truth

It’’s a dangerous thing when you forget how to cry, when you forget howtospeak. Dangerous when the tears are always there, waiting in thebackground.She was like that, you know. When you looked into her eyes you could seeit,that tension waiting behind her contact lenses and her corneas, thepressurethat sat beside her expensive haircut and designer clothes. Her life wasastring of dark scenes that she did not remember and the tensionthreatened tobreak with the graceful rolls of an earthquake, leaving everythingshatteredbehind.

To her he was a god. Like the tortured protagonist of a Kerouac novel, heclimbed into her dreams. His claim that his existence was tortured, hadenoughmelodrama and anxiety in it to be true. They both lived in self-imposedteenangst, except at night he wondered what the back of his head would looklikewith a bullet in it and when no one was looking she bit her lip so hardthatthe blood would flow.

She saw him once a week, on Thursdays. He’’d arrive at her doorstep,clutchinghis aching chest. It was a sort of inside joke he had with himself -runningto her house. He would push himself faster and faster, wanting to reachher sobad, and hoping all the while that his failing lungs would finally burstandlead him to oblivion. He said that all he wanted was to be left alone.Sometimes when he’’d come in, she would ignore him, transferring herangerofthe world to him because she knew he could take it. He would stand therepatiently, never looking at her, never making a sound. Sometimes, if shewaited too long he would fall asleep. Then, she would turn around andbury herface in his neck, which always smelled like chamomile and spice to her.He’’dput his arms around her and without realizing it she’’d begin to shake.Sheshook so hard they both began to move. She cried so hard she left stainsonhis shirts. He was the only person in the world she trusted, her tragicquixotic protagonist, and every week he would leave her broken and tearstreaked on her bedroom floor.

Some nights he would call her up sobbing, his quivering voice barelyaudibleover the static that plagued his phone. She would drop the nausea in herstomach and listen to him with an attention that no one else receivedfromher. She would mother him and baby him, be his sister, his slave, hiswhore,his dumping ground. She would say whatever found its way into her vocalchordsand he said that she always helped.

Sometimes late at night, she would take off all her clothing and clutch apillow to her chest with freezing, white knuckled hands, remembering whatitwas to hold him, wondering what it would be like to lose him. Sometimeslateat night, he would sit at his computer, typing until his fingers bled.Sometimes he would sit in front of a mirror until he was sure that therewerelittle bits of shiny glass embedded in his brain. He would starve himselfandnot even know it.

It was her job to remind him of the importance of food, of love, of humanwarmth and his to make her feel safe enough to finally cry. He dreamt ofmonsters at night, and she only of him. To her he was so beautiful ithurt andshe believed that in each other’ hearts they would live forever.