Among all the lies Emmett told himself throughout the years, perhaps the most perverse one was that spilling his seed equaled enjoying the acts in which he participated. As a means to preserve his sanity and his self-esteem, Emmett never admitted to being forced into situations he was not comfortable with. Therefore, he convinced himself that he had enjoyed his uncle's fists as well as his uncle's penis. Later, he pretended that catering to his clientele's every whim wasn't denigrating and hurtful.
He held his head high and ignored the niggling voice of conscience whispering that he had deviated from all the values his mother had instilled in him. The dark need that had driven him to a life of prostitution was still stronger than anything, even the pull of familial love. The glint of desire and admiration in his multiple lovers' eyes fed his sense of worth—being coveted was his drug of choice. The financial aspect was an added bonus, for he had always aspired to the carefree life of those who decorated the pages of the magazines that filled generations of common people's heads with impossible dreams.
Having spent years basking in the dubious glory of being young, desirable and somewhat wealthy, he became a member of the select group of the rich and the famous. For the inhabitants of the glittering world of sensual pleasures there are no such things as consequences, no commonplace such as caution. The pursuit of carnal delights was their mantra and in that they lost themselves. However, such a suspended existence could never last.
Eventually, Emmett fell from grace.
And it opened his eyes.
It happened in the middle of a ballroom that resembled the splendor of an era best forgotten. Powdered wigs, ruffled cuffs, embroidered dresses and tight breeches were worn as a tribute to the time that had sired the leader of them all: The Marquis de Sade. Of course, the sumptuous clothes were just as easily shed in his name, for there were all sorts of deviant acts being shamelessly performed in everyone's view.
For once, Emmet wasn't engaged in one of the intricate games taking place around him. Since he had attended it in a professional capacity, he should have been on the floor working, but he couldn't find the will to move out from the shadows in which he had hidden since he had arrived.
Despite having been aware of his condition for quite some time, he had never truly considered it beyond the necessity of preservatives, the frequent check-ups and the pills. Facing his own mortality hadn't enlightened Emmett with the sort of epiphany that would have made him turn his life around. It took the sight of some of the sickest human specimens, performing some of the vilest acts he had ever watched for the spell to be broken.
"They are nothing". The thought came unbidden, but with the force of the truths known by the soul. He was finally free from the empty promises of a world that was nothing more than shallow joy and deep rooted despair. Being one of them would never make him whole … It would never erase the events of his past.
Such a shame that freedom came too late.
A few days later, as Emmet considered his next step he realized he had run out of options, or better yet, had he ever had any option at all? As young men are wont to do, he had been too dazzled by his changed circumstances to put aside some of the substantial profits he had initially made in his newfound career. Later, he had been too consumed by the pursuit of a lifestyle he couldn't quite afford to care about a future he never bothered to envision. Then came the confirmation that his time on Earth was running out and he actually felt relieved—he had nothing to worry about after all.
And he would have been fine … whoring his way to an early grave, had it not been for the twist of fate that had brought Rose back into his life – sweet, innocent, dear, Rose … the love of his heart, the unwitting articulator of his downfall. For years he had denied the nature of his love for her, but as he steeled himself for the task ahead, Emmett chuckled darkly when yet another layer of deception fell to the ground.
He was going to do it because he desperately needed money to provide for Rose, even after his impending death. He wouldn't do it for his grandmother, not even for his mother … but he would do it for Rose.
It's all for you, my love. With that thought in mind, he swallowed the bile souring his mouth, dropped to all fours and allowed the male client standing behind him to defile his body in a way it hadn't been since the days Emmett had escaped his uncle's clutches. He turned off his brain and simply let it happen.
When it was over, Emmet found himself wondering that if one would take the amount of spilled semen as an indicative of the client's enjoyment of the hired boy's skills, then his fees should be much higher. It was a strange thought to cross a man's mind when his skin was crawling with revulsion while his penis was throbbing with the urge to release. The man had been easily pleased—his sole fantasy was entering a beautiful man's body without the barrier of a condom. Once inside, he had found fulfillment quite easily and left without fanfare or a backward glance.
The client had been gone for quite a while before Emmett found the will to move. The hot liquid trickling down his thighs made his stomach churn. He was so disgusted by the whole encounter that he lost the contents of his stomach. As he washed his mouth, he looked in the mirror and didn't see the stunningly beautiful man everybody coveted. He saw a lonely, broken man, willing to sell the remaining shreds of his soul.
The mirror lies. Emmett didn't feel beautiful, because truly he wasn't. Beauty comes from the soul and the only spiritual thing about him was lying on a bed, comatose, completely unaware of him.
