Memories. The blasted little half-thoughts that haunt you for the rest of your life. That fill you with regret and longing and tears. The flash of a smile, the ghost of a touch, a whisper of words. The images you reach out for but can never fully repossess. And the nightmares you never wish to see again, but can't quite vanish from the mind. Terror makes things seem so much clearer. I sometimes wish I could forget half as many as the amount I can't remember. And maybe that's why I'm not allowed to dream. Dreams are for the living.
It was our second lesson.
Dreams are for the living.
Because dreams are for people who move forward, who live, who breathe, who change. Because hope doesn't help the dying and broken dreams are all that console the dead. And maybe we could call him cynical and jaded. But mostly, he's experienced within this world, and maybe, just maybe he knows best. Maybe, it was more than a lesson: a warning. Dreams are for the living.
It wasn't something drilled into us. Not like the first lesson, which, though subtle at first, became a mantra, a way of living, a state of being. No. The second lesson was said in a sad whispering drawl, punctuated by the sound of breaking hearts. Because he spoke with more than truth. Because dreams are for the living and he knew better than the rest.
I learned the second lesson. Understood it. Kept it. So maybe that was why he was so surprised when he found me. His child. His soldier. His very best. Because despite all the things that are his, this is mine. The quiet moment when I can stare at the twinkling lights of the city in the distance and remember. And maybe, maybe he understood. He was silent as he sat next to me, leaning against the rough grey bark of the tree I had chosen. He stared out at the horizon, simply sitting. And I knew what he was offering. It was something so simple, so obscene that I couldn't help what happened then. Because trust comes in colors and he was transparent. So unlike the past. Untainted. And so I explained. Because trust comes in colors and theirs was blue.
I stared out at the flicking lights of the city, hoping this would not be a mistake. It had been so long since I trusted someone. So very long. And even longer since I had wanted to. And maybe it was the bittersweet sentiment of the whole thing that made me tell him. Made him understand. Because I wasn't spilling memories for him. I was letting him understand me. And that was something no one had bothered to do in longer than I care to remember. Because the last one was a pretty boy with amber eyes who called me special. And I had believed him.
"It started with a boy."
"It often does." And it was true. But then, I had never known him to tell lies. It was the reason I chose to continue at all.
So he sat as I talked. As I let go of my hard kept secrets. As I gave up the pretenses of my excuses.
"I was young. And I was in love." I smiled softly to myself, mockingly. "He broke my heart." I sighed as I stared out at the expanse of barely lit buildings in the distance. He looked at me then. Asking. Digging. Wondering. "But you had guessed that." He nodded wordlessly, but it was not a surprise. "He was perfect. Beautiful. I fancied myself in love. And in the end it was just a dream. Just the hope of a naïve teenage girl who believed in pretty words and white knights. And I had thought that maybe, he had been dreaming of me too."
His eyes flashed then, darkening to a dull scarlet with understanding. I merely looked back, waiting, as he spoke. His lips parted softly, barely brushing one another as he formed his sentence. It was a soft comment, no malice intended. He simply said: "Dreams are meant for the living." It made me smile, the hoarse whisper he spoke in along with the words themselves.
My lips curled themselves into a rueful smile. "I know. But he said he loved me. And he was all the more cruel for it." He carefully shifted, curling his body close and slightly behind my own, still relaxing against the tree. "He was the beginning of the end, no matter how cliché it sounds. Every subsequent event in my life was related to him in one way or another. I still hate him for it, I think. He ripped away the illusion of control and all it took were a few pretty half-truths."
"Beautiful lies are still poisonous and empty promises are never more than air." His voice fanned across my neck from his new position. His breath sent a tremor along my spine, one he would have noticed. But I still had some words left and he still wished to hear.
"And yet, poison was a familiar taste then. He spun lies like a spider spins webs: frantically, beautifully, and elaborately. I was ensnared all too easily. Then he vanished and I was left trapped in a tangled web of lies. He told me I would forget in time. I wanted to. I tried so hard to forget the hurt. The pain. But I knew then what it felt to be discarded, to be worthless. To know that whatever I was, it wasn't enough. And, really, the tragedy was I had hoped he would prove me wrong. I had wanted him to. To prove that it was possible for someone like him to see the beauty in a broken little girl with no beauty of her own." I laughed bitterly then. Quietly, softly to myself. "I was foolish then. Beauty is relative."
He looked at me then, stared through me and lifted one corner of his mouth as he spoke his next words in a barely there whisper: "And perfection is found in flaws." His arms, which had slipped around my waist, held me tight. And for the first time, I realized there was not another in sight. It was just us. And that was why he had his armed wrapped around a fragile newborn with scars hidden by a flawless mask. It was just us.
"I was alone. Alone with his secret, never quite knowing if I was going mad. And then, life just seemed to fade. But I was not ready to give up. I fought. I fought so hard and it never did any good. They were all killed. My family. The friends I had left. All gone. In an instant. And it was all my fault. How could it not be? They were innocent. And I was a murderer."
"A murderer by circumstance is close enough to a victim to absolve you of your guilt, if you so wish it." And he waited. Seeming anxious for my response, he touched my chin and looked at me. And he must have seen the answer before I said it, but I felt the need to say it anyway. And with a far off gaze into the city, I told him.
"But I do not wish it." My whisper was so quiet he had to strain to hear. And he smiled a small, sad smile. "I do not wish to forget my mistakes. It would tarnish what little memory I have of them. Even if memories are death for the dead. I wish to see them as they were, without covering their images in lies to placate my conscience. It would be a dishonor."
"It is a brave thing, to refuse to lie to one's self. We ourselves are often what scare us the most." I echoed his smile as he spoke.
"But I can still look myself in the mirror. In the end, that is all I can ever hope for." I got up with that parting sentence, but he had a last question.
"Why did you choose to tell me?" And then I genuinely smiled for the first time in a long time.
I let my eyes search his as I answered, knowing he had the potential to understand. So I spoke simply and vaguely, reminiscent of his own speech as he taught us the first lesson. I smiled a slow smile and simply said: "Trust comes in colors and you are transparent."
