I
don't watch television often, but every time I do I'm reminded why I try to
avoid it. Two thousand plus channels and nothing worth my time, as meaningless
as it is. How typical. News, news, game show, 90210 rerun, M.A.S.H, news, news,
and more news.
I've
had enough of the media never to care again what's going on in the world today.
Corruption, death, lies, war…it's all the same. My story told and retold,
masking either party to fit whichever crisis is currently on the roster. In the
end, there's no story to retell. People insist on fighting the same battle over
and over again, thinking somehow in their diluted reasoning, that it'll turn
out okay. That everything will be fine if they make it their own and steal it
from someone else, no matter how much they're warned not to. That this time,
things will be different. I should know. Been there, most certainly done that.
How
many times now? I lose count. I don't care to know these days. It's an
ever-present reminder of my stupidity.
I
seat here in the relative darkness of my living room, looking though not
watching the television. Channel surfacing…they should make it an international
sport. 'Calling all fathers' sort of thing.
My
thoughts are clouded. I know I should think of what I encountered upstairs, the
aroma that was so…him. I know it was him. No one else could stir that sort of
scent. He smells of expensive hand cream and cologne, imported from some fancy
catalog that I have not only never heard of, but probably will never be able to
afford. Hell, I could hardly afford the subscription, if I know him.
Which I think I do.
Think.
Powerful word. Powerful...frightening word.
Things
change. People change. I told Pearsall a while back that the Drumgo killing
changed me. Huh. I don't feel changed. At least I didn't…not until he left.
Not
until I made my final error.
I've
stopped talking to him now, the image of him in my head. It seems logical, as
he most certainly heard me. Well, I don't want to flatter myself. He heard
something, that much is clear. Whether or not it was my desperate call for
help, I don't know.
I'm
at the most incredible…peace. Even though he's not here, I feel as though he's
watching over me. Hell, maybe he is. Maybe he's right outside, waiting for me.
Waiting to see just how clueless I can be. And to think, I thought he'd
forgotten all about me. I suppose that statement was provoked from my
self-pity, but nonetheless, I felt it. I still feel it to a degree. Now that I
have my peace, my rest, I wonder if he'll see his job is done and return to his
world of theater and opera, expensive wines and foods I can barely pronounce.
Now that he sees I am calm and in control of myself, will he return to his side
of the globe?
I
forbid myself to send any more questions into the void. No, I can be patient.
Laugh as you will, I suppose the thought is rather ludicrous. I wasn't patient
enough to listen to his reasoning, to consider the offer before I opened my big
yap. But here I am, so close to him, it seems. He's here somewhere in this
town. How long has he been here? Since I asked my question? I don't know…and
that unsettles me. Did my instability draw him out of hiding, or did I? Just
me. Plain ole Clarice. Take it or leave it.
I
hope for the latter. He'd probably kill me as opposed to seeing me as broken as
I've recently felt. And I deserve it, I won't pretend otherwise. I deserve all
I get. Coming to terms with that is difficult, but not nearly as hard as
deciding exactly *why* I deserve it.
I
know that already.
My
self-woe abandons me, though I know to expect it back anytime. Knocking on my
door, anticipating my knowing gaze as it overwhelms me again. Or will he save
me before it reaches that point? I came to this conclusion by myself, and
perhaps that's how I should execute it.
My
decisions made for me, and not by Mr. Darkness or anybody else. I've made up my
mind, and I know what I want.
Do
you still want me?
Damn!
I promised myself no more questions. It's too late for that, too late for
anything. He's made me strong again, at least for the moment. I need to survive
on that, to get by on what I can before the ache returns. I feel strong now,
and I need to. I need to feel as though I could conquer the world a thousand
times over before stopping for a water break. I need to feel worthy of
something. Perhaps then, in the mindset of Clarice Starling, I could prove to
him that my change of heart is not out of grief, or loneliness, or some sad
excuse for a love life I've only recently decided to compensate. So much more
than that.
Do
you see it? Do you want it?
I'm
a moth fighting over a flame, and I'll continue to do so until it kills me.
Already I feel the fire spread across me, quenched only when I sense him near.
It's scary, downright disconcerting that he holds such a power over me. I spent
years denying it, and where did it get me?
Hah!
My self-pity has returned. Glad you could make it. Only now, it's in the form
of anger. Anger at myself for not seeing this sooner. Anger that has been
repressed for, ten years, is it? Come out of hiding, I won't shun you away.