He closed his eyes and put his fist through the mirror.
The dreaming eyes of the slip of a nurse treating his wounded hand would have entertained him any other day — he would have flirted, smiled and filled the mousy woman's head with erotic dreams to warm her lonely nights. However, that wasn't bound to happen when the reminder of his shame still marred his inner crevices, running down his thighs.
His already soured disposition was worsened by the young doctor with the superior attitude who had come to stitch the cuts on his hand. The disdain in the man's eyes convinced Emmett that somehow he had guessed his profession. To Emmett's mind, the twitch of the judgmental doctor's nose was a proof of his superior sense of smell.
He knows I whore for men. He knows I'm a bottom. He knows I let other men use my body. Let they come inside me. I'm their bitch. And he knows. It's not my private shame anymore, because he knows. I can never look in the mirror again. Everybody will know. I hate it. I've always hated it. I've always hated it. I've never liked it. Not even when I had an orgasm.
In the middle of an E.R., surrounded by strangers, Emmett had the second epiphany of his life. There would be more to come, but none would be as freeing as realizing that he had been the victim not a co-conspirator in his downfall.
The unusually chilly air exacerbated the throbbing pain in Emmett's bandaged hand. Spring had come but the nights still stubbornly refused to embrace the new season. As he sat on a bench in the darkened park, he mused about these inane subjects, completely oblivious to the less than innocent ongoings around him.
There, in the middle of drug dealing and prostitution, he found some of the inner peace he had been missing for most of his life — since the day he had offered himself as a sacrificial lamb in order to spare Rose.
I didn't enjoy it. He was finally able to put a name to it: he had been molested. A sixteen year old boy can't consent. And he hadn't, because it had never been about attraction. His body had merely responded to stimulation—a jerk reaction.
Even further, Emmett's epiphany answered another question that had been plaguing his mind for years. Due to what he had deemed to be a homosexual experience with pleasurable results, he had always questioned his own sexuality. He had never felt the compulsion to pursue the answer, but he wasn't sure, nevertheless. But now he knew. And it didn't make a difference. His heart still was where it had always been. He should have known all along.
After his hand healed he resumed business, as usual. He was used to a dispassionate view of the act of carnal relations. However, after having faced the demons that had haunted him for so many years, Emmett couldn't resume the status quo ante. Therefore, he was faced with an unparalleled dilemma, for his body wasn't responding to his command to stand and prepare. Instead it seemed to have a mind of its own, evaluating the female before it and finding her lacking, showing its displeasure by shivering and hiding.
No matter how hard Emmett tugged and stroked, fantasized and prayed, his instrument of work remained limp. Eventually, he had to concede defeat and reimburse the indignant client. Her artificially enhanced body was made all the more repulsive by all the bouncing her expressions of rage produced. Transfixed by the bizarre spectacle she presented, Emmett made no attempt at defending himself.
The old self-deprecating feelings took hold of his mind, freezing his body and trapping his spirit. His thoughts were a cacophony of disparaging comments whispered in a voice that sounded suspiciously like the man who had introduced him to prostitution. It was nothing he hadn't heard before, but it never failed to bruise his soul.
Whoring is all I've ever been good for. I'm no longer good for it. What happens now?
No answers, just questions. Deciding to just head home and sleep whatever was happening off, it felt like no time had passed at all when the offending light of day yanked him away from the pleasant dreams warming his heart with the promise of the simple life he would never have the opportunity to enjoy. Instead, he had to steel his heart for another day spent visiting the one woman he had always loved, but had never returned his feelings.
Sometimes, a twinge of resentment marred the purity of his sentiments for Rose. Part of him believed that he wouldn't have been lured into prostitution had she agreed to run away with him. Instead he had faced the world on his own… a young bird, far from the nest, eager to fly, too inexperienced to choose the direction. Or maybe, he would he have ended up where he was, no matter what …
Those rare occasions never really lasted more than a few seconds, for the past cannot be changed. All a person can do is accept that some paths will never be walked and keep on moving. Otherwise, he would be forever imprisoned by dreams, trapped by possibilities … The jailor of himself. Such a simple proclamation, but with ramifications that could possibly reach the very core of the man he had become.
Fortunately, he didn't have time to dwell on that thought, for Rose was waiting.
The pitying glances of the staff did little to improve his mood. As he sat on her bed, he sighed deeply. At the beginning his actions had been fueled by emotion, his words furiously pouring of his burning soul. However, as time went by, the ferocity of his emotions dwindled, until one day he realized that the ritual he performed was devoid of meaning—it had become a routine, something he had been doing every Friday for a long time now.
