Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this ficlet except for Wilson. Everyone else belongs to the creators of Gilmore Girls (those brilliant people). The poem belongs to John Donne (another genius...though of a different sort). Don't sue, unless you want my collection of antique perfume bottles (numbering a grand total of 3).
Cast Iron
Sonnet 14 – John Donne
Batter my heart, three-personed God; for you
As yet but knock, breath, shine, and seek to mend
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labor to admit you, but O, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captivated, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy.
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again;
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Lorelei. Rory. Mary.
So many emotions all connected to that one simple name.
Frustration. Admiration. Hate. Love.
One girl in his entire world that turns everything upside down and round bout. You had to hand it to her: for all her intelligence, she just couldn't see what was before her very eyes. I offered myself to her over and over again, callously rejected, yet like a loyal dog, I returned to her. My master. Yes, that was it. He is the dog and she is the unknowing master. Albeit, a somewhat energetic dog with sharp teeth. Ha! What was it they say? Don't bite the hand that feeds you? No wait. That job would fall to his parents.
Another knot in the rope.
Don't get me wrong, they're good parents...if you happened to be a purebred Arabian or a fine bottle of scotch. Yeah, nothing like a good day at the races and ol' Johnny to bring out the parenting instincts of cardboard cutouts. What? No "have a good day, son"? Or "is something wrong, because you don't look so good..."? Right. Because the son of the affluent and purebred Dugreys should never show emotion, should be the pinnacle of polite society, should wither and die inside while paying lots of money to personal trainers and doctors to immerse himself in formaldehyde.
For all the good my sarcasm does, it still seems to have taken root. A piece of me fades every day I wake up to the polish and sheen of my world. Not to mention the messages conveyed to me by Wilson (the butler) that with their sincere regret, Mr. and Mrs. Dugrey cannot return to the U.S. for another 3 months due to the extension of an industry conference.
When I was 7, I fell off Jove, an Andalusian given to me just a few weeks previous. A broken collarbone, bruised pelvis, and a sprained knee. Three nights in the hospital. One phone call from Stockholm. Wilson signed my release papers.
On my 12th birthday, my mother introduced me to the joys of Jack Daniels and my father the fine Cuban hand-rolled. No one was there in the morning as I lay curled in the bathroom, sick all over myself. No one. Even Wilson stands with a veneer of propriety where I am concerned. I am a man now they say. I became a man when I first inhaled the tobacco smoke of generations of Dugreys. I became a man when the boy finally laid down his head and slept the eternal peace of death to accompany another.
Grandpere. Janlan.
He is - was my anchor. He was my plumb line. He was all things stately and refined, yet, for me, he was all I ever needed. He took me everywhere and anywhere. Tokyo in spring to see the cherry blossoms and samurai warriors, Athens in summer to gaze at the Parthenon, even Morocco just to see why they named it Casablanca. He told me once that "if you give up on curiosity and adventure, you give up on truly living." He was right in the end. Nothing could have prepared me for the summer of 8th grade.
It started out just as any other summer. We had plans to go see Paris and climb Le Tour d'Eiffel and drive by l'Arc de Triomphe. Grand plans to explore the old country and practice the French I was learning in school. I had perfected my Bonjours et S'il vous plaits and practiced my Ou est les toilettes until I was bleu dans l'aspect. But then the dizziness kicked in. Suddenly our outings were restricted to nearby parks, nothing more strenuous than a short stroll.
The sky was blue that day. There were kids around us. Too many noises. He just collapsed. And the noises just kept going. My hands were wet and I didn't know why. It seemed odd because the day was warm and the sun was stark against the blue. Too blue.
Heart failure they said. Dead before any medics could have arrived. I heard a yell as his body fell into itself and it sounded oddly like mine but I couldn't tell. The shaking had started. From there, all things become a haze of flashing lights, blue sky, and noisy children.
The one person I cared about most in my life - the one person who cared about me, my well being, my thoughts - he left. Just like my parents left me on my 6th birthday, just like Rory leaves me everyday day. But then again, was she ever mine to begin with?
She was like a breath of fresh air, a candle burning brightly in the darkness, an oasis in the midst of a desert. She is my savior. Before she came, I was a shell of a boy that died along time ago. Now, every look - every time I see the fire in her eyes - I see a little of myself rousing to that fire. I can feel the warm embrace wash over me - tendrils of flame that burn off the infection of apathy. She is the fire that consumes and I emerge cleansed of the bitter filth that surrounds me.
I've been cold far too long.
What, you ask, is the point of this self-examination? Not pity. No I don't want sympathy. It is for the weak - those that have given in to the temptation of despair. I confess, I once craved the depths of emptiness and loathing, but she became my Mary, my saving grace. My reason then is to make you understand what molded me and what can still shape me.
Lorelei. Rory. Mary.
I am Tristan and this is my story.