I actually labeled this as 'angst.' I can't believe it.
The life that I am living now isn't so much of a dream than it is a nightmare; even as I can feel the genial breath rhythmically caressing my bare chest as it glides about in a tranquil slumber, my body tenses in defense against the fierce onslaught of trembling that the raging tempest tapping angrily at my window wishes to bestow upon me. The lithe body upon me seems almost to be grafted to my own with a strength that can only belong to one lost deep within the fleeting fantasies of a dream, though I wish it to be no other way. A time that now seems so distant once held for me horrific visions that would haunt me even in the sunlight, though that was all put to its end by the very being that brought meaning back to my life, and I can only hope to repay him by belonging to him entirely, but especially now in the stillness amidst the torrent outside, I am left to ponder all the ways that I am failing him. Old habits of a past that I cannot abandon come rushing to the surface like instinct before I even have a chance to think, and in the end he is always the one in tears. And yet, despite that, he still comes back, always, sobbing for forgiveness even though he knows as well as I do that he had done no wrong. His life would be one of paradise if it were not for me, though without me, in his eyes, it would be even worse than it is now. I am left in awe at the untainted cruelty that my very existence means to him, even though he is so content he does not realize how very little he has.
The dark of the night is defeated for one glorious moment, and in this moment I am endowed the privilege to gaze upon the voluptuous beauty that clings to me as if in fear. It is an ephemeral moment, so fleeting that I become bitter that I am not allowed to look further upon the unadorned loveliness.
I am nothing less than in love with him; I can't decide when exactly this happened, but somewhere along the way it became more and more difficult to push him away until my callous words hurt me more than they did him, and that is precisely why I can state without any doubt that I have failed him, for now he seeks attention from others in ways that I always thought were beyond him. At first it was just his occasionally wandering eyes that brought me mild discomfort, but as of late it has become more: there are marks on his body that would only surface from rough sexual activity, he smells of fragrances that do not belong to him, and, seemingly worst of all, he has come to be able to ignore me.
Just thinking about it causes me to be as enraged as the tempest outside, and I find my body wracked with painful rancor as I wonder just who has had the pleasure to steal my Shuichi from out of my arms, and if this person enjoyed him as much as they ought to have. Over and over again I have the rancid vision of Shuichi ensconced in another's arms, misty with passion and screaming out someone else's name. The face is always different, but no matter what, each time I see this image the pain welled inside of me seethes just a bit more.
But, still, I love him more than anything, and so I cannot bring myself to confront him in fear of losing him entirely. Even now, at least part of him still belongs to me.
I release a deep sigh at my thoughts, and this causes him to stir awake with eyes fluttering open to shine the flashes of light that the tempest provides for him. I force a smile in his direction, and he appears startled at the sight of it, though I do not heed his inquisitive glance. I cannot help but succumb to his transcendent appeal; I take his lips, which are full and seductively dark against his pale face, with my own and admire the room around me, once colorful though now muted down to shades of gray in the darkness, as I try to allow myself a moment of bliss, even a brief one, though I am shown no pity. There is no passion from his side, and promptly he pulls away without mercy.
"I'm tired," he whines in a voice that is painful only due to the meaning that the words imply to me.
I am not nearly as voluble with my speech as I am with my writing, and therefore I am merely able to stutter out his name before lapsing into a choked silence.
He must have heard the pain in my voice, because now he's peering at me with a curious expression that seems almost to be attacking my very soul; he can't even guess that I know what he's done, so deluded he is in his own world.
"If you really want—" he starts, but I hastily stop him with a glare so fierce that it rivals the tempest outside.
"Forget it," I say, vanquishing all the pain from my voice by turning it into an indifferent mutter. I push him away from me in order to be sure it's clear that I am disgusted with him, but rather than ordering him out of my room, I leave myself in a manner that only comes about as pathetic.
I stop only to grab my coat and slip on my shoes before exiting. I find myself behaving like this often when life begins to hurt too much, though now I wish I wasn't so much like this. The storm outside is just as fierce as it sounded rapping against my window inside, and I have to retreat to myself inside my coat in order to retain what little body heat escapes the angry claws of the wind. I don't know where I'm going; more often than not I stumble along the path of the wind. Due to the storm, the world is deserted, and with a touch of self-repercussion, I think to myself that this, this is as close to paradise as I'll ever get.
