"Be patient towards all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like you love locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to understand them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer."
Reiner Maria Rilke
I beg my distinguished readers not to label me as an astounding guy from the start just because I choose to begin this chapter with a quote. During my teenage years I even had this annoying habit to speak only using the words of others, which resulted in the melancholic popularity I had in my rural high school.
My classmates used to break their backs caring massive cassette recorders, play music and dance during Russian class. ..The old wacked up teacher, whom we had nicknamed Lenin, usually gathered all the school girls around him and taught them every swear and dirty words he knew. A couple of blokes in the back were browsing a Swedish porn magazine, and there was me, living in the world of others, scribbling useless fragments from T.S. Eliot or Camus' works on the blackboard, completely out of place with the bacchanalian atmosphere of our poor and dusty classroom.
The girls sitting cross-legged on the teacher's desk didn't even bother to make a face or to burst out laughing anymore. They were used to my stupid antics. Most of my colleagues had looked through me as if I didn't even exist, and this was how I made my way through the rest of the high school years: as a weirdo clad in a way too big uniform, who wrote undecipherable texts on the blackboard and stared too long at the big ass trees in the school yard.
I didn't speak in quotes because I was a phony guy, nor to gloat about myself (teens can only be proud of their knowledge in rock music and the list of chicks they've banged, the rest is whatnot), but because I often loved an author up until madness engulfed me, so much that I thought that only their work is the fundamental truth, and everything else was empty talking.
Over time, I've stayed the same jerk who didn't care what he was wearing, what he ate or what should be told over a beer or at a conference, but I've learned to show more kindness to my angsty past self, and I ask you to do the same. That boy's got enough on his hands already. Even more so when I held onto the false belief that my world would end in high school. All the tears, all the suffering, the deaths and shortages felt like slamming into a brick wall harder than it should. College and dorm life threw me on a rollercoaster of stomach pains and poverty no nineteen year old deserved.
My younger version is a passionate, troubled teen who thinks that he can get away with most things if he fights hard enough. And old, tired me paternally pities him. This boy still hasn't seen dead ends of alleyways and I can't be the one to show it to him.
I see him sometimes. My young self, I mean. He pops up as a reflection in the mirror once in a while when I'm done shaving and cleaning the sink. A pale, extremely skinny boy with piercing gray eyes and a leather jacket coughs to strengthen his voice in the virtual field of reflected images. Philosophy student Levi is so angry at the world, always wearing a frown, and if the cops aren't lurking nearby, some black paint around his eyes until you can't tell the difference between him and wet raccoon. In his opinion, the more he looks like a deceased Roman prostitute, the better.
But how cannot he be disturbed? You see, dear audience, this reflection in the mirror has just learned that he's alone, that people never have time for him unless they need a favor, or that there are men and women out there who willingly get hitched on the yoke without a fight, like obedient cattle, and contently lead a modest life, unbothered by what's going on with themselves. Each day, the feral truth that Paradis is a stable full of primitive, disgusting, spineless oysters shakes the nineteen year old to the core.
Young Levi slams his foot on the sink, ripped jeans-clad legs bend at the knee. I brace my hands on the marble edges, leaning in to listen better.
I know what he wants to say to me. He recites the fragile truths of his world, some naïve beliefs a smooth brain has managed to come up with.
'Number one: I won't end up mediocre.
Number two: I won't end up a slave.
Number three: I will never enjoy sappy romcoms.
Number four: I won't become a resigned puppet.
Number five: I won't sell my freedom for a paycheck.'
And so on and so on, those childish manifestos he shouts out loud with pride, as both Moses and God, go up until number 36 and become more and more life lusted. Young Levi wipes his mouth when he's done, and although we're at the same height, he looks down at me, mad that I dare to break many, if not all listed rules. He makes Holden Caulfield look like a preschool pacifist. What can I say in my defense? I used to be an impatient, angry prophet.
Ahh, I smile melancholically at this lost, demented alien, and a suggestion for a bargain rises. Young Levi is not a benevolent listener so he's very hard to persuade, his gaze shifts to the side and a pale hand, adorned with some rings, rests on his knee . But alas, I manage to lure him in after I prove my worth to this brat by using some smart words.
"Young Levi," I say, in the same flat tone I use on my students, " you can't hide it, it's clear as a day. I'm just surprised the friends we used to have didn't notice it."
"Notice what?" The nineteen year old grunts, and I have to hold back an ironic laugh at his scoff. Was I always so goddamn stubborn?
"That you're hurting so much." And my own grey eyes stare at me, widening for a second, showing me their true sorrow, before returning to the previous statuesque apathy. He stays silent, so I follow with a few more words of encouragement.
"I know what you really need, Levi, deep, deep down, in the succumbing dark pits of your soul, where you don't let even Rhea to take a look." I lean closer to the mirror, and young Levi fights to take a step back. A quiet hum seeps out from my throat. Guess I have to show this rascal who's the real animal in charge. It's time to take the role of the benevolent demon. You may call me Mefisto.
"But in order to get it, you have to give me something in exchange for my efforts." I go on, fixing his gaze and feeling my eyelids drop slightly. Who's your daddy now, young fucktard?
"As if you have something I could use, old man." Comes his angry response, never the one to back down a fight. " Look at yourself. Is this what has become of me? A half-alive man who sells his wisdom for a pitiful paycheck?"
