly and cautiously as one might handle a China doll, I laced my arms around your waist and held you as your body went limp from the effort to keep from crying. Then the tears came, hot and wet on my shoulder like splashes of fire. Whatever he had done to you, I planned to kill him later. Really kill him. For now, there was you, and you couldn't see either.
It's funny how I remember the inky black moment like my only color photograph, pigmented in my mind with my other senses and captured so intensely that not even the slow decay of time can erase. I remember the way you smelled, like coffee, chocolate and perfume. Your hair was pressed against my check, as plush as a kitten's baby fur, and I slid a hand up your back to tangle my fingers in it. Already my shirt was damp with your tears, and I could feel your breath on my shoulder, coming in shallow hiccups. The satin of your dress was slippery smooth under my fingers, but I was petrified at the thought of letting my hands stray from their position at the small of your back. It was already hard enough to try to ignore the way your curves pressed against me, even in your distraught state of mind. It seemed so sinful, so sacrilegious to enjoy the way your body felt, like shouting in a church, laughing at a funeral or defiling the flag, but I couldn't help myself. Somehow we had ended up in formal attire in the middle of Xavier's living room, barefoot and locked in a comforting embrace.
We stood like that in the dark for a long time. You didn't say a word and I could not desecrate the moment with words of my own, though I was dying to know what had happened. Then again, I reasoned that maybe I didn't want to know yet, not now. You excepted reality a lot better than me, downed it in one gulp like a scalding shot of whiskey, black and unsweetened, pretending to yourself after the fact that it was something sweet. I drowned it in packets of sugar and cream to mask the taste, but I drank it all the same. Now, we were both done sipping acrid verities.
"Dance with me?"
I don't know where the words came from, but I did not regret them. One of us had to take a chance and I let it be me, daring you to turn me down in the dark, where you couldn't even see my face. For the longest time I thought you weren't going to speak, but then I felt you heave with a sigh, and then your silver voice muffled against my arm.
"Scott? I don't think-"
But I wouldn't have your protests.
"Both of us have been thinking too much lately. For once I'd like to see you not think about him or anything else."
"I don't dance much."
I felt you try to pull away with the mumbled excuse, but suddenly I was willing to pay any price for you to stay. I couldn't outrun myself, but I could catch up with you. I pulled you back to me, gentle and insistent, found your face with my fingertips and let them brush away all the leftover tears beading on your cheeks.
"Neither do I."
That was all that needed to be said. I could feel your hesitation slowly melting away in little waves that warmed the glaciers around us. You slid your arms up so that your hands rested on my shoulders, and I shifted my arms to the sides of your waist. After a moment of silence, you began to sway slightly, but there was still no dancing going on.
"Alright. What shall we dance to?" I was elated when I detected humor returning to your tone.
"Anything you want. No matter what it is, I'll pretend to like it," Was my answering quip.
Normally, that would have made you laugh, but you remained somber, "I guess it doesn't matter."
I didn't realize it, but all the while you were drawing yourself closer to me like a moth to a flame, until at last your head came to rest on my shoulder again. I felt your sigh of contentment ripple through me, and then I felt something else. Your heartbeat. Something slid into place in my mind and pieces began to come together. It didn't matter that the darkness enveloped sight, we danced to the combined rhythm of heartbeat, breath and sigh, barefoot and broken, but not beyond fixing, not yet. He had not placed your wings in my hand yet, and he never would.
In that moment I was so in love with you that I could have been a poet, an artist, a writer, a musician, anything you could ever want me to be, with love as my muse. Nothing could effectively embody all that I felt for you, but it would be enough to led me to the springs of inspiration. You were so close, yet so far.
And then you kissed me, languidly and deep, soft and hard, everything at once. If I died right there, I wouldn't have cared, because no matter where the afterlife left me, I could rest in peace. I couldn't feel my feet on the ground. For a few short moments that sped by all to quickly, there was nothing but the taste of you, dark chocolate and orange spice. It was even better than the kisses I imagined you offering me in my wildest fantasies. Your satin lips curved into a delicious smile against mine, and I could not help grinning back.
You leaned against me and we fell back on couch in a tangle. With you on my lap, I decided the experience wasn't at all bad, and I shifted so I could put my arms around you. I found your face in the darkness and I felt the tears still rolling down your checks. I kissed your forehead and then each pearl of salt with a tenderness I didn't even know I was capable of.
"We'll be alright now," I whispered against your ear, "We'll be alright."
I can still feel that moment in my mind, and I can return to it over and over again, a photograph of textures, smells, sounds and tastes. It is impossible to say for certain when my love for you began, but at that moment I knew it wasn't going to end, even if it slowly killed me. How could I have known back then that you would die saving all our lives before I could even marry you?
I want that naivete back.
My memory of you dances blindly forward, never seeing the fact that you are gone, for nothing can diminish the mark you left on my life, and nothing can heal the wounds you left me with. I can still feel you, still smell you, still hear you, still taste you, and in every dream I am still unescapably yours, returning to you and that night over and over again, no matter how much it hurts. Something in me must like the pain, because every morning feels empty and no day can ever satisfy the longings of my heart. There is a small moment of respite from everything that torments me in that one single memory, and it is there where I would like to remain.
Suicide would be the way of a coward, but I have a track record of being afraid to live my own life. You made it a dance that never ended, full of sweet tea and rose petals. Now, I'm just going through the motions jerky and defunct, treading on dead flowers and taking my coffee black, my chocolate dark and my liquor hard, oblivious to the burn in my throat because my heart is bleeding. But no one can see it because Love twists the knife. She used to be my muse, but now she is the worst kind of tease. Inspiring me, but only with songs of sorrow. Making me scream and making me bleed, but never letting me die, unless I do the deed myself.
Tonight I brushed the razor just a little closer to my skin, and the blood stained my shirt. I wonder what you would think of me now, Jean.