……………
I don't want to look at Seguchi's worried face, so instead my eyes focus upon the wispy trail of the thin line of smoke snaking its way upwards into a stealthy escape from the tip of my cigarette. I've always enjoyed watching smoke; it has a unique movement present in nothing else I've seen yet. I could stare at it for hours—I have before, back when my mind was so troubled that my brain seemed to move like waves in an ocean. That was before I met Shuichi. I suppose I'll become that person once again, soon.
"Eiri-san, this isn't healthy," Seguchi's voice interrupts my thoughts. I once again marvel at it—it's texture, placidity, and pitch. It shouldn't belong to a man. Every time I hear it I am awed.
I casually lift my eyes to his, but I allow them to fall upon meeting his gaze onto the excessively finished wood of the tabletop as I once again wonder how exactly it was that Seguchi found me in the darkness of the storm on some deserted street in the backwoods of the city. He's always had a sort of knack for that type of thing. But, then again, I suppose he's always had a knack for just about anything, especially if it concerns me. That's the way it is—when Shuichi lets me down, Seguchi's there to pick up the pieces. I assume it all comes from some underlying obsession he has with me, stemming from who knows where, and paired with a man like him leaves me with a companion that holds for me true undying loyalty.
"Shuichi's cheating on me," I whisper, my voice having succumbed to the pain. I raise my eyes, though not without reluctance due to the feebleness that is no doubt gathering inside them, and find that he does not appear the least bit surprised. He's probably known the whole time, due to his uncanny ability to know everything. Still, his eyes hold a trace of sympathy within them, and for that I am almost grateful.
"You wouldn't agree, though, that perhaps Shuichi is doing this not because he loves this other person, but because you have failed to let him understand that you love him, and therefore he has ventured out to find the love that he doesn't think he has?"
His words sting my ears like poison. I had already admitted to myself the nature of the situation and my unquestionably guilty part in it, though it still tastes like venom to hear my very own thoughts repeated aloud to me, especially by someone such as Seguchi. Because of that, I cannot respond and resort to nervously twirling my cigarette in my mouth, as Seguchi's searching eyes seem to be slicing me up and looking at my insides. He's the only one besides Shuichi who's ever made me feel vulnerable—he knows and understands me much too well, more than I can ever hope to know him, and that's why he can so accurately read my every thought.
This silence is so painful, I have an undeniable urge to break it, though some hidden fear welled inside of me prevents me from being able to think of anything halfway intelligible to mutter, and so, in fear of stuttering out some idiocy, I remain silent and allow Seguchi's eyes to rip me apart. By now I must be hunched over like one of those ancient creatures that barely resemble humans at all, the ones that you try to be nice to, but you cannot deny to yourself that their grotesquely withered features are gruesome and attract no unnecessary glances. For a moment, I find myself thinking of what I will be when I become old… At the tender age of sixteen I had convinced myself that I would be murdered by my own inner demons during my sleep, and since then, though I find myself still breathing this rancid air, I have not fretted about this particular thought. Even now though, it doesn't seem like I have the slightest chance of living past thirty; if all else fails, the thick buildup of tar in my lungs will lead me to a long overdue death in my late thirties, but I can't imagine being an unwanted spectacle that causes people to gag from just a glance. My good looks, which not only launched my writing career but also attracted Shuichi in the first place, will ever so slowly wane away through the years. I wonder, will Shuichi still want me when I'm ugly?
Of course, that's something of a mute point. Shuichi doesn't even want me now, and I'd hardly call myself aging just yet. But then again, what will Shuichi do without me? I don't rely on my looks anymore to sell my novels; when I'm ancient, I'll still be able to write, but Shuichi won't have half the following that he does now. What will he do once his little band falls from fashion?
Those thoughts bring an involuntary smirk to my lips. I like this idea, that Shuichi needs me.
Because, I suppose, I need him, and I like to think that I'll be able to rely on his unwavering presence. That's it; I need him. I do. But I can't say it to him. It would rip me apart, cause my heart to explode, lead me to a premature gory death.
At least that way, I won't become old. But, that way, I won't die pretty either. I suppose I have to acquiesce to my fate. Frankly, death isn't a beautiful thing. I've seen all too much of it to be able to argue with that idea. No matter what, when I die, my beauty will vanquish along with my life, and I won't be able to prevent Shuichi from seeing it. I've attended funerals before, many more than I would have originally liked, and I know that no matter how skilled the mortician, death can never be hidden. There's something about cadavers that is sickeningly obvious.