Even the guilt that had haunted his days and tortured his nights had faded—a victim of rational thought and impeccable logic. Once he had wished for Rose's death, but not out of malice, instead it had been an expression of desperation. He would never be able to forgive himself that lapse, but he had finally accepted that his errant plea hadn't been responsible for Rose's current state. So many times he had prayed for her recovery … if he had the power to manipulate reality wouldn't she be awake by now?
It wasn't my fault. He had known that all along, however he hadn't understood that until he had reasoned for countless hours … until he had exhausted his mind with endless arguments and quieted the accusing voice that kept on insisting he was to blame. Deep inside, he still felt an irrational inkling of guilt, but not as much as before.
It wasn't as paralyzing ... as terrifying. It was manageable. He could live with it.
As he professed his undying devotion to an unmoving Rose, Emmett averted his eyes. It was yet another thing he repeated because it was part of the script, an inescapable element of the routine he had established. Focusing on the lilies of the valley sitting at the windowsill, Emmett felt the pangs of doubt growing inside his chest.
Long ago, as a teen, he had made it a habit to buy Rose a stem of her favorite flower every Friday as a way to express his unspeakable feelings. He spared no efforts in obtaining the necessary money to acquire the treat, going as far as forsaking lunch and taking jobs that exceeded his available hours, in detriment of his academic performance.
But he had been a kid back then, infatuated with a pretty little thing, blinded by the only shred of light in an abysm of darkness. At that time he had been sure, now he had doubts. Was it love that tied him to the unobtainable woman before him or was he simply unwillingly to let go of some juvenile infatuation? Was his love yet another habit?
It's poison, that's what it is. Just like the delicacy of the lilies of the valley concealed the poison running underneath, his all-consuming love for a woman who could never reciprocate was yet another facet of self-hatred.
A bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.
He closed his eyes and steeled himself for what he had to do. When he opened them, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was time to say goodbye.
"I've been very unfair. All this time, I've expected you to be my salvation—the one who would lift me up and make me better, whole, happy. I've looked at you like you owed me something—a debt of honor. But that was so, so unreasonable…
"What I gave you was freely offered. My feelings for you are a jumbled mess—I don't think I will ever be able to figure them out. And I won't even try, because what I do know for sure is more than enough.
"I'll keep on looking after you, but I won't visit you anymore. You see, I don't think you are aware of my presence, so you won't miss me. But I'm very aware of you … being here hurts me deeply and I don't deserve this torture.
"Farewell, my sister, fare thee well… I will always remember you, but I can no longer play Antony to your Cleopatra."
Assaulted by the memories of the long weekends they'd spent practicing lines during her "I wanna be an actress" phase, he almost crumbled. Holding himself together, he placed a lingering kiss on Rose's unmoving lips and combed his fingers through her soft, richly hued hair. It was an affectionate gesture, a reminiscence of a time when he would have given anything to touch her thus.
It's over now. Turning on his heels, Emmett walked away, his heart freed from the burden of a love that had turned viciously poisonous.
He never saw the single tear running down Rose's delicate face.
Determined to put all that tragedy behind and enjoy the warm weather, despite of the flu that had been bothering him as of late, Emmett found a charming little café that had tables outside. He had been drinking a concoction, whose name he couldn't remember, when he spotted a cute brunette sitting alone a few tables from him. She was petite and slender—the antithesis of Rose, therefore exactly the kind of woman he needed at the moment.
She didn't fail to notice his interest, but instead of welcoming it, she turned crimson and looked away. The woman's reaction disconcerted Emmett—she was by no means a young girl, she surely knew the game. He considered the possibility that maybe she would be engaged in another sort of pursuit, but even then all she had to do was decline his invite, not react with such embarrassment.
Maybe she was one of my clients. Looking closely, he couldn't recall ever servicing the woman. Given the fact that he had a good memory he was sure they were strangers. For a moment, he considered the possibility that she might be the weird client with the blindfolding fetish, but disregarded it.
The woman was too normal, too pretty, too sweet…Besides, her date had returned from wherever he had gone to. Emmett shrugged and pegged the woman's discomfort as the consequence of already being on a date.
Little did he know…
What does one do on a first date? Bella honestly didn't know, for she had never experienced that rite of passage. Liam was a veterinarian at the animal shelter where she volunteered—he was nice, sweet and very patient. For months he danced around her, somehow sensing that she needed more time and gentleness than other females. Until one day he asked her out and to everybody's surprise, even her own, she accepted.
And now here she was, sweating on her too tight shirt, praying that Liam would never come back from the bathroom. It was all very mundane, very normal, until he caught her eye. For the first few, awful seconds she thought he recognized her. Then she realized that he was eyeing her as a woman. It was flattering … It was troubling.
