Forever
Lately a boy has been haunting my thoughts. Seventeen years old, at the peak of youth. Dark brown hair sticking out carelessly, laughing till tears peeked out of his mischievous eyes. He is bathed in sunlight and summer wind, drenched in happiness and soaked in joy. His name escapes my now clouded mind, but I remember the slight wrinkles around his eyes as he grabs my hand and throws me into the ocean, the salty spray hurting my eyes, the laughter still ringing in my ears like fairy bells.
Then when I sleep, he looks at me with tears streaming down. Eyes accusing and sad, I try to soothe away the frowns to no avail as he shakes his head in sorrow and turns away. His warm figure nestled hesitatingly in my arms, shaking faintly. Words long whispered pour out of my dry lips, comforting a shadow that resides in my dreams and my memories. A silhouette of a person long gone.
I search for his name through the tunnels of my memory, but every time I am about to say the syllables, he slips away yet again. It's frustrating to say the least but still he smiles at me and nods patiently, telling me he'll wait. I ask him to just tell me, my memory failing me so miserably. He whispers in my ears that he is patient and he believes that I will remember.
In the mirror I see my aged face, but beyond it there's a smiling young girl, as a boy wraps his arms around her waist and he kisses her neck gently. He tells her of the Alps and of forever. I remember that word so clearly as if he is whispering it now. Forever. The word echoes absurdly in my mind and I start to cry without knowing why.
Faintly I hear echoes of conversations, fights and promises, and once again I wonder who he is. My frustration builds as I remember more.
An awful combination of colours looking like heaven on him as he pulls me along to places unknown. Butterfly kisses under the shelter of a barely waterproof jacket in the rain. Steaming anger that cools instantly as he holds me. Waking up next to a warm body, his face inches from mine. The taste of onions and spaghetti sauce on his lips. A hand faintly touching mine as we cross paths.
The memories now surface with the speed of a swimmer trying to get to the air that they so need. Pushing each other to get there first. My senses are bombarded as I remember details of an affair long gone. I laugh and I cry in turn, not knowing whether to be glad or upset that he is here once more.
A long gone lover, an affair buried deep within my heart and memories. A season that we spent in each other's hold, a season in which everything seemed to have been perfect. Unsoiled by the awful reality that surrounded us.
Slowly he smiles at me, showing me those loving eyes I knew so well. His youthful hand reaches out to my wrinkled ones, caressing each finger with affection smoothing out the years that passed me by.
Minutes roll off me like water on plastic, each breath comes easier till my auburn hair regains its past glory. The long tresses touching my shoulders once more, and I feel the restlessness of youth resonating in my bones.
I look to him with recognition and I open my lips to say a name that has so long wanted to escape my lips, yet he stills my opened mouth with a finger.
He tells me that he is sorry. Sorry that we had to spend our life apart. He is sorry that it took him so long to come by. And he tells me he is sorry for picking me up, and pulling me away from my family. Sad eyes searches mine and finally he points to a spot behind me and I turn to look.
A lady sits in her rocking chair, a slight smile lighting her tired face. Thinning white hair cropped close to her head, enhancing her fading elfin features. Her soft hands folded neatly on her lap.
I turn and question him. Is it my time? He nods sadly and I walk towards my body, watching my still chest curiously. I touch my hands to my face and stroke my cheeks for one last time, the skin soft and loose under my fingers.
He asks me to come with him and I nod, my eyes still at my body, looking back at the world that I'll be leaving.
He asks me to take his hands.
And this time I go.
He holds my face and kisses my lips tenderly. The butterfly kiss I have missed for an eternity. I smile as he whispers in my ears.
Forever.
This is me standing in the arch (a sequel of This is me with the worst)
Three boxes of Marlboro menthol and a bottle of vodka were ornamenting the coffee table where I put my legs above it carelessly. I don’t give a damn if I kick out one of that stuff and I don’t even care what the TV displaying of. I have something more important to settle up than worrying what my legs will cause.
Never once I have this goddamn confusing complication on my head. Not until forty seven minutes ago when I stood to hear you mumbling my name. Your unconscious state was capable to glue my legs then froze me like a shocking statue. I was speechless.
Aoi…. Daisuki da yo.
Those words were echoing over and over again through my ear like unstoppable bullet. It lodged on my sense. My brain is numb and I act like a dumb; inhaling Marlboro and sipping vodka, inhaling envious and sipping confuse. Inhaling and sipping, inhaling and sipping, again and again till I wander when this will stop.
What a bullet you use to shoot me, Uruha?
I’m dying. I’m dying for an answer of whether I decide to be an angel or a devil; To be an angel to forget this envious toward you and smile as I offer you a hand to hold, or become a devil to pretend like I love you and slice your heart into pieces then laugh in victory as you cry a red tear.
Oh Uruha.. Adorable Uruha, poor you!
After a sickness of your skilled fingers, your music ability, your beauty appearance, your nice attitude; it’s a great time to have a tasteful revenge, I may choose the second choice. Become a devil; where I give you pseudo kiss and fake lovey-dovey action then –when you fly high to seven heaven because my heart on your hand which is only your wish- I will paint you a bluish pain on your heart and tore it apart mercilessly.
Maybe I could be an angel. But that’s hard to do after this whole indescribable feeling on me. I can’t be an angel, I’m incapable to be an angel, and I never am an angel. The white circle above head is yours, not mine.
Yes, you are an angel.
…..And I don’t have a heart to rip your cotton like wings.
Maybe we could let every thing where it should; let’s stay the same.
Let’s dying each other with what we have. You with your love, and I with my envious. Let’s fight this torturing sense and let’s see who the great defender is. Afterward, if you’re still keep your love for me until this envious is dead and perished, until a desire to try is crawling, until there is nothing left but a wish to understand you, definitely;
I will come to you, Uruha.