I remember what Sensei looked like when he was dead. His eyes were still open.
He's the reason I can never tell Shuichi. He's the reason that I should be dead and I'm not. The memories of that time are scattered, but some things still remain sharp in my mind. Images mostly, and words. I can still see his gruesomely dead eyes staring at me, piercing through me even after Seguchi grabs me to protect me from him. The room was so dark; everything had faded down to gray, everything except the shimmering blood that pooled in a thickness that vaguely resembled that texture of molasses around his head. The one window revealed a glaring day outside, so piercingly luminous that it seemed as though it should have lit the room a little better, but instead it had chosen not to venture into the darkness and provided an appropriate contrast to the dull, dank atmosphere inside.
In this light, I can remember earlier that day, what I had whispered into his ear, under the shade of his favorite tree that so pleasantly blocked the glare and the heat.
"I love you, Yuki."
I don't know why I had chosen that particular diction, in that I had never once called him anything but Sensei, and now I wish I hadn't said what I did. Back then, my voice seems to me so similar to Shuichi's now… Almost exact. But that can't be right; perhaps I've just grafted Shuichi's voice unto my own, but still, that doesn't change the fact that everyday, due to Shuichi's undying love for me, I hear it, my very own past which I had buried deep within myself ripped painfully from my chest and whispered to me in frighteningly real situations. I wish he would call me Eiri.
That's why I could never say it. It seems so simple, but it has so much meaning to me. "I love you, Shuichi." But I don't want Yuki to love Shuichi. I want Yuki to love me.
"Eiri…san…"
I didn't realize how scattered my thoughts had become. When my thoughts are like that, I can't be bothered by anything else. Even now, as I am returning to reality, I can feel a dull headache gathering around the top of my forehead, where my closed fist is pulling at my thick strands that now must messily knotted due to my hand's presence. My cigarette has nearly burned down past use, and my hands are actually trembling. One sight that has had no alteration, however, is that of Seguchi; I can still feel him staring straight through me, despite my lack of eye contact.
I don't like this place. I have to get out. For the first time I can fully feel the repugnant contrast arising from the dull, whining artificial lights overhead, buzzing in a ghastly yellow color, colliding with Seguchi's overly bright gaze, sparkling even, and mismatching with what is only mildly annoying by itself. I hate this.
Rising to my feet, I am careful to disregard all of Seguchi's inquisitions without revealing that I hear anything he says. I move out into the night, vanishing into the darkness before Seguchi has a chance to follow. I am grateful that the wind has died down and the storm has screamed itself to sleep, leaving nothing the hinder my advance home.
……………
I have a strange feeling of embarrassment coursing through my body as I enter into my flat, now lit with nearly all of the electric lights and reminding me of the lighting at the café I had just left. Shuichi must have followed me after my uncontrolled burst, though from the looks of it he didn't get past the living room. I silently slip off my shoes and surreptitiously creep towards the bedroom with a definite plan to wake Shuichi when I get there. I know he will think it's his fault and apologize, and I want that so badly now. Just to hear those words, "I'm sorry," and just for now I'll allow myself to think that he's apologizing for betraying me, and in his words he's making a promise to never do it again and always be there for me. It will never be that way, but just for now, I want to think that, to allow myself something sweet to taste after drowning in all this fetid air.
Sometimes, however, it is impossible to taste sweetness when there is nothing sweet to be tasted. I stop just before turning the doorknob and perk my ears at the sound of Shuichi's voice. I can just picture him sitting on his heels and cradling the phone against his shoulder as he whines his woes, his guilt, and his pain into his friend's ear. I always used to hate this image, but now it seems to be giving me some sort of victory. With another smirk touching my lips, I press my ear against the door and listen hard, having to work to decipher the muffled words through the wood.
"What should I do?"
A tingling anxiousness creeps up into my chest as I think that I breaking some sort of rule by eavesdropping on his end of the conversation, and that I may get in trouble in the unlikely chance that he should find out. I am filled with a sort of seething glee, the kind that a student feels when attempting to infiltrate the hallways all the while avoiding the penetrating gaze of the campus securities.
"But… I don't know… What if he doesn't come back?"