She had almost used that man's body. He had been a testimony to her darkest hour, when his cousin had destroyed her, even though he seemed to have forgotten her. Nevertheless, many years later, that man had been a casualty in the war she had waged against herself. Yes, she had treated him like all those men in the strip club had treated her: like a piece of meat.
Barely noticing Liam's return, Bella felt swamped with guilt. The old walls threatened to resurrect around her. Feeling nauseous, she babbled some excuse to a startled Liam and they left. Later that night, she cried herself to sleep.
It would be a long time before she forgave herself and found the courage to go on another date.
Meanwhile, Emmet went about his day and never thought about that encounter again. That night as he took a nap on the couch fever took over. The heat was unbearable, but try as he might Emmett couldn't get his limbs to cooperate with the commands issued by his feverish brain. Falling to the floor, there he remained, prostrate, except for the unrelenting cough racking his emaciated body. Trembling he tried to reach for the eluding form he believed to be the telephone. So far, it had been a vain effort for his eyes had been betraying him, showing him things that weren't there.
Something putrid came out of him and he was left heaving, fighting for his next breath. His chest hurt—inside his veins, his blood roared, turning his vision into darkness. And still he couldn't find the will to fight back, to do something … Death was closing in, its dark shadow almost touching him. He could see it smiling coldly, promising retribution for his many sins. It was the incentive he needed, for his feeble attempts at calling for help were made stronger by the fear of losing the one thing he praised the most.
He managed to reach the telephone and dial 911—he barely had the strength to ask for help. Thanks to modern technology, they were able to locate him. As the paramedics frantically worked on his shivering body, trying to determine what ailed him Emmett smiled to himself because he knew.
It was pneumonia. They had said it could happen. It was very common in those who had his disease.
Taken to the hospital, Emmett almost wished for death. Almost. It was all very aggravating—the incessant prodding, the never ending lecturing, the reproachful glances, the pitying kindness. He wasn't an illness, a public health issue, a sin to vanquish or cause to embrace—he was a man, but nobody seemed to remember that simple truth. In his tiny, uncomfortable hospital bed Emmett had been stripped from his dignity, relegated to the unmerciful hands of fate.
Even those who came to pray for his immortal soul, never once tried to comfort him. Yes, they wanted him to see heaven, but they were too busy trying to get him there to pay attention to what he needed here and now. They recited words of love and devotion, but not one of them ever offered him a hug or even a pat to the back or a handshake.
Sometimes, he thought about calling his mother. Although she never knew the extent of her son's depravation, she had known enough to ensure that any encounter would end on a bitter note. She wasn't a bad woman, but he couldn't bear to see the mix of self-righteousness and pity in her eyes when she realized that she had been right all along.
It doesn't matter, because I will survive. I have to. My story isn't over yet.
Emmett stoically endured the treatment until came the day to say goodbye. Because his body was merely a vessel to his resilient soul, he left the hospital as a victor—he had beaten the pneumonia. No matter what the medical staff had to say, deep inside his heart, Emmett believed that he was alive due to sheer stubbornness, for he refused to die before he had lived … before he had truly lived, because what he had been doing couldn't be classified as such.
Stepping out of the place where he had engaged in the most important battle of his life, Emmett lifted his face to the sky and smiled. The bright light of the sun warmed his skin and a tear escaped his eye. It wasn't sadness that made him cry—it was pure, unadulterated joy. For whatever reason, he had been spared the sad fate of a premature death. He had a second chance to live, to make things right, to …
What happens now? The idea of actually having a choice was somewhat alien to Emmett. In his experience, life happened and he adjusted. But things had changed …
Profoundly.
Irrevocably.
And he didn't merely adjust.
He embraced his new life wholeheartedly.
He went home and got rid of the garish furnishing and expensive wardrobe. Realizing it wasn't enough, he sold the apartment and moved away. His new neighborhood was a much better fit for a man trying to find meaning and direction to his life. It was an eclectic mix of young, successful professionals, middle aged couples, cute families and older people who couldn't quite accept their mounting years. Most of Emmett's days were spent watching the comings and goings of the overactive people surrounding him.
By observing, he was trying to assimilate the behavior of "normal" people, something whose existence he was coming to doubt. Surprisingly, instead of learning more about average human beings, he ended up with an impressive amount of knowledge about himself. He had been unable to form a detached relationship with the object of his studies—he always had a comment, a praise, a reprimand.
I don't like observing. I want to create. The thought evoked the memory of a brown leather book long forgotten. It used to be the instrument of his most ambitious dreams, the place where he penned the first words of his first novel … the only words of his unfinished novel. He wasn't going to think of the reasons why he had stopped writing—he wouldn't taint the beauty of this moment.
