If you'd - open up the door
It
was inevitable of course. He should have anticipated this, considering his
track record. But it'd been so many years, and he'd thought that perhaps…it was
all over.
But
things caught up. They always did.
A
pity, really. It'd taken time, but he'd grown to like her. Really like
her. Almost, in fact, to love her. Almost. Enough to pretend late into the
nights, enough to pretend for so long. Enough, almost, to pretend to himself.
Almost.
And
now she was telling him that she had never really loved him, she just
wanted to be, for once in her life, safe, stable, a condition
that had lasted for far too long, that she didn't actually want as much as she
thought she had so many years ago, when nothing in her life was stable.
It
hurt, of course. It distressed him. An old betrayal leaked out of his secret
heart, stinging like an acid burn. It felt almost like…that night he would not
name.
Almost.
Not
that he'd ever thought she loved him. It would have been too naïve to assume that
she would love him anymore than he loved her. Nevertheless, he had never
expected that she would actually do this, actually want to end it, years of
marriage notwithstanding…their son, standing there with fear in his eyes,
notwithstanding…
He'd
never expected that she would, actually, get bored of him.
Not
like this.
But
she was, and she was telling him that she had never really loved him, and she
wanted her own life now, wanted excitement, not this sterile stability, wanted
an excitement that he could never – would never, at any rate – give her. That
she wanted to, needed to, know more than him, he was not enough.
He
tried to soothe her, but she cut off his words before they could fall, then
chided him for that – he could not even speak against her, and she'd had enough
of this, all of this…and besides.
"I
went to do some research on your past." Her voice had changed, all of a sudden
turning guarded. "I couldn't believe that anyone could be so…clean. I found
something rather…startling."
For
the first time, he felt fear spark his heart.
"There
was a man."
Alarm
lit his body, a desperate refusal rose in his throat like bile. He'd sealed it,
sealed it away. He would not give that day a name. He would not name his past,
his phantom…his dream…his…l… He would not say – would not think it. It was over
now. He refused it. It was hopeless now. …It'd refused him.
But he was not
the one to decide, whether or not there was a name.
She said - while you were
sleeping
I was listening to the radio
And wondering what you're
dreaming when
It came to mind that I didn't
care
So I thought - hell if it's
over
I had better end it quick
Or I could lose my nerve
Are you listening - can you
hear me
Have you forgotten
"Yamato.
Ishida Yamato."
The
word fell like an icicle through his heart.
There
was something to be said for a man, who, years after he'd left, still affected
him so with the sound of his name alone. It blinded him, not so that he could
see nothing, he simply could not see. It stilled his tongue, leaving him mute,
or dumb, as it were. The endings of his nerves were on fire – his nerves were
on fire, the flames warring with the ice that numbed his heart and the cold sea
in his brain, and really, the only thing that made sense was the pain that lanced
his heart, his head, his limbs, down to the very tips of his fingers and toes.
The pain, simply, that was everywhere at once, whence it had come from nowhere,
all at once.
If
she had spoken, he would not have known. He could not hear any more than he
could speak or see. He was fortunate that she chose silence, till some
semblance of senses was returned to him. Thus it was that, when his vision
finally focused, it was upon her expression of deep dismay.
"I
had hoped that it was merely a rumour." Her voice was unsteady, nevertheless,
sure. "But I can see that it's true."
He
tried to speak, to protest, found he could not, much less lie. It was
true. It was all true.
And
even after all this time, he could not find it in himself to be ashamed.
"I'm
taking him with me," she reached out, pulled the child to her side, "Expect a
letter from my lawyer within a week."
He
tried to move, to speak, to stay her, and his child. But he could not. Could
not move, could barely think.
…He
was a good boy. Quiet, mostly scared, but with a depth inside. He saw himself
in his child, who was so afraid of even his mother, fiery as she were…himself,
so long ago in a strange land, hopelessly infatuated with eyes of blue and hair
of brilliant gold…
It
all came back to him.
The
boy stared, yearned, pleaded with the dark blue eyes he'd inherited. But he did
not speak any more than his father could. He was too alike him to not know
better.
Then
she left…and he was gone.
There
was no goodbye. He was alone. He had failed his erstwhile wife. He had failed
his child. He had failed…his…
Just three miles from the rest
stop
And my mouth's too dry to rage
The light was shining from the radio
I could barely see her face
But she knew all the words
that I never had said
She knew the crumpled-up
promise of this
Broken down man - and as I
opened up the door
And
still he could not move. Until his legs trembled, buckled, and he was on his
knees, sprawled, the floor so close.
Then
the tears came.
The
tears he hadn't cried since the night he'd left, the tears he'd tried to
dry when he'd met a blazing girl, that he'd refused the night he was proposed to,
that he'd hidden, all too well, on his wedding night, where, for the first time
in his life, he'd copulated as a man, and found that, while he didn't like it,
he could learn to live a lie, if only to fool himself.
They
came now, seeping out reluctantly at first, then faster and faster, until he
was weeping, sobbing, the broken cries echoing hollowly around the empty room.
Till he could not stop, no matter what he tried, how hard he tried.
And
still they came, as his heart beat out what he'd denied, refused, buried for
the past so many years of his lie.
Yamato.
Yamato. Yamato.
I
love you. I love you. I love you.
Nothing
had ever really changed, not since the day he'd left, and the old familiar
betrayal he'd locked away with the tears returned with them, coursing through
his veins, his blood, betrayal and grief and the terrible pain, rushing through
his body with their song of silent death.
His
almost love and the love of his life, and his life from almost-love…lost.
Nothing
had changed. He was alone, again, his heart on the floor, in his mind, all over
him in a nausea of despair.
…And
he would not know which he wept for, except for the name pounding in the heart
in his head.
And
it was all the same.
…The
same.
I
lost you. I lost you. I lost you.
She said - while you were
sleeping
I was listening to the radio
And wondering what you're dreaming when
It came to mind that I didn't
care
So I thought - hell if it's
over
I had better end it quick
Or I could lose my nerve
Are you listening - can you hear me
Have you…forgotten…
END
[Rest Stop is ©Matchbox 20, and a
damned good song it is.] Ah well. It made me feel better about the whole
ending affair, at any rate. I'm truly sorry if you didn't like this. ^_^;; Now
to get back to my four essays and revision for the Economics test on Monday…