At these words I feel my body almost overcome with the excitement of victory—Shuichi is worrying about me. Becoming bold in my triumph, I turn the knob and push open the door just the slightest bit, willing it with all my strength not to squeak, so that I can stick my head inside and see the exquisite sight that is sure to great me. And I see the scene exactly as I had pictured it, except for the fact that Shuichi's back is facing me instead of his side. But, what's more, I can now hear the voice on the other line all too clearly.
"What do you mean, 'What if he doesn't come back?' Do you want him to? If he doesn't, then you should be happy—that leaves nothing to worry about."
The muffled tones through the phone's receiver leaves the owner of the voice anonymous, but despite that I can feel a deep-seated jealousy writhe inside of me, winning its own battle and destroying the last of the previous glee I had been feeling. The rage is so powerful that I find myself gripping onto the doorframe for support, but surprisingly I manage to keep myself under control and force my ears to listen on.
"But…" Shuichi whispers, his shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly.
"Don't worry so much, Shu. Listen, I'm tired. You've got to work tomorrow, so don't you dare let him disrupt your sleep, okay?"
"Okay."
And then I hear it; words so beautiful that they cross some thin line and become disgusting.
"I love you, Shuichi."
Something I've never been able to bring myself to say. Words that I've so often wished were unnecessary. Words that Shuichi shouldn't need to hear because they are so painful to say. Reality, though, seems to be insistent on fighting against my every wish, and for that I am suffering more than I ever thought I could.
"…I love you too."
All traces of the victorious smirk have been cleaned from my face. I sink back across the hallway against the opposite wall in my sore defeat. I hear the click of the receiver in its cradle, but I do not lift myself to my feet. I can't. I'm crippled now.
Think of paradise. Paradise. A beautiful place. Whatever is beautiful to you. That's what my therapist told me to do when I encounter stressful situations. Paradise. It doesn't work, though. Whenever I try to think of a place, or a life, or anything that would be paradise for me, all that comes floating to my mind are those eyes, those dead gray eyes, staring at me, reveling in my guilt, piercing me even through Seguchi's protection.
Paradise. Paradise is revenge, destroying the very thing that destroyed you. Paradise is death.
I had that gun in my hands, a cigarette in my mouth, in the very room where I first found paradise. That bottle was still there. I'm surprised that the blood was gone. I had that gun right there, in my hands, and I could have held it to my head, I could have gone in the very same way you did, shot through the skull by my hands. If I had just done that, then I would be dead. I wouldn't have to worry anymore.
Why don't you love me? Yuki…
And you, Shuichi. Why don't you need me like I need you? What can I do to make you…?
"Iowa? Where's that?"
"It's in America, idiot."
"Is it near New York?"
"No."
"Then… Why'd you buy a house in Iowa?"
A place where Shuichi will need me, a place where Shuichi will be lost without me… A place that no one knows about except for Shuichi himself.
A thin, frail smile touches my lips, seeming to me even now alien in some way, like it had no earthly place to be anywhere near my face. It's a ghost of a smile, I'm sure, making me feel sick even just knowing that it is there without actually being able to see it myself. Slowly I move to my feet, enjoying the way time seems to have decided to quit rushing so hurriedly, and move inside the room, which is now dimly lit only by the hall lights. I can see the pink strands shining in an almost phosphorescent glow, so slick each strand is, as it moves across the pillow into darkness so that I am now only greeted by the beautiful face that vastly outshines whatever light is present in the world. The smile is still lingering on my lips, and I can only assume that it frightens him, especially considering the look on his face: pale, with eyes wide, though touched with a hint of…relief, is it?
"Yuki," he manages to whine, even though his voice is subdued to merely a whisper. There's something about his voice that just comes across as being whiny; I don't know whether that is due to his actual voice or the way he speaks, or whether it is some trait that is fused with his personality, which is why it doesn't show while he's singing.
I continue to move towards the bed, letting the silence linger only until I've reached it and am kneeling down beside it. The smile still tugs at my lips, even though I am still at a loss as to why—it's almost as if it's some sort of coping device, or something. Maybe I actually have gone insane. I've been in those institutions before, and those sick people have a tendency to smile a lot. I can't imagine a reason though, since it seems like there's obviously a reason for those people to have sacrificed their sanity, and generally a reason great enough to give up something as important as that would have to be worse than a person can handle. My therapist told me to smile when I feel depressed, since apparently it has been proven that smiling for a certain amount of time can actually improve one's mood. Those crazy people in the hospital, they smiled so much they went insane.
