"Why does the mind do such things?
Turn on us, rend us, dig the claws in.
If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart.
Maybe it's much the same."
Margaret Atwood
...
Last night I dreamed I was back in Arlen.
I dreamed I was back in the field behind my old house, floating amongst the gnarled cornstalks beaten down by the unforgiving southern sun. I breathed in the dust, the heavy air of the small town from a short chapter in my youth and continued to float along mindlessly, undeterred by any barricades as a dreamer is wont to do, down a hill, through tangles of weeds, and over a rickety split rail fence until I saw my house disappear in my rearview, moving father and higher away until it was nothing but an infinitesimal blip.
It all came easily to me—a journey that I've taken before, my ghostly feet guided by phantom memory, unstoppable until I fell into a clearing into the shadow of a looming cathedral and a scream cut through—disembodied and inhuman, waking me from my dream.
...
There's a photograph I keep in the top drawer of my dresser, tucked between the pages of a well worn copy of Ulysses and long forgotten as a result. I'm not one to dig up old skeletons and would prefer to let sleeping dogs lie, but the dream has struck something loose in me, like a disentangling of threads.
I'm holding it now. It's a clipping from a newspaper, monochrome, faded and soft beneath my fingertips, taken by one of those ridiculous flash bulb contraptions by an unknown faceless photog. There's no names, no date but those details aren't important. I know the subjects, I know the day.
It's a photo of me and him.
We're in motion, mid-step crossing Park Avenue in the rain. The white stripes of the pedestrian crossing shine through in harsh contrast against all the darkness of the photo. I'm wearing a blue dress, the color of ink. The material is filmy and gossamer, a whisper of gauze in the concrete forest of the city. I'm smiling, face turned towards the camera mid-laugh. My companion trails behind me in the sharp cut of a suit—Italian wool, a Saville row import. His hand is raised in a haphazard attempt to cover his face. He does not look nearly as enthusiastic as I do but I know that's just how he was. He could've been having the time of his life but he wouldn't ever show it. He was a true stoic. Epictetus would've been proud.
I'm surprised by how young we look. So bright eyed, so innocent. We were happy at that moment. At least I was. I like to imagine he was too. But I know that is selfish of me. He's not here to defend himself from my musings.
I can catch the shape of his eyes but the black and white ink does no justice to the color. It only takes me a moment to remember what color they were—how could I ever forget? They were a most brilliant shade of blue, like a summer sky on a cloudless day.
The memory of it tugs at my heart. I can feel the hollow, ragged hole in my chest crackle and gasp.
A quiet voice in my head asks: Why do I do this to myself?
Why indeed?
I've turned this question many times over the years and the same answer surfaces again and again.
I suppose although I've left Arlen many, many years ago, part of me is still there.
The romantic in me imagines that a piece of my soul must have shattered off and lodged itself in that dusty, dirty town somewhere along the line. For as much as my memories pain me and have become muddied due to time, I only need to glance over my shoulder and feel the years drop away and see myself standing in that clearing—trembling, my hands covered in blood.
Oh, what have we done?
AN: Hi guys! I feel like I'm late to the game in this fandom, but this plot bunny entered my head and it's demanding to be written. I have a few chapters written already and am trying to clean it all up and publish when I can.
There's probably not much to comment, but leave me some encouragement! Would be greatly appreciated.