He had once aspired to be a writer.
Maybe it was time to return to his roots.
However, the words refused to come. Emmett spent hours staring at the empty screen of his brand new laptop, but couldn't write a single line. His brain was tortured by a thousand ideas, with bright, vivid images that refused to be translated into something as unassuming as the written language. Perhaps, he merely lacked the right instruments, the appropriate technique to express himself.
With that thought in mind, Emmett spared no efforts in finding the help he required. However, he was a high school dropout, not exactly the type of student wanted by writing courses. It took him a while, but eventually he found the answer to his problem in a most unusual class.
Finding it was an act of fate, for he read about it on the society pages of the local news — something he rarely, if ever, did. It was meant for high born ladies of a certain age, but given the fact that most of them came from a time when women's education wasn't exactly a priority, he saw it as the chance he needed.
Of course, he had to charm the committee into accepting him. And he was well aware that to them he was nothing more than a curiosity, a specimen from a different world. Yes, he would amuse them, if for nothing else, for the chance to find his voice.
As he proudly clutched his syllabus, he couldn't help but smile.
It's beginning ... the rest of my life.
"Write about what you know". The teacher's advice fell on deaf ears, at least when it came down to Emmett. He was surrounded by society's finest, how could he possibly taint their ears with the tales of abuse and prostitution that had marked his life so far? So, he tried to follow their lead, writing about places he had never visited, art he had never appreciated and causes he had never cared about.
His work was mediocre at best, laughable if one was ruthlessly honest. Comparing his current efforts to the contents of his leather bound notebook was heartbreaking … Back then, his prose had flowed with admirable easiness, something he was hard pressed to emulate nowadays.
But that was before it had started … Was his writing yet another thing that had been stolen from him? How far would the tentacles of his uncle's violence reach? Could he find his voice again? Was he imagining things? Maybe he had lost the touch … Grown out of it.
Feeling deflated, he wondered if he should just give up. At that thought, something inside of him writhed and burned in indignation. He might not be good, but he wouldn't quit. He had an overwhelming need to be heard, seen, understood.
And then maybe he would find whatever it was that had been eluding him.
While walking to his class, Emmett was startled by the perception of a lingering taste of unfulfilled promises in the air, a vibrant undercurrent of anxiety, a potent smell of almost life. He couldn't help but feel intoxicated by the decadent atmosphere surrounding him. Something reckless bloomed inside his chest making him feel young like he hadn't since the days that preceded his descent into hell. Like the damsels of the books he never read, Emmett walked with a spring on his step, singing to himself, smiling without reason.
It was in that unusual mood that he entered the room housing the other attendants of his writing class. The prim and proper ladies never really excluded him, but somehow they still managed to make quite clear that he didn't belong to their ranks. Contemplating their superior attitude, Emmett chuckled at his own stupidity, for he had spent the previous night working on his story instead of enjoying the comfort of his bed. He hadn't wanted to repeat the previous week's fiasco when he had stood before the ladies and read a less than acceptable story. He had felt the weight of their disapproval, the thin threads of their mockery.
Looking into their eyes, Emmett grasped that elusive piece of the puzzle, at last.
Stop running. Stop hiding. Tell the truth, even if only to a bunch of self-important strangers.
When it was his turn to stand before the others, Emmett tore the papers where he had written a mediocre story. Trembling violently, he closed his eyes and prayed for the courage to bare his soul. Slowly, he reopened them, trying not to focus on anyone, for he knew better than to seek for comfort or understanding.
For a few terrifying seconds, his mind was completely blank. Then the river of memory inundated his brain and the words flowed easily. He forgot his audience and the purpose of the class … He was lost inside his own head, reliving the horror of the events that had molded his life. No detail was too sordid to be left unspoken, no experience too degrading to be kept a secret. It was the deepest form of catharsis, for it was done out of his own free will, before an audience who would not offer any form of sympathy.
Eventually, his mouth grew dry and his eyes too wet. He was on his knees, raw, hurt, exposed … The looks on the women's faces varied from disgust to pity; he couldn't bear it … He was too broken, too weak … He needed a sparkle of human warmth and none of them could offer it.
Will I ever stand again?
A sound disrupted his troubled thoughts. And just like that he had his answer.
Before the astounded eyes of her peers, a distinguished lady, well past the first and the second bloom of youth, stood fiercely applauding Emmett's confession. Her amber eyes shone with tears she dared not spill, for she wouldn't insult the strong, brave man standing before her with any demonstration of pity. Instead of the maternal affection the young man obviously craved, she offered something far more valuable: she gave him her respect; she treated him like a man.