And the more he raises his voice at me, the more it's clear that the façade is falling apart. The man in the mirror takes a second to get a grip, but alas, the disappointment in which he carries on hurts both of us the same. "What happened to the man who promised to write books, change the system and step off the hamster wheel?"
" He has done enough. For better or worse, I'm trying my best out there." But those words held no ounce of much needed comfort.
"I won't take pity on you, old man."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then what do you want from me?" Young Levi yells, frustrated, slamming his fist against the mirror, trying to escape the cage of no longer existing. I almost raise a hand to pat his messy dark hair, but that would be futile and childish. There's no running from your own self.
"I want your eyes." My response startles him.
"Huh?"
"I mean it. I wanna gouge your eyes out. And shove them back in my own skull. I'd look around then, you know? See this world the way I used to when I was your age. Look down at the people, wonder at how pretty summer really is. I can't enjoy those things anymore. It's interesting. We have the same shade of concrete grey, yet it holds completely different meanings.
The hatred in your eyes comes from not having seen enough. Mine comes from the fact I've seen too much. Levi, you look around all the time, believing that this world is hiding some secret from you. But this old man has taken a peak at what's behind the veil. Nothing but a nasty pile of dirt, dead ends and shivering displays of basic instincts. There will be years of rummaging through garbage before you find something valuable in this chaos."
Once again I raise a benevolent arm towards the reflection, stretched out for consolation. But before I could touch him, young Levi fades away into nothingness, and I'm left with the sickly reflection of a clammy, thirty year old man. My teeth grind in annoyance.
No matter how much I warn him, he'll have to learn it the hard way.
But can you really blame him for being scared? This Levi understands nothing of my sadness. For him, life is simple, a one way road ready to be stepped on.
Imagine walking in his shoes. You've just finished the first year of college. You are (in your imagination, at least) an aspiring writer, waiting for the big inspo to hit you in the head one day with a baseball bat. Low waist jeans suit you, and the most protuberant sensation in your existence is hunger. No, not for knowledge or women, that's thirst. I mean the literal hunger of a poor philosophy student, a feeling which seems to never go away no matter how drunk you are.
There are some long term objectives here and there, but they're not clearly shaped out. Don't fit into the crowd of puppets and reject tradition is what you're somewhat striving for. The system must fall for sure, but there is time for politics and time to drink vodka and complain, and between those two, you've already made your choice. Besides, there will be others to take the reins of revolution. You'll just have to follow the outcasts and everything will be fine. Time is nothing but your humble servant.
Last summer you discover the best place on Earth. The Zone has opened its large, illegal arms to you. By the time you return there again, there's this wonderful girl that has popped up in your life. She doesn't remember your brief encounter from a year ago.
For better or worse, you have two friends. One of them is Farlan, a tall lanky blonde, who is studying some graphic fine art shit, and Isabel, who is still in high school, your one and only disciple. They are kind and grateful to ride by your side. Also, the alcoholic uncle is no longer a problem. The life you've lead so far hasn't been exactly the dream, but you've managed to get by.
The environment in which you've grown up shaped you for hardships. Kenny has advised you to choose a future fit for the sturdy, silent type you could become. Military could provide you a steady income, and the sound of the bullets flying will drown out the PTSD. The world is expecting you to end up a handsome, mysterious soldier with basic morals. A side-character in this war.
So naturally, you decide to spit in everyone's face and join the Shinganshina Philosophy University. A calculated decision you haven't paid the price for yet. Nobody will decide your future but your own sorry self…
~ Many years ago, There~
I couldn't stress how much the door to my room needed to be replaced. It wouldn't survive another slam before it collapsed. The weather was atrociously hot, fit for the summer, and a slight sheen of sweat permanently stayed on my skin. But on the brighter side, guess who had just got his hands on a counterfeit pair of Ray ban sunglasses? That's right, this lucky fucker. Locking the door, I shoved the keys into my pocket and pushed my hair back, relieved that it stayed out of my eyes for once. It was time to crawl out from my lair.
Heavy steps paced the rosy tiles of the front yard. The landlady of the summer house, Miss Rose, was currently playing bridge with her two best friends, Maria and Sina. These old women, wearing home gowns and hair rollers, reminded me of the witches from Macbeth. Flo, Vi and Ru scanned my presence as I halted in front of them, perhaps wanting to spin the thread of my fate too.
"I'm heading out, Aunt Rosie." I announced and leaned down to press a quick peck to her graying hair, inhaling the raging smell of caffeine and cherry with subtle nuances of cheap lady perfume.
"Okay! But if you come back at the crack of dawn again, you'll have to jump the fence! I lock the gate at 1 in the morning." She whispered back, too engulfed in the game.
"I think I can handle some acrobatics, lady." And with a pat on her back, I walk to open the afore mentioned wrought iron gate.
But as this charming antihero drifted down the side street, Rose yelled behind me:
"Tell your lady friend I said hi!"
My teeth greeted and my postured slouched forward as I heard the other devils snickering behind me.
Their ironic glances were getting on my nerves. Where the hell was Farlan when I needed him? I called that fucker a few days ago, asking him why he hadn't showed up there yet, at which he had the audacity to answer that a pipe in his dorm room exploded and the room above us was flooded. Like the good boy that he was, Farlan offered to stay behind and fix the mess. Using his money, of course, because the admins were as useful as a pile of horseshit left in the sun.
But he promised to get there as soon as possible, so I didn't worry too much about it. Farlan was a big boy after all. My only wish was to bring Isabel with him too.
