Les Fleurs Du Mal
This one-shot typed itself thanks to the help of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs Du Mal, chocolate and Lana Del Rey's new album. It's sad and weird. That is all that comes to my mind if I have to describe it. Thanks to Syd (partypantscuddy) for beta-ing :)
La sottise, l'erreur, le péché, la lésine,
Occupent nos esprits et travaillent nos corps,
Et nous alimentons nos aimables remords,
Comme les mendiants nourrissent leur vermine.
(Baudelaire, Les Fleurs Du Mal – Au lecteur)
People keep telling me I should move on, leave my past and all my regrets behind my back. Every single time I hear those words, I shake my head, hold the tears and smile. I am strong, I repeat to myself. I have always been strong and right now it is not time for me to show how weak I really am. I keep telling myself that. Over and over again. I am trying to convince myself that I can overcome everything that comes my way. If only they knew that I am lying. I'm lying to the people I love, to those who love me and to myself.
Why have I been so dumb? Why have I let myself fall in love?
Love makes people do stupid things.
They say I was crazy. They still say that every once in a while. They say that I am out of my mind for loving him. For still loving him after all this time. They have seen the way he behaved, they have heard what he said and they have realized how wrong he is for me. What they have never seen is the way he used to look at me, they have never witnessed the gentleness that characterized every single touch, they have never felt the way his voice made me tremble with a single word. They have never stopped for a minute to ponder how good he was for me. How good he made me feel. How safe his arms felt around me at night.
I used to tell myself that I had made a mistake by giving "Us" a chance. But then I wonder how my life would have been if I had never confessed my feelings. It would have been dull at first, but then I think I would have moved on, found someone who loved me and cared for me enough to be a father to my kid. I would have never been satisfied with myself. I am still not sure if I would have bear such a life.
Le Plaisir vaporeux fuira vers l'horizon
Ainsi qu'une sylphide au fond de la coulisse;
Chaque instant te dévore un morceau du délice
À chaque homme accordé pour toute sa saison.
(Baudelaire, Les Fleurs Du Mal – LXXXV. L' Horloge)
I'm sitting at his bedside. They told me he won't be able to live through the night. I could not get myself not to see him one more time.
I wipe the sweat forming on his forehead and brows. I feel his hot and clammy skin under my touch. He seems unable to catch his breath. He is panting and groaning in pain and all I could do is up his morphine dosage, but I am not going to do that. Not because I am heartless. I wish I was, but I am far from being so. He had asked me not to, before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He took my hand in his then and plead me not to leave his bed. As if I could, I had replied.
He whispered that he wanted to be conscious till the last moment. To be able to greet death like it deserved. With his middle finger up. I had laughed at his joke. Probably the last one we would ever get the chance to laugh at.
I still love him.
We laid on his hospital bed the whole night, whispering apologies in each others' ears. I held him close to my chest for hours and he let me stroke his cheeks and play with his hair. We cried as we recalled all that we have done together. All the little things. He whispered poetry in my ear. He tried to give me strength and love with those words, when I was the one who should support him.
"I am sorry" he whispered at last.
He never opened his eyes again. I was still alive, but felt dead inside.
"J'ai souvent évoqué cette lune enchantée,
Ce silence et cette langueur,
Et cette confidence horrible chuchotée
Au confessionnal du cœur."