There are too many regrets in my life. I carry them well, hide them beneath an austere exterior, and I can almost make myself believe that a serious existence is worth giving up my identity. Even now, sitting here, I have to argue with a piece of my brain in order to admit that its not.
The dark, hazy room is not reality. It's a shelter from the storm that is real life, and here I can allow myself to grieve for the part of myself that I killed in order to get to where I am now. The graceful strands of a song I haven't heard in years float around me, drawing my eyelids closed.
The heavy smell of smoke still curls around me. It's a smell I've always associated with Curt, despite the fact that millions of other people smoke the same cigarettes. The smell is different when it comes from him; the bitterness fades and takes on a sweet, musky quality, almost comforting in this haven for the lost.
It's funny how beautiful people look when they're walking out the door.
Mandy's words ring in my head. She was right. He had never looked more beautiful to me than when he stood at in that spot moments before, eyes unsure. He was always invincible to me, beyond the reach of mere Arthur Stuart. Ten years ago I realized he wasn't invulnerable. Tonight I realized he was human.
I saw him hesitate on his way to the door, and I wonder if he remembers me. It's irrational, and the staid part of myself knows that no one could spend ten years pining after the unremarkable back of my head. That was all he saw that night; my blue hair, my pale skin stretched before him, a sacrifice to the god of a dying era. I was a stand in for Brian that night, a cheap substitute, tarted up like a bloody woofter.
My rational may have convinced me that it was nothing, if it wasn't for the morning after. People spend their lives waiting for moments like that and never get them. I had mine. Maybe it's all I get. Maybe it's all I deserve.
My eyes open, drift down to the dripping pin clasped inside my hand. I smile and for once, it isn't forced. Curt thinks I deserve more. Whether he remembers me or not, he thinks I'm worth something. The song ends; I slip the pin in my pocket and stand. It's been a long night.
I leave through the back door like Curt did, stepping from the dingy refuge into the cold February night. I jerk as the door slams shut behind me; I wasn't expecting such a loud bang, such ringing finality.
Before I can go any further, a glowing ember hits the ground in front of me. "Hey." His voice is husky, rough from years of abuse. I turn to face him and nod, unable to speak, not knowing what to say even if I could. "I was waiting for you."
Curt steps toward me and I smile. Maybe there's nothing left to say, nothing left to grieve for. Maybe I didn't kill that piece of myself after all.
The dark, hazy room is not reality. It's a shelter from the storm that is real life, and here I can allow myself to grieve for the part of myself that I killed in order to get to where I am now. The graceful strands of a song I haven't heard in years float around me, drawing my eyelids closed.
The heavy smell of smoke still curls around me. It's a smell I've always associated with Curt, despite the fact that millions of other people smoke the same cigarettes. The smell is different when it comes from him; the bitterness fades and takes on a sweet, musky quality, almost comforting in this haven for the lost.
It's funny how beautiful people look when they're walking out the door.
Mandy's words ring in my head. She was right. He had never looked more beautiful to me than when he stood at in that spot moments before, eyes unsure. He was always invincible to me, beyond the reach of mere Arthur Stuart. Ten years ago I realized he wasn't invulnerable. Tonight I realized he was human.
I saw him hesitate on his way to the door, and I wonder if he remembers me. It's irrational, and the staid part of myself knows that no one could spend ten years pining after the unremarkable back of my head. That was all he saw that night; my blue hair, my pale skin stretched before him, a sacrifice to the god of a dying era. I was a stand in for Brian that night, a cheap substitute, tarted up like a bloody woofter.
My rational may have convinced me that it was nothing, if it wasn't for the morning after. People spend their lives waiting for moments like that and never get them. I had mine. Maybe it's all I get. Maybe it's all I deserve.
My eyes open, drift down to the dripping pin clasped inside my hand. I smile and for once, it isn't forced. Curt thinks I deserve more. Whether he remembers me or not, he thinks I'm worth something. The song ends; I slip the pin in my pocket and stand. It's been a long night.
I leave through the back door like Curt did, stepping from the dingy refuge into the cold February night. I jerk as the door slams shut behind me; I wasn't expecting such a loud bang, such ringing finality.
Before I can go any further, a glowing ember hits the ground in front of me. "Hey." His voice is husky, rough from years of abuse. I turn to face him and nod, unable to speak, not knowing what to say even if I could. "I was waiting for you."
Curt steps toward me and I smile. Maybe there's nothing left to say, nothing left to grieve for. Maybe I didn't kill that piece of myself after all.