I kicked a stone and watched as it landed a few feet away on the dusty road. Shoving my hands in those tight jean pockets, the way to the diner seemed longer in the summer heat. Though, it provided some time to think about an equation that had been sitting on my mind those past few days.
I was currently nineteen, verging on twenty.
By my estimations, I needed to have a kid and settle down by the age of 35.
This meant I had to get married around the time I would be 30-33 years old.
Subtracting from that, and adding the requirement of a stable relationship first, at around 26 years of age, the (un)lucky girl would show up in my life.
26-19= 7
7 years
7 more years to live before my life would spiral downwards. 7 more years to drink my ass off, shove my tongue down women's throat and skinny dip at sunrise while Sex Pistols echoed on the shore. It seemed like such a short time span. There were still so many things to do, sunrises to see and hangovers to bear. 7 Years were not enough.
My hurried steps carried me further to the fancy (not) diner of the Zone. It was designed to imitate those types of restaurants you saw in American movies, but if there was one thing that described our nation, it would be patchworking.
Meaning that the place was a mix between an aspiring dream and cheap available materials, that resulted in a blinding kitsch-like picture, with neon colors and paper ornaments. At least they served good food.
As I reached the desired destination, the sheer force required to open the heavy wooden door was applaudable and…
Goddamn,
I literally feel through the screen the hurry in which you've read those lines. You just want to get to the point, right? Where the action finally starts and you find out why I was visiting this peculiar restaurant.
To which, I respond,
Why the rush?
You already know who I'm meeting there.
Anyway…
I admired the aspiring avant-garde paintings on the wall as I headed for the sit-down counter. On the far left, there was the customary jukebox you see in all American diners, stained with milkshake and out of service. On the left side, a darts game hanged, but with the photo of the Colossal Titan Leader as the target. Grown ass men played it every night with iridescent passion, believing, in their child-like foolishness, than poking a photo with small arrow would get them the well-deserved revenge on the system.
The place was deserted, because most of the customers either came around evening or at the first hour in the morning, straight from some wild parties, to eat greasy sandwiches before passing out on the shore from the sedative effects of the alcohol.
The only other people present were a sleazy middle aged man trying to look like John Lennon, who was sitting at the red-cushioned booths, a waitress no older than 17, clad in those pale pink uniforms, wiping down the tables, and the manager, that looked like he hadn't had a proper nap since the day he came out of his mother's womb. Deep sunken brown eyes followed the girl's every move, and I mentally cringed at how painfully obvious his crush on her was.
I took a seat on one of those taller chairs, elbows on the table and resting my head on my forearms. Closing my eyes, the faint buzz of the water boiling, sizzling meat and light footsteps could lull me to sleep.
"What can I get you, hot stuff?" The quiet voice of the young waitress filled the room. She had learned my habits already.
"Some tea would be nice. But make it cold or iced." I gruesomely muttered, not even raising my eyes to look at her, but she must be behind the counter, preparing the water and setting down a mug in front of me.
"uuuu…." The girl hummed. "Do you drink tea in the summer, like the Russians?"
"Just trying to replace the unhealthy amount of coffee. I've started looking like a dry raisin." I vaguely answered.
"You're in luck then. I just received those tea bags from UK, imported. Foreign sailors brought them. It's apparently good shit." She declared with such pride, as if she snatched the leaves herself and swam with them in her mouth all the way from England.
"What's it called?"
"Shamamilyn… " The waitress tried to read the yellow paper package.
What the hell? I straighten my posture just so I can gesture to her to bring it to me.
"Let me see that, will you?" And as I grabbed the box, my eyebrows raised in indignation? Surprise? Disappointment? before I threw it back to her.
"That's fucking chamomile tea."
"Oh really?"
"English not your forte?"
"Nothing is my forte, really." She looked to the side, brushing the dark brown hair of her loose ponytail. I still insisted to have something to drink, so this girl poured me a cup before grabbing a cigarette from her skirt pocket. To my utter horror, it looked like someone was in the mood for a conversation. And not who I was hoping to.
" So, you waiting on somebody?" She asked in an ironic tone, teasing the hell out of me, as if the answer wasn't already obvious. Let me tell you this, that girl may look stupid and airheaded, but the information she possessed on the clientele was so vast it could fill the lost library of Alexandria. Prey birds were definitely jealous of her keen eyes.
"Of course not. I just happen to drop by around the same time this girl usually comes up for an afternoon snack. Nothing shady here. Not in the slightest."
"Mmmhhm. I like where this is going. Tell me all about it."
"I ain't telling you shit, girly."
"Aww, come on man. Don't say stuff like that then leave me hanging."
"But I like teasing too." I muttered in a low tone with an unapologetical raise of my shoulders.
"Well, I don't. and I'm sure as hell Rhea doesn't like it either."
Busted. How did she figured it out? Did Rhea make fun of me with this girl?
But I let the conversation drop. Gazing at the window, waiting for the arrival of my muse, I played with the stress ring on my middle finger, twisting the silver hooks . The place fell quiet for a while, aside from the soft sounds of the manager swooping the floor, and I felt like I was in a surreal French movie, where the anticipation of a miracle yet to happen shaped the entire frame.
"You in love with this girl or something?"
Damn this fucking noisy waitress filling up her boring life with my drama. I sighed and rested my head on my palm, eyes dangerously shifting from the window to her scrawny form.