Her many years hadn't been lived in vain, for she had learned that wants and needs weren't always in consonance, and between the two one should always opt for the later. By standing up while the others sat, by supporting while the others judged, she knew that she would be damaging the work of a lifetime, but it was a necessary sacrifice. The boy's tale had done something to her petrified heart, had somehow awakened her dormant soul.
Gazing into the older woman's eyes, Emmett found nothing but admiration. It made him whole. It made him stand proud and take his leave with his dignity intact. He had told his story and survived the experience. Furthermore, he found the self respect he had always lacked. All it had taken was the understanding of a single human being.
Thank you, Esme.
The storm raging within his soul had finally quieted, but Emmett couldn't bring himself to still his disobedient body. The ongoing movements of his body were a counterpoint to the disconcerting state of his mind—there were no thoughts, no preoccupations, no dreams, no goals. He didn't want to stop, because when he did he would have to ask himself a question to which he had no answer. And he was afraid.
Desperation clawed at his heart; as a result he resorted to the antics that had guaranteed his survival so many times before. He lied to himself, using such childish, immature fabrications that he later couldn't recount a single one of them. However, they didn't bring him any comfort—they only exasperated him, making Emmett want to scream at himself.
A life doesn't have to be special to be a happy one. The never ending search for meaning, for dreams, for money, for notoriety, for beauty, for a soulmate, for fate … lies, all lies told by unhappy people hell bent on spreading and perpetuating their dissatisfaction. What had been a mere promise just that morning bloomed into full, bright, undeniable reality.
Emmett was happy. Not because life was perfect. Not because all his dreams had come true. Not because he had found the love of his life. Not because he had been cured from the decease plaguing his body. Just because. And that was more than enough. With a full heart and a lot of hope he returned to his family, without a big plan or deeper motives, he was simply eager to be with them.
As he contemplated the house where his mother still lived, Emmett was slightly disappointed at his own lack of reaction. In that seemly average suburban home, he had begun his education on the immorality of humankind. For years, he had held it as the symbol of his fall from grace, but now that he had faced his demons, it was simply a decaying building of fading colors—nothing more, nothing less.
Not for the first time, he lamented the sad destiny of the women in his family: scarred, crazed, demented – all victims of the men in their lives; none of them fully cognizant of the motives that engendered their downfall. Sometimes, Emmett wondered if he should shed some light in the events that had led his father to abandon his mother; or if he should enlighten his mother about his uncle's character which maybe could explain the reason for his grandfather's crime. Or even if he should tell her about his illness …
However, Emmett always decided against besmirching the memory of the brother Jane still idolized and destroying the illusion that her husband had been the villain in their would be love story. Besides, letting her know about his deteriorating health would only sadden her. And this time wasn't any different from the others, for he upheld the same misapprehensions in the name of love. Instead of spending his visit confronting his mother with unwanted truths, he showered her with affection like he had never done before. Even his absent minded grandmother was subjected to his lavish demonstrations.
I haven't allowed myself to love them. But I'm done letting him dictate my life. I love. He can't take that away from me.
And that love took him to a place he never thought he would visit. From afar, Emmett observed what was left of the man who had been missing from his life for the past twenty five years. The years hadn't diminished the onslaught of emotions that assaulted him whenever he entered that place. However, he had become inured to the almost overwhelming urge to flee and deny the reality right before his eyes. As was his habit, he caressed the yellowed letter in his pocket, the one that had informed him of his father's destiny. Forcing his feet to move, he began the slow procession towards his final destination.
Aro, the runaway husband, the absent father … To Emmett's mind, he had been nothing more than a misguided wannabe martyr in a badly written romance novel. Why else would he have preferred to die alone? Just to spare her from the suffering of seeing him die? Because "penniless is better than overloaded with bills", like Aro had so eloquently put in his final letter to his eldest son? Didn't Jane have the right to say goodbye to her husband?
It had been his father's dearest hope that Jane would deal better with disappointment than with grief. Emmett had always had his doubts, but he was honor bound to keep his father's secret, for that had been Aro's dying wish—the object of the letter Emmett held. Sometimes, Emmett wondered why his father had written to him at all. In his most cynical moments, Emmett believed that the old man had wanted someone to applaud his "selflessness". Most of the time he simply didn't know.
Tears blurred his vision when his feet stopped before his father's resting place. No epithets adorned the tombstone Emmet so reverently caressed. Such a sad life. Such a lonely death. Do I have the time to avoid the same fate?
