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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. |
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