"Completely whipped. But I pretend not to know it."
"Why's that?"
"Why am I in denial?"
"No silly. Why are you so enamored?"
I took a deep breath and thought that I might as well find solace in a gossiping young girl. Some loved drama like that.
"We have so many things in common. " I began. "Our conversations last for hours, yet I never find myself getting bored with it. There's such a great variety of subjects to talk about with her, only to find out we like the same writers and songs, our taste in drinks and politics is similar, and we both agree that writing is a valid career.
You see…all my life I've imagined I'll settle on some bland, taller than me girl, whom I have nothing to talk about but would accept my weird habits nonetheless. We will be good at finances and that would be it.
It's all about compromises when the Zone closes down and we get back into the real world, isn't it? But now…I don't know…I don't want to make a fool out of myself with dumb illusions. Maybe hope is something I don't deserve yet."
She snickered at me and I frowned at my own reckless display of vulnerability in front of stranger.
"Silly ass boy. Just because a girl likes the same weird shit you do, doesn't mean you're soul mates! Let me demonstrate. For example, both I and Keith like The Rolling Stones, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna marry him!" The young waitress exclaimed, and in the corner of my eye, I could see the manager jumping out of his skin while a blush crept on his features.
"Karla, stop harassing the clients and get back to work!" He yelled in annoyance.
"Give me a break, old man. I don't earn enough to care." This afore mentioned Karla shouted back over the counter.
This is the last summer you're gonna see me anyway." She leaned down to whisper to me. "After I turn eighteen and graduate high school, I'll never have to set foot in this lousy place again, because…"
"That man won't marry you, Karla." Keith declared with raging hot jealousy, loud enough for us to hear.
"Nonsense!" She yelled back "He said he would wait for me until I'm legal. We'll get married in a year from now and I'll be settled for the rest of my life then. Goodbye to cleaning puke in the bathroom and dealing with drunk perverts! Just imagine! Me, the wife of a doctor! "
"You really are stupid if you think he's gonna choose an affair with a schoolgirl over his actual wife and kid."
"Shut up, boss, he promised a ring on my finger. Besides, I'll make such a better Mrs. Jaeger than that blonde bland bitch. Grisha only has eyes for me. I'll never be hungry again Shadis!" The girl declared with pride.
"Suit yourself, but don't come crying back to me when he throws you away."
"He won't…he won't." Karla declared, like a prayer to herself.
"Don't mind him." She added, referring to Keith. " He's just mad because he can't compete to a rich, young doctor."
"I'd worry more about your own ass. Seems to me like you're in a delicate situation." I replied, sipping on my tea, half interested in this local soap opera.
"Oh, don't worry. I'm a big girl. I can handle it." Karla replied with a smile, just as the doorbell clincked, announcing someone walked in. I turned around to acknowledge this fresh participant, and the air suddenly didn't feel like leaving my poor lungs anymore.
"Uh-oh, look who's here. Well, I'll leave you two alone. There's work to pretend I'm doing." The waitress declared in a low tone as she took a step back. What she didn't consider was that she was speaking to deaf ears. I had other things to pay attention to.
As a writer, the biggest inconvenience for me was when Rhea stepped into the setting. With each appearance, the description of her entrance must become more elaborate, different, each time original. The author wanted to evoke in you the same feeling of surprise he felt, but I too, ran out of ideas pretty quick. I didn't want to bore my readers with the same phrase of ' a cheeky demon descended from her throne to check up on her mortal love interest', but that was the closest thing to reality that I could muster. Golden light behind her, floating footsteps and everything.
For example, today she was adorned in a long, shapeless white dress, usually worn under our country national costume, with small flowers spread on top of the cotton (literally on top, as if the petals were somehow floating 1 cm above the material). The chords from a walk-man languorously hanged from her ears , two thin plastic snakes losing themselves in the cloth of the dress; this technological detail blending in so contrastingly with the traditional robes, that it made you wonder if not all our ancestors actually wore walk-mans strapped to their waist, from the dark nights of history and up until that moment.
For a moment, I thought with horror that she could very well choose to sit over there, at the red booths, considering that she had no obligations to sit at the counter just because I was there, and all of my efforts would've been in vain. I'd see her far away from my spot; we'd lock eyes, from time to time, exchange a formal 'hello' and 'goodbye' , and then she'd be off doing god-knows whatever mischief, evaporating from the real world, leaving me to boil in my own desire.
"Hey there Levi!" A melodious voice broke my stream of thoughts, as Rhea threw her ass into one of the tall chairs next to mine.
I couldn't believe how lucky I was sometimes.
"Hello princess." My reply came in late, as I stopped to light up a Marlboro. Our eyes didn't met yet, as I was afraid Rhea's sheer aura would blind me so hard I'd forget any stream of thoughts.
"What a surprise to see you here today. And yesterday. And the day before." As she leaned closer to my profile with a teasing voice, I knew that if I turned my head there'd be a subtle closed-mouth smile on her doll face.
"Care to explain this series of pleasant coincidences?" Rhea added.
"I really, really don't." My head automatically turned away. True, the answer didn't satisfy anyone, but I really wasn't in the mood for a fight where I would surely lose. Embarrassment didn't sit well with me. What could I say? ' Spending time with you is like some medicine for me, but there's no way I can actually go to you and demand your companionship, so I wait for you in this diner where you usually get your lunch, letting Fate decide how we gonna go.'