To that effect he made the difficult decision to move across the ocean – effectively putting a lot of distance between who he was and who he wanted to become. The first few months were difficult, for he was never one to look too deeply within himself, yet, he made himself do it. Some mornings, like the one he was having, were easier and he felt truly elated to be alive.
He checked himself on the mirror and chuckled. Wearing an unconventional aubergine suit wasn't a fashion statement. Also, it wasn't an iconoclastic manifest. Much less, a show of non-conformism. It was about being free to make his own choices regardless of what other people might think. In his new incarnation, as Emmett called the period of time since he had left the American Continent, he had discovered that adhering to no rules was the only rule he was willing to follow—life was too short to do things just because you were told.
So he went out and about. He smiled to people he didn't know and was charming to people he had just met. He kissed old ladies hands and flattered young girls with the kind of sweet nothings with which young boys didn't bother anymore. Nobody could resist the brilliance of his smile or the gentleness of his manner: he was quickly becoming a picturesque part of the scenery, something of a feat, in a city as jaded as Paris. Walking those ancient streets he had learned the true nature of his heart – he was a man of love and all he wanted to do was make people smile.
I know I look ridiculous to them. But I'm also ridiculously happy. Because I'm alive. Because today I'm free to walk these streets. I don't know what tomorrow holds. But I have today. And today I choose to laugh at the top of my lungs.
Unbeknown to Emmett, fate had a little surprise coming his way.
Attracted by Emmet's rambunctious shout of laughter, oddly fascinated by his unusual clothes, a woman eagerly observed his every move. Helpless to suppress her growing fascination with the man whose joie de vivre was as obvious as it was infectious, she found herself smiling, despite the horrible morning she had just endured—underhanded compliments always had that effect on her. "Oh, but you are not that fat" … Could those women even hear themselves? Conasses!
She was well aware that her body didn't fit into the mold of what fashion dictated, but she had always thought herself pretty. And she wasn't being conceited—she simply wasn't one of those poor women with no self-esteem. She liked her red hair and grey eyes, her delicate features and full mouth, even her Madonna like teeth were greatly appreciated. The world told her that her body should be despised and changed at any cost, but she sort of liked her curves, especially the full, natural breasts the extra weight afforded her. Too bad nobody agreed with her …
Sighing, she shook her head in dismay—a man as handsome as the one she had been observing would never go for a, there was no gentle way to put it, a chubby chick. Closing her eyes against the sudden pain engulfing her, she almost missed the exquisitely peculiar man who happened to be heading her way.
Wait, what?
Startled, she frantically sought the handsome man, but he had disappeared from her view. Feeling deflated, she lowered her eyes and couldn't contain her shocked explosion of verbal insolence.
"Putain!"
Smiling roguishly, Emmett couldn't help but toying with her a bit. If by kneeling at her feet he got her to blush furiously, what reaction would she have if …
"Not quite, but for you I might. As soon as you tell me your name."
Her eyes widened with indignation at his cheap pass and her lips parted though no sound came out. Truth be told, Emmett was somewhat startled by his own actions, but it was Paris and there was a pretty girl eyeing him … Carpe diem … Maybe she would laugh at his cheesy line and they would become friends … Maybe she wasn't particularly bright and would fall for it … Maybe she would slap him—now that wasn't a nice prospect …
"Zoé. And since I'd like to know the name of the man who would do such a thing pour moi, you are?"
"What?"
It was not Emmet's brightest moment. Apparently, the kitten had claws—it just took her a while to find them, but she knew how to spar. Her reaction was unexpected, but much welcomed.
Good, I like them feisty.
"I'm Emmett, my lady. May I persuade you to join me for a cup of coffee?"
The timeless feminine promise contained in Zoé's answering smile made Emmett's toes curl inside his shoes, although he was loath to admit it, for he thought it extremely unmanly. Getting to his feet, he took her hand—it wasn't something planned, it only seemed natural. The first feel of her skin against his elicited a much more virile reaction. To his everlasting mortification, Zoé noticed it. And chuckled.
Over many cups of coffee they got to know each other. They didn't bother sharing the banal facts of their existence, for theirs was a meeting of unusual souls. The truths Emmett had hidden for so long were pouring out of him in a never ending flux of uncontrollable confessions. Through it all, Zoé held his hand to her heart and cradled his face in the palm of her hand. The string of French expletives she sputtered warmed his heart … She was angry for him … She was taking his side, feeling his pain … When had anyone done that?
She is life. In the few hours he had spent with her, Zoé had patched the wounds of a lifetime of pain. Even when she heard about his illness and the endless limitations it would impose if they became romantically involved, she wasn't discouraged. She simply smiled enigmatically, kissed the corner of Emmett's mouth and asked for the check. Emmett tried not to let his imagination fly, but it wasn't easy: he was a man, after all. Besides, she hadn't talked much and he wanted to get to know her before their relationship evolved.
