Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Fiction & Life
They say that books have a way of finding their way into one's life. One doesn't find the book. The book finds you, the story line resonating parts of your life.
Two days ago, I chanced upon a book.
*****
'You don't love me,' she says quietly.
He pauses, rests his chin on her shoulder, thinks about this. 'Once,' he muses, 'I thought I did. It was fleeting, I'm glad to say. I'm glad I didn't do anything rash for you. I thought I was going to, I nearly did: I'm pleased I saved myself. I'm pleased I did not give up everything that is precious in exchange for you, a lowly bloodsucker.'
'...I have never asked you to give up anything. I have never asked anything from you.'
'But you do! He shakes her. 'Don't you see? You do! You ask for a great slice of me- you demand it! And if I don't give it, you sulk and cry, your feelings are drearily hurt. I have to sit at my desk and feel ashamed and try to discover where I went wrong. And worry that this time you'll leave me, that I'll never hold you again, But I am just another of your stupid toys, these expensive things you buy on a whim and never touch lovingly again. I am behind glass, like them; you look at me as you look at them, coldly, indifferently.'
She licks her cracked lips, sucks down the sourness. Sometimes she wonders if her heart has pieces left to break, blood enough to bleed another drop. 'I have had to keep you behind glass,' she says, 'because my touch is damaging to you. I would take you to bed with me every night, curl up with you in my blankets and sleep beside you, but I cannot. You don't belong to me. So I'd be foolish to let myself become too attached. Any day I might lose you, any hour. Can you imagine how that feels? Can you imagine how it is, to be forever on that verge- always wondering when you'll say the word, when you'll decide to be free? Fearing that every stupid thing I say might cost me that price? You say I'd remember how to be alone- you're right, I would. It's a skill I'd be a fool to forget. But don't talk to me about being alone: what would you know about it? Nothing. You don't know know what lonesomeness is.'
'Don't speak for me,' he retorts. His cock is demanding things now, is a jabbering voice in his head. “You know nothing about me.'
'I know some things,' Her eyes too are closed. 'I know that when I need you, you won't be here. Not when I'm hurt or tired or overjoyed, not when I ache for you, when tears fall down my face for you, your hush voice, your kind heart, your pretty laugh, you won't be here. You don't belong to me- I know. You belong to others, and you're happiest that way.'
'You knew all this from the day we met.'
'Yes, that's true.'
'But you'd make me feel guilty for it anyway.'
'Yes, that's true too. It's inadvertent: I don't mean it. I'm glad you are happy somewhere, with someone, I don't want to take that from you... None of this has turned out how I thought it would. I have botched the job. I'm not very good at it, I suppose.'
-Landscape with animals, Cameron S. Redfern
They say that books have a way of finding their way into one's life. One doesn't find the book. The book finds you, the story line resonating parts of your life.
Two days ago, I chanced upon a book.
*****
'You don't love me,' she says quietly.
He pauses, rests his chin on her shoulder, thinks about this. 'Once,' he muses, 'I thought I did. It was fleeting, I'm glad to say. I'm glad I didn't do anything rash for you. I thought I was going to, I nearly did: I'm pleased I saved myself. I'm pleased I did not give up everything that is precious in exchange for you, a lowly bloodsucker.'
'...I have never asked you to give up anything. I have never asked anything from you.'
'But you do! He shakes her. 'Don't you see? You do! You ask for a great slice of me- you demand it! And if I don't give it, you sulk and cry, your feelings are drearily hurt. I have to sit at my desk and feel ashamed and try to discover where I went wrong. And worry that this time you'll leave me, that I'll never hold you again, But I am just another of your stupid toys, these expensive things you buy on a whim and never touch lovingly again. I am behind glass, like them; you look at me as you look at them, coldly, indifferently.'
She licks her cracked lips, sucks down the sourness. Sometimes she wonders if her heart has pieces left to break, blood enough to bleed another drop. 'I have had to keep you behind glass,' she says, 'because my touch is damaging to you. I would take you to bed with me every night, curl up with you in my blankets and sleep beside you, but I cannot. You don't belong to me. So I'd be foolish to let myself become too attached. Any day I might lose you, any hour. Can you imagine how that feels? Can you imagine how it is, to be forever on that verge- always wondering when you'll say the word, when you'll decide to be free? Fearing that every stupid thing I say might cost me that price? You say I'd remember how to be alone- you're right, I would. It's a skill I'd be a fool to forget. But don't talk to me about being alone: what would you know about it? Nothing. You don't know know what lonesomeness is.'
'Don't speak for me,' he retorts. His cock is demanding things now, is a jabbering voice in his head. “You know nothing about me.'
'I know some things,' Her eyes too are closed. 'I know that when I need you, you won't be here. Not when I'm hurt or tired or overjoyed, not when I ache for you, when tears fall down my face for you, your hush voice, your kind heart, your pretty laugh, you won't be here. You don't belong to me- I know. You belong to others, and you're happiest that way.'
'You knew all this from the day we met.'
'Yes, that's true.'
'But you'd make me feel guilty for it anyway.'
'Yes, that's true too. It's inadvertent: I don't mean it. I'm glad you are happy somewhere, with someone, I don't want to take that from you... None of this has turned out how I thought it would. I have botched the job. I'm not very good at it, I suppose.'
-Landscape with animals, Cameron S. Redfern