Nah, that's lame. Better endure the atrocious summer heat and the local staff drama.
"Suit yourself, young writer." The girl chuckled, resting her chin in her palm. After a long pause where neither of us spoke, she asked the young waitress for a coffee and two complicatedly named sandwiches.
I knew there wouldn't be long until she was gone, but it didn't matter. The shortness of her visit was compensated by lazy clock tickings, clouds stopping in their place and steam from my mug raising unnaturaly slow.
Karla brought the steaming cup of coffee and placed it on the counter. The fain sound of her slurping the drink filled the otherwise silent room. Rhea swinged left and right, impatient in the bar stool, waiting for me to take the lead.
Of our conversation, of course.
What were you thinking, you perverted morons?
But alas, I liked the dynamic between us. We could talk about the most diverse topics for hours, and for once, I was not bored with someone. The Garrisons were not lying when they said she was very opionated. If I spoke about two different ideas in the same sentence, she would reply to both of them separately . And goddamn, each time she did that I genuinely consider moving there permanently. No one, ever, showed me this much interest. It was either being ignored or turning your back when the words suddenly weren't so nice.
And, for the cavemen out there claiming that love passed through the stomach, I beg to differ. It passes straight through your attention whorish ego.
With each rhetoric, smart answer I gave to her sweet, genuine gestures, I felt like I was in that Rene Magritte painting, the Art of Conversation, so much that I felt utterly resentful when I looked down at our feet and didn't saw ourselves drifting away in the sky.
A week. A week had passed since we've been running into each other, since I'd been holding myself back, since there was something I was eager yet afraid to taste. An energy out there, felt whenever our hands brushed randomly, or our eyes lingered into the other without any shame.
I called it the unripen fruit of our love.
Not good enough to be consumed yet, but you just couldn't wait for the right time to sink your teeth in.
I'd let it grow in its time, and meanwhile, there was life happening, music and dancing, great stories and mythical adventures to enjoy.
"The Survey Corps magazine hasn't publish anything great since that story I showed you." Rhea broke the silence, running her index along the edge of the cup.
"You still thinking about that silly old story?" I sighed and put out my cigarette in a seashell-shaped ashtray. "What are you, fifteen, Rhea? Only teens are so easy to impress with an ounce of interpretation..."
"So what are you saying, Levi? That nothing impresses you anymore?"
"Oh, certain things still do. But they have to be pretty amazing. I like choosing my battles."
Much to my relief, she didn't realize I was talking about her.
We sat there for a while until our drinks were lukewarm. From time to time, Rhea stole one of my cigarettes, while the curious eyes of the waitress were watching us with interest.
My new friend talked about her day. It stroke me how unusual it was for a person to have so much energy, but Rhea managed to juggle taking care of the old commander, sharing a dorm-like bedroom with three other girls, playing more than five instruments…
" How about I settle this once and for all? With the prisoner and all that… Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to understand them." I began, leaning back and resting one elbow on the chair's low back support.
"Try to love the questions themselves then, like you love locked rooms and books that are now written in a very foreign tongue." She continued my quote with a sigh, melancholically looking through me, out on the window.
…And also reading everything I recommended.
"So, I take it you enjoyed Rilke." I said, glad to be on the same side once again.
"Can't you tell? I like every book you lend me. Why didn't you come here sooner?" She wondered, slamming her forearms on the table. "You've let me suffer all this time with mediocre literature..."
I didn't know there could be so much blood filling my anemic cheeks.
"Don't worry, princess. Even with second-rate readings you'd still manage to outshine three quarters of Paradis' population."
"I don't believe you…"
"Well, you should. No reason to be a Doubting Thomas."
Rhea then continued to talk all over the place, her speech following a natural pattern , an understandable chaos, not too loud, not too bland, not at all overwhelmingly. And the best part was, it came natural for her to express herself and for me to listen. I'd met people whose sheer enthusiasm embodied grotesque forms, with limbs uncoordinatedly flying all over the place, sweat spots forming on their armpits, and spit raining in my direction. And all of that passion because of the most boring, mundane, disturbing things ever.
Those type of people scared me.
But that wasn't the case there.
She asked me about what I've been writing. No answer came easy, out of shame perhaps? The struggle was still there, to write something out of place, never seen before, a piece that would finally put those journalist from the Survey Corps in their place, instead of reformulating ideas of the Greeks, French and the Germans.
I looked at my almost empty cup of tea, which stood next to Rhea's full one. A satisfied smiled made its way into the corner of my visual field, as she listened to my half-hearted ramblings about literary critique, German deontology and why Visconti choose to make out a great film based off Thomas Mann's novel.
And yes, this girl had a thing for me. Even a blind person could see it. I didn't fail to notice how she stared at me, her blush when I would say something nice to her, or how she let me talk about anything I wanted. I loved it to the core.
Rhea was a dream, a fever, the kind of figure writers met once in their lives and pushed them to the start of something great.
But unfortunately, there was no diamond in the rough for her to shape. There was only me, Levi, a brute who had never managed once in his life to write something original.
I stared again at those cups side by side, then at Rhea. Back at the cups. Back at her. And so on and so on, back and forth until the empty cup became a representation of my mental state. I was truly a dried up well. And a dried up well didn't have anything to offer. A sad certainty swallowed me whole, that even if inspiration hit me in the head one day, I wouldn't be able to make something out of it. Because I was deserted, void of use and purpose. Like that stupid cup.