If it evolved.
Fear gnawed at his insides and he tightened the hold he had on her hand. Sensing his tension, Zoé touched Emmett's arm with her free hand. Talking about her life was easy: her parents were still married and lived in Nice, she had no siblings, she had a degree in Economics … Telling the gorgeous, flawless Emmett about her self-image issues during her teen years and the ignorance of people regarding her looks was a bit more difficult. But she swallowed her pride and did it, because she was pretty certain he would understand. Because he was different. Because he was meant to be hers.
Right?
It was her turn to feel insecure, but Emmett's reassurance came swift and clear. Under Paris' night sky, with dozens of uninterested passersby as testimonies, Emmett kissed Zoé sealing their fate.
All doubts vanished, for their hearts had the answer.
They were in love.
No invitation was issued, for verbalizing what was bound to happen would have tainted the sweetness of the moment with the crudeness of arranging details. Therefore, Emmett merely expressed his reluctance to leave Zoé by walking her home … and accepting her invitation to go up for a cup of coffee … despite the fact that he hated coffee and he had already drunk a lot of it.
It should have been awkward. And it could have been. Except that it wasn't. Because she was Zoé; she was life and she was supposed to be his … And when her soft hand touched his face, her stormy gray eyes looking inside his teary ones Emmett felt the measures of time and space falling away. From that moment on, there was only him and Zoé, two lovers enveloped by the irresistible threads of fate.
There was no shame between them, no blushes or awkward movements—it was the purest manifestation of the expression "making love". For Zoé, it was a wonder, how at ease she felt, how unconcerned with the imperfections of her body she was. The adoring look on his face when he gazed at her made her feel like a princess, like a goddess … like every woman ought to feel when she is with the man she loves.
As experienced as he was, nothing could have prepared Emmett for what taking Zoé entailed. Not even the necessary barrier between their intimate parts diminished the devastating intimacy he experienced, for theirs was more than a union of bodies—it was an acceptance of a lifetime together, as long as that might be.
Pleasure washed over them, wave after wave, until it became too much and they fell into an abyss of unbearable bliss—tangled limbs, entwined fingers, joined bodies …
And, above all, an everlasting bound of souls and hearts.
Many years later …
The incessant noise of the machines would have been annoying to any other patient. However, to a man of Emmett's sunny disposition, the succession of bips and hums meant that he was still alive, and for that he was immensely grateful. Another day in this world was an opportunity to be treasured, to be appreciated.
As usual, the first person he saw was his darling wife, Zoé. The years had been generous with her—although he might be a little bit biased, she had aged well, the thin lines around her eyes adding character to her beautiful face. The light touch of her hand still stirred his body and made his heart thump with barely restrained love. Their story wasn't an epic love story full of twists and turns: it was an everyday love, built with a lot of bickering, a healthy dose of lust and a lot of respect. She was brave, his Zoé. He knew that after he was gone she would suffer, but she would go on … for their girls, for herself … Because she was life and that's what he loved the most about her. For her he had a charming smile and a flirtatious wink … even though both of them knew that nothing would come of it.
Next, he saw the teary face of his dearly loved daughter, Aimée. Aged twelve, she was already a beauty and Emmett was sorry that he wouldn't be around to scare off the boys (and girls!) who would soon be chasing her. A bit far behind, stood Dorothée, his eldest. At seventeen, she was bookish and shy. Emmett still remembered how broken little Dorothée had been, how hard they had worked to draw her out of her protective shell … but it had been so rewarding. The children of his heart were Emmett's pride and joy—he was absolutely oblivious to the slightly irritated faces of his co-workers, neighbors or even mere acquaintances when he bragged about what he believed to be his girls' achievements (grades, teacher's comments, drawings — the list was endless) or besieging them with photos of Dorothée and Aimée performing the most mundane tasks— awe inspiring feats if one bothered to ask Emmett (which no one did). He hugged them with the ferocious love of a departing father, eager to convey too much in such a simple gesture.
Jane, his mother, sat by the window. She was the only one who hadn't made her peace with his impending death. She was viscerally mourning his destiny, but he didn't really blame her, for he was a father, after all. He tried to cheer her up, to convince her to celebrate his life, but she couldn't possibly understand … not without knowing his past, the one he had concealed from her. He loved her too much to hurt her with something as horrendous as the truth, so he kept quiet and dried her tears.
Looking around, Emmett thought that dying of AIDS wasn't so bad if one had had the time to truly live.
I have lived. I have loved. What a gift the past few years have been.