Take
him out of the big picture and all the pieces collapse like an unsteady deck of
cards. How could I not have seen this? How? Even what has happened today, right
under my nose. The cards were lying in pieces, and he came to place them
together. Now he's gone again, and one by one, the levels of myself are
stripped away. So long. Farewell. Auf wiedersehen, goodnight. I hate to go and
leave this pretty sight…
Damn
Julie Andrews movie.
I
suppose my anger is misplaced. I'm angrier now at how weak I've allowed myself
to become. How dependent on another person I am for my happiness. He's seen me
like this, no doubt, and I'm sure it sickens him. The woman he left was not
this scattered. No, she was the idiot. I am the redefined idiot, the
enlightened numbskull, the supremacy of all my troubles. My own worst enemy.
When
you're this angry, I suppose it's difficult to pinpoint any direct cause.
I'd
like to vent my frustration and scream my apologies, but I fear that would bid
the last of my sanity farewell. I must contain something to hold onto. If I am
to be left here with nothing, then fine. I can deal with that. It'll be hard,
but I will survive. I owe it to us both to survive.
Still,
in order to bring me back to that divine level of serenity, all I must do is
consider that he was here today, watching me as I slept, as I dreamt of him. I
wonder for the millionth time what he saw besides fatigue and self-inflicted
pain. I asked him several nights ago if he could taste my tears, if he could
see what I repressed, and had been repressing since he left me. Since I asked
him to leave me.
Should've
handed me the cleaver and save him the trouble. How dare he hurt himself over
me?! How dare he?! God, it makes me ache all over. For ten years, he suffered
the blows, the defeats, the let downs, the rejections, the wear and tear of
time, and when he was presented with me, basking in my confusion and all the
glory stupidity brings, he hurt himself above me. He bleeds for me. He's bled
too long. It's my turn now.
If
my mind were a tangible thing that I could see, the subconscious I've been
beating up forever, I'm sure I'd be in the hospital. However, that barely
compares to what I've discovered in the daylight, in processed thoughts that I
haven't shunned. I know my crime, and I accept it.
There
should be AA meetings for this sort of thing. Hello, my name is Clarice
Starling, and I'm a Lecteraholic.
Oh,
take me away and leave me be! Be gone with you, wretched anger, the foul stench
of self-hatred. I don't deserve even you! Leave me to the darkness, the ritual
human sacrifice, the offering to the gods so that no other earthly bound woman
suffers my flaws, my fate. Escape while you can!
At
this point, I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or shoot myself. Amazing how
you can work yourself to tears, giggles, and suicide all in one line of
irrational thinking.
Why
haven't I been laughing this last decade? Speaking of irrational thinking…
Still,
in the midst of everything. Of all my returning patrons from the self-pity
department, and even passed my anger, there is peace. Penance, serenity…for he
was here. And I know…I know…despite everything, everything I don't deserve,
everything…he will be back.
Surprisingly,
after this round with myself, I find me, wholly me, the victor. It's a pliable
sensation, one I'll have to get used to.
Not
now, though. Was that in my head, or did someone just knock?
Knock…knock…knock…
No,
definitely someone knocked. Hum. I try to remember if I ordered pizza tonight,
knowing somewhere I elected against it. Perhaps it's another journalist.
Someone else to throw out. There's always that one person begging for the full
story. When will they learn I'm not a sellout? Especially now…what good would
it do?
Unhurriedly,
I stand, halfway hoping they'll go away if I don't answer immediately. I'm in
no mood for callers. What the hell time is it, anyway? Slightly past
midnight…who comes over at this hour?
The
same type of person who expects *me* to answer the door. Hrm…to let them in
nicely? Sure…why not. Besides, if they are up to cause trouble, I'm hardly in a
position to care.
I
pause at the door, feeling my skin tingle. Is it just me, or did the room get
colder? Or hotter? I can't tell anymore.
Maybe
I should reconsider therapy.
Undoing
the lock, I decide after I take care of this I should go to bed. Try to get a
good night's sleep with my pristine tranquility, hoping it lasts until morning.
I'm tired…very tired. Nights of neglected rest beg me for a reprise. I know I
can slumber tonight, in the silence of the lambs. Maybe even my own screams
will diminish. Just tonight.
Sleep
will be appreciated.
Expecting
my visitor to have discouraged and left, I move to open the door.
I
pause.
My
hear stops, then leaps.
My
breath catches in my throat.
My
eyes widen, though I do not know what they reveal.
It's
him.
* * *