Maybe there were so many people out there, who, like me, felt useless, bare of money, talent and emotional stability. We hoped, in silence, of not doing the dirty work ourselves, because we couldn't see any light at the end of the tunnel to make it worth the effort.
But there were also others, the ones life had blessed with brimful cups, who would never choose to share their fulfillment with us, no matter how much we'd wish for them to come and help . Why would they, anyway? They worked hard to fill their own lives, faced hardships and came out winners, handled many struggle. Or maybe they were just born lucky and abused the privilege of looking down at us.
But in the end, you just had to live with it.
That no one would come and save you.
That you were responsible for the state that you're in and no one in their right mind had time to pull your sorry ass out of the gutter.
That happy, healthy people, like Rhea, preferred happy, healthy people.
That no one was patient enough to fill your cup with theirs.
A full cup wanted a full cup.
And the idea went on, about human misery, lacking substance, about the life that drained out of my mug while I stood by, unable to do anything about it.
Until Rhea leaned in to play with the handle of her coffee, wheels spinning in her head. I watched her every movement, as…
The clocks stopped working,
The lousy staff suddenly evaporated,
Heavenly gates opened, as muses started to play ancient songs,
Our chairs started to float slightly above the ground,
Her whole body glowed like the moon and blinded me
And, you guessed it,
She poured her drink right over mine, until it almost overflowed.
And I didn't care the mix between coffee and tea would certainly be gross. Or that some drops spilled on the counter. I watched mesmerized as the dark liquid run its natural, gravitational course over my share.
Someone filled my cup. And not anyone, it was her who did it.
Without me having to ask for it. Because God knew I didn't expect her to be my savior. That was not her role in my story. It wasn't her job nor did I want to be some damsel in distress.
Yet she did it anyway. A high-pitched voice rang in my head, heavy and powerful like some magnificent bells of a Catholic church:
She filled your cup.
She filled your cup.
She filled your cup.
She filled your cup.
She filled your cup.
"Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost…" Rhea asked, but her voice was nothing more but a faint echo, vague and distant as my poor brain had to process a miracle happening right before my eyes.
"Why did you do that, Rhea?"
"Oh, well, you look like you need it more than I do. There's nothing a cup of coffee can't fix, right? Hehe."
"But I had tea in there…"
"Oh my god! I didn't know! Sorry, I probably ruined it for you!"
"No, no, on the contrary. Please don't apologize."
But I dissociated from that place long ago. The drafts started to take shape in my mind. Did the Greeks, the French or the Germans have something similar to my idea with the empty cups? Would I sit down at my fragile desk, typing for hours on end, about what happened today, only to find out others had written about the same thing? Or was this, for once in my life, something only I had thought about, an original idea my abused brain finally mustered after years of struggle?
And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, you will gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.
Well, only one way to find out.
"I have to go." I declared with sudden zest as I rushed to get out of this place, almost knocking the chair over.
"Wait, are you off so soon?" Rhea asked, her eyebrows raising up in a sad expression, her disappointment most evident.
"Yeah, I've got some things to take care of. Can you pay for the drinks? I'll be forever in your debt."
"Sure, but is everything fine?"
"More than fine." I replied as I already made my way out from the diner. Karla watched my every step with a hand on her hip, while the manager tried to awkwardly move closer in her personal space.
But there was one more thing I had to do. Turning around, I ran back to the front table where Rhea was still sitting at. Grabbing both her hands into one of my own, I pressed a humble, grateful kiss onto the back of them.
"Thank you, Rhea. For everything." I exhaled into that warm, soft skin, the skin of an angel, perhaps.
But she wouldn't like to be compared to an overzealous, pure deity.
So let's replace that with the skin of a liberated demon.
"But I haven't done anything, Levi." And her voice was only a whisper.
"Oh, you've done more than enough. I'll see you tonight."
Not a question. Not a plead. Nor a promise. But a naturally stated truth. As if I had said the sun was going to rise tomorrow.
The only time I had ever run faster in my life, was when the cops were chasing me for peeing on Titan propaganda posters. I took a sideway route, ditching the main, paved road full of people, shops and restaurants, and instead embracing the hot, burning sand of the beach.
The sun roasted the top of my head, and in its great shining, the biggest star in our system whispered down on me: "Here I stand, Levi, not as a symbol of hope, but as hope itself, because as long as you got legs to walk this Earth and eyes to see me perched up on the blue sky, nothing is yet lost to you."
My tortured lungs demanded a break, and a violent, refreshing summer breeze cooled down the sweat running on the back of my neck. With each jump I took over sandcastles, the sensation of floating became more and more prominent. If I raised my hands even for a little, I was sure there would be soft, cotton clouds running through my fingers.
This was life. This was the pace of freedom.
And then, all of a sudden, it happened.
An inevitable crash.
The collision was powerful. Pain shoot up my left side, and the beautiful scenery of the seashore turned into pitch black. I stood there, for a moment, unable to get up, groaning at the discomfort. Minutes had passed, or maybe an eternity, before my eyes shot open. Cold, damp earth dominated my vision. I saw plant roots and scared insects before my brain processed what happened.
I fell down in a pit.
And not just any pit.
Brushing the sand off my clothes, I got up to analyze the situation. A long passage was dug up at the edge of the beach, around two meters deep. Bracing both hands on the surface, I pushed my body up until I could get out. Weight lifting finally paid off.