"Who were you talking to on the phone?" I ask, the smile touching my voice and causing it to have a harsh, almost cynical note to it, even though I never had any intention of it sounding that way. I don't like it at all. My body feels like it's betraying me.
A look of guilt flashes across Shuichi's face, and my smile widens as I realize that that obvious expression just wiped away any last trace of doubt that he has been cheating on me. It leaves me feeling empty inside, and, at the same time, somehow relieved.
"Are you okay, Yuki? Where did you go? You look…you look sick," he whispers, his voice still possessing that trace of a whine to it. He lowers his eyes to the floor, and suddenly looking at his face seems so much duller than before.
"Shuichi," I say in an almost singsong voice, winning back his gaze on mine. "How would you like to go somewhere? Just the two of us?"
He actually looks genuinely pleased for a moment, and his eyes brighten in relief and gratitude that far surpasses anything I've ever seen from him, but it immediately dies away into darkness again, and once again I am relinquished of the glow of his eyes when he lowers them back to the floor.
"I can't. I've got work to do. We have a new album to be released, and we still have a few finishing touches left, so I have to--"
I can't take his refusal. I can feel it pounding its way around my head and chest, freezing my body bit by bit through my veins, causing my muscles to flinch and tighten in an inhuman amount of stress. Shuichi cries out, a painful sound that resembles the dying whine of a sick wolf, and for a moment I can't understand why, though I soon realize it's because my hand has tightened around his wrist. Taking the chance presented to me, I yank him out of the bed, causing him to fall to the floor in a mass of limbs and bed sheets, though I don't let his wrist free, and therefore twist his arm painfully around behind him.
I don't bother to exert the energy to pack, so caught up in the momentum I am. I drag Shuichi around my flat, ignoring the incoherent screams escaping from his throat, as I gather up a few important items, namely my laptop, a few pairs of clothes for the both of us, and our passports out of the drawer in my desk. With the shrill amount of noise he is making, I assume the neighbors will be contacting the police in a matter of minutes, but I intend to be long gone before they ever have a chance to arrive. I slip on my shoes, glad at my previous decision to let my coat remain on, since now it would be incredibly difficult to put it on without letting Shuichi free.
I continue to drag him behind me until we reach my car, at which I proceed in throwing him into the passenger seat and darting around the hood in a quick gamble before entering as well and snatching his wrist again just as he opens the door in an attempt to escape. His face is a mask of horror now, so pale that his color rivals my own skin tone. Worst of all, I think, there are droplets of tears soaking his face, and his body is actually trembling, reminding me of how my body trembled not even an hour ago in the storm. He's stopped screaming at least, but only I think because he has used up his voice and his body is too tense to be able to make such a loud noise.
"Yuki," his voice is painstakingly soft, carefulness written in every tone, but despite that, it still has that whine to it. "I'm sorry, Yuki. Please, just let me go, and we'll work this out, okay? We'll be okay, I promise."
I find myself uninterested, though, as I struggle to start the car without removing my hand from his wrist. I'm only thankful that I had purchased an automatic, when faced with the choice a few years ago. Eventually I manage, and finally let go of him once we're at a high enough speed so that he wouldn't dare try to jump out of the car. I can feel his anxiety in the atmosphere, and his fear begins to seep into me, causing me to be afraid. I begin to consider letting him out, just to allow him the satisfying feeling of relief, but quickly think better of it. This plan is my last resort. If I were to let him go now, everything would just end. Shuichi would end.
I can't handle that. My mind begins to draw the unbidden image on its own, and I have to fight against myself not to let it float long enough in my consciousness so that I can see it fully. But sometimes I let my guard down, and it slips into my dreams and haunts me.
It's not Yuki lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, with dead eyes staring at me as if to convert my own eyes to their state. It's Shuichi there, his energetic body impossibly limp, his hair greasy and dull, and his entire being containing the look of the dead, that undeniable look. I am only thankful that even my gruesome mind is at a lack of ability to create an image of what Shuichi's eyes will look like once they have lost all their life. Shuichi's eyes will never be that way. They don't possess it in them to be able to die, to be dead and empty. Yuki stared at me and beckoned for me after he was dead, but Shuichi can't do that. Not so long as his love still holds a part of me. That's why I can't let him go right now; if I were to, I would be able to see his dead eyes to compliment his dead body, lying on the darkened floor of that old, musky New York apartment.
……………
Until next time,
Cassi.