Back on the sand, I followed the path of the underground labyrinth. The open tunnel went on and on, well into the horizon, until it ended, a few kilometers away, at the mighty walls guarding Paradis. To my left, a rusty, abandoned lighthouse dominated the scenery. Some houses and cars were located far away, closer to the perpetual buzzing, as shy weeds discovered their freedom on this empty beach. I stared down at the hole in the ground once again, thinking how irresponsible it was to leave it open like that, when anyone drunk or walking at night could injure themselves because of it. Someone foreign could mistake it with the trench soldiers sat in during wars.
Except it wasn't.
What I fell down in was, undoubtedly, the foundation of the walls that should have been there if not for our Government (blessed) incompetence. There stood, like a grave, a grim reminder that the Titans still had a godly amount of power over us, and it was only by chance we were allowed to have this place.
And once the summer ended, I'd have to go back to the grey, concrete cellar.
Kicking some innocent pebbles, I left the gruesome proof of my prison behind. 'Baby steps, Levi' I remember telling myself. First literature, then fighting. The war was not yet lost.
So I made my way back to my room, limping but full of hope, excited for my own selfish accomplishments.
I had shit to write down.
The sun settled down in a hurry, but I didn't notice shit until it was dark outside and there was no lighting allowing me to read. Rising my nose from a thick book about Roman deontology, I felt the sudden urge to go out and let the loud music and good drinks wash over my overly heated brain.
My room had become a total mess. I started to put dozen of books back on the shelves and throw crumpled pieces of paper in the trash. The minute I got back home, I ravaged my (I liked to consider) vast collection of literature, searching if others before me wrote about filling someone else's empty glass. So far, the results showed up empty, which meant that as soon as my evening rendezvous with Rhea was over, I had all night to write a small anecdote on my rusty typewriter.
Now, I knew for a fact that my idea wasn't something groundbreaking, genius, extraordinary blahblah But let me have my pride for once. My tree of knowledge finally decided to bear its first fruit.
I brushed my teeth in hurry, laced up my leather boots and put on my spare jacket. Rhea still had my other one, from the night when we first met, and I didn't have the chance to ask for it back.
Well, I did, but it completely slipped my mind each time she opened her round mouth to talk about religion, love theories, or Southern American literature.
Outside, the street lights and faint sounds of music casted an aura of a national holiday. I ditched the shortcut and instead took the main road. Downtown, taverns, open bars, clubs with live music and small businesses greeted you. Strangers, some more sober than others, sang out loud boisterous songs, artists on the side of the road offered to paint your portrait in exchange for some beers, young and old couples danced on the street to some 'Baila Morena'. It was a beautiful display of hedonism.
I scanned the crowd and mixed with the crazies for about an hour. Rhea was supposed to see me tonight, but this stupid fuck right here forgot to settle a time or a place. So off my search went, hands in my pockets, thinking I had a hard task at hand.
What if we passed each other and never noticed?
What if she wouldn't show up for another two hours?
What if she ditched me?
No. Scratch that. I knew Rhea was out there in the crowd, dancing or singing somewhere. Her presence tonight was given, like you're certain of grass growing and cold November rains.
But even if I were wrong and my search was wasted time, I would get over it quickly, with no fight or argument. Like an obedient dog accepting a misfortune. It was hard to stay mad at her anyway, with all the chaos happening between us: me seeking inspiration, her trying to build her club and others trying to disrupt our bubble.
I found Rhea ten minutes later, doing tequila shots at an improvised bar, with a large group of strangers. She wore my leather jacket paired with a long tartan skirt, which surprisingly suited her. I never thought I'd appreciate something else other than miniskirts on a woman, blame my stupid dick for that, but there was room for improvement, for sure. Her back was turned, but I counted one, two, three shots she downed without a flinch. Men and women clapped her back as they cheered like pagan worshippers around a sacrifice.
But she must've felt my eyes on her, because Rhea turned around, and, from a fake alcohol-induced enjoyment, her features lit up in surprise when she noticed me standing out there . I saw how she bit her lip, futilely trying to hold back an ear-to-ear smile.
"You sure took your sweet time, Levi!" She ended in a laughing manner, her speech not at all slurred. Leaving the pack of monkeys back at the bar, my newest companion joined me and we started to stroll on the busy streets.
"Good evening to you too, Rhea."
"And it's only going to get better!"
"Won't you say goodbye to your friends, then?"
"Pff, those stupid fucks?" She rolled her eyes and gestured back at the group. "They'll be fine. I didn't like them anyway. One second they claimed to be professional musicians, but the second I asked them to choose between Verdi and Mozart, they scrunched up their noses and claimed they don't listen to old people music. Can you believe that?"
"Uhh…what a capital sin…completely unforgivable." I smirked ironically.
"Right? I suggested to do shots just so I can make them shut up. Like, I get it, you like Metallica, but how can you not appreciate something that continues to impress people hundreds of years later? If they were mediocre, no one would still talk about Mozart, Chopin or Strauss today."
"What about you?" I asked, as our steps fell in tandem, carrying us further from the ongoing street party.
"What about me?"
"Which one do you prefer between Verdi and Mozart?"
"Oh well…" She paused, placing a strand of hair behind her ear. " Verdi clearly excels in the opera genre, but I like Mozart more. There's a long line of classical composers, all who lead wealthy, rigid lives and behaved with utmost perfection. And then there's a silly boy from Austria, who disobeyed orders, had fun all his life, spat in the face of critics and managed to be the best. "
Rhea then carried on, giving me a brief summary of Mozart' life while hugging my jacket closer to her body. I listened, astounded, how hard it was to play Rondo Alla Turca while drunk. In no time, we were already walking on the beach, close to each other, soft sand and cigarette butts beneath our feet.
"I think we can learn one thing or two from this. That you'll achieve great things as long as you are true to yourself."
"Yeah, most certainly." She replied, tilting her head back to stare at the billions of stars gazing down at us. I admire them too, seeing as the pollution inside the big cities hid their gorgeous shine. The night sky in the Zone was a sight to behold, it felt cruel that I got to enjoy it only for three months a year.
"Why did you leave me earlier today?" Rhea asked in an accusatory tone.
"I'm so sorry. Don't put it like that, please. I wanted to write down something."
"Couldn't it wait for when you got back home?"
"I was afraid of losing the idea. But I've got something to make up for it."
"Oh, my, shoot your shot, then."
"I'm writing about you. Well , to be more accurate, about something you did."
"Oh my god, are you serious? No one has ever written about me before!"
"You're joking. Any writer would be stupid not to."
I heard her sharp gasp and didn't miss her flustered expression, even in the faint moonlight.
"I'll show it to you the second it's done." I continued.
"What is it? A poem, perhaps?" Rhea asked with utmost curiosity, like a child wondering what they'd find under the Christmas tree.
"Ahh, no, not really. More like an anecdote. Poetry is really not my forte." I declared, rubbing the back of my head in embarrassment.
"Why is that?"
That stupid sad pout she did was so devilishly cute, that I got a brain freeze just by looking at it.
"It never came easy to me. Poets can write in four lines what I try to express in a page and a half. And make it rhyme, on top of it. That's too much for my power."
"Such a shame. If you write a poem, I can come up with a tune and make a great song."
"And create the next Magic Flute?"
"I'm not trying to become the next Mozart, Levi. I wanna make my own way into this world."
"Well, give me some time, and maybe one day I'll come up with a poem just for you. Don't lose your hope yet." I mimicked a smirk. But as we went on talking, I became familiar with the surroundings. Ruins of sandcastles, a lighthouse to the left, the memory resurfaced to my brain.
We were near that stupid ravine again.
I wasn't a fool to fall for the same trick twice, but do you know who was?
This girl. That didn't notice the pit and was walking straight to it.
So, without thinking even, I took a large step forward, propping each leg on both sides of the dug tunnel. Steading myself, I heard Rhea's speech halting as she met her inevitable plunge.
Lucky for her, I was there to catch her right on time before she hurt herself.
It all happened so soon. One moment we were talking, the next I had Rhea in a safe embrace, my arms fiercely pressed around her middle, preventing her fall into the ravine.
Our faces were so close, gorgeous eyes staring into dull ones as her legs slightly dangled without any steady ground beneath them. For the longest time, we sat in silence, neither of us wanting to break the embrace. There was no running away this time, from her cheeky visage, smudged make-up and tender expression. Maybe she wouldn't like the way her lipstick spread further than the corners of her mouth, or how faint dark circles began to show. But I absolutely adored it.
I felt like I was holding life itself, the joy of being, human nature in its most unhinged form.
Over my short lifespan, I'd heard many love stories. Both fictional, as well as real ones, told by neighbors, classmates or relatives.
I noticed one persistent motive in all of them. Usually, after years of emotional detachment and fear of intimacy, some poor individual stepped into the picture and pushed a button inside the heart of the main character. And from then, a great explosion happened, like a big bang of purpose in their otherwise boring lives.
But I thought that was all a pile of bullcrap. I still do.
Yes, falling in love was like a bomb. Except you were the one holding the machine that set it off. The big, red button lay in your own, stupid hands. In the end, the detonation happened out of your own sheer will. The explosion had been yours all along.. Of course, others could give you solid reasons to do it.
But Rhea gave me more than enough.
I had no reason to stop.
We leaned in at the same time.
So I pressed the button. And the bomb went off with a boom.
Our kiss was everything poets, philosophers and artists had dreamed about and more. We were tired of pretending not to feel something for the other.
Rhea didn't hold back. She hugged me with desperation, digging her nails into my shoulders, clinging to me like I was her lifeline.
'Don't let go!' Her soft moans seemed to say.
'Never' My own guttural groan responded.
Arms wrapped around her form even tighter. If I loosen my grip, she would've fallen into the pit. Into the ravine Titans had dug, where walls should've stood, robbing us of our freedom. Of this moment. No. I would never let go. They would never get their filthy hands on Rhea, even if I had to hold her above the ground until my legs went numb.
There was a way.
I could save her, from the unforgiving crash and the murky ground below.
I was strong enough, for once, to keep the Titans away from something I cherished. Even if it was in a metaphorical way of speech.
The sensation lingered. We conquered the whole world.
I felt the stingy taste of alcohol on her lips as she kissed me back almost instantly. We went at it for a while, slowly, unpredictably, throwing our mutual attraction back and forth on our hungry mouths.
And all of that, a passionate kiss between two headless young adults, right above the Titan's walls foundation. With no words, I told her everything I needed to. The kiss was turning sloppy, and I never thought I'd enjoy this kind of primal lust, with spit in the corners of her lips and deep grunts escaping my throat .
But there was a first for everything.