*****
Eight months after Uruha’s indirect confession incident, The Gazette was trapped in a tight tour schedule. During those times, Aoi kept on wandering and observing the blond guitarist. Sometimes Aoi will find Uruha staring at him, sometimes he will notice Uruha’s sweet smile when he play his guitar either on backstage or at Hotel room, sometimes he will have Uruha walking on his side, sometimes he will get Uruha sitting next to him in bus, sometimes he will play guitar with Uruha willingly, sometimes he will enjoy the companion of Uruha to coffee shop unconsciously, sometimes Aoi wanderings if Uruha had ever aware of his envious toward him. And Aoi should've known better, he should, really. What with all those people say about there's only a thin line between love and hate. Or in his case, perhaps, it's more close to lust and hate.
Until it comes to this day, this fateful day, that, god, he couldn't tell if this is just saying more about his fucked up mind or how hierarchy of the universe just seem to categorize its occupants based on their worthiness all too well, but Aoi found himself hesitantly crack a single smile as an answer to the fleeting one Uruha threw across the stage during ‘Taion’(*).
...And it all ended too well. Entirely too elaborate like some sort of cosmic power has arranged it to fall perfectly into place just like that. When at the end of the show Uruha came up to him. Still with that innocent gentle smile, still with that open shy gesture, still with the childlike merriment dancing within his eyes; kissed Aoi softly right next to his ear shell …. Whisper in a delicate manner. All pronunciation clear and unhesitant...
“Thanks for the envy. It brighten my days”
~*~OWARI~*~
The Ballad of Cornelia and James
James was not sitting down when he read that letter.
It was a pity for him, because all the words in that two and a half pages of paper revealed nothing but heartache for him. And oh, it was the worst kind. It was the sort of heartache that pokes you in your sleep, stings you in the eye and wakes you up in a heap of sweaty mess… Then after a few minutes of blurry vision and heavy breathing, you come down to a clear conclusion that everything was indeedly, and very much, your fault.
Yes, your fault.
Your own sodding fault, James.
Cornelia was a blooming young virgin when he first met her. Not pretty, but attractive. She was smart, artistic and a little boyish, with that rare sense of humour that only most men would buy. But that was the exact package that drew him to her. Her essence was different. Unique. Like a perfume from a foreign country that makes you turn around and think ‘I’ve never smelled anything quite like it’. This was her. But when the time came for James to make his grand entrance, he slipped. Embarassed himself. Cornelia giggled, and went the other way.
A year passed quickly before Cornelia and James crossed paths again. She passed him in the same notion as she did a year before, turning his head around with a familiar ‘I’ve never known anyone quite like you’. So as the second chance was given, James grabbed it. “May I be delighted with your number?” he had asked at the party that night. Cornelia took her napkin and wrote down on it. Then she went the other way, but this time with a small smile playing on her face.
After a quick exchange of messages and phone calls, they were together like any other couple in campus. They were raucous and kissed each other at every break they had. They left messages on the building walls, within the corners that only they would know. I was here at one o’clock, said one writing. I skipped class today – meet you at two, said another. They displayed their affection very publicly and candidly, and any stranger who saw them together would think how lucky they were to be so young and so in love... only thing, they weren’t.
Sex wasn’t included until the second month they dated. The first few tries were painful and forgettable. Yet it wasn’t long until it escalated into a hot and steamy passion, and they proved it by making love every single day. Make-up sex became the highlight of their affair; the unhealthy type of sex that kept problems unspoken and forgotten between orgasms, driving all that anger into a rage of sexual tension. After the deed, she would always thank him, and he’d grin widely with the feeling of a grown man. He never thanked her back, but he’d kiss her forehead and let her cuddle up to him, thinking it was enough. She never said anything. She was very loyal to him.
Six months into the relationship and Cornelia fell in love. And oh, it was the strongest kind. It was the sort of love that keeps you awake at night, pulling the strings in your chest, inside and out until you sit up on your bed and sigh… Then after a few minutes of turning scarlet, you come down to a clear conclusion that you’re a fool.
Yes, a fool.
You’re a righteous young fool, Cornelia.
Because James was not in love with her. When she braved herself to say those three little words, he repeated them for her, but he never meant it. He was afraid of breaking her heart. Cornelia was fun, generous, helped him with college work and desperately in love in him, and he was afraid of breaking her heart.
But he did care for her, deeply. He cared for her enough to whisper sweet words in her ear, unknowingly kiss her while she slept and promise a future of her dreams. “I’ll always be there for you, Cornelia,” he had said. So Cornelia poured her heart out to him, and he had listened. In the tenth month, Cornelia poured her heart out to him again, but he had walked out the door. He was not there for her when she cried.
One year was more than enough for them to get to know each other. Especially for James, who discovered just how painstakingly fast an ‘I’ve never known anyone quite like you’ could turn into ‘Just another girl’. He was a little bored, but not at all sick of her yet. She remained as his oxygen; someone he yearns for, but is taken for granted.
Poor Cornelia never said anything. By now she was beaten as ever on the inside, and questioned him, and doubted him, but still craving so badly to love him always… God knows how much she tried to keep him at her side. God knows how much she had stayed silent all this while…
And so the letter started with a Dearest James.
It ended with a Love, Cornelia.
And in between the lines, there was a question of ‘Were you ever worthy of my time?’.
James was not sitting down when he read that letter.
It was a pity for him, because her handwriting will be the last thing he will ever see of her. The two and a half pages of paper he held was a concrete material, something he could burn afterwards and never lay his eyes upon again. The words he read and the guilty burden he felt, however, would never be erased from his memory. And in between the lines, he felt a question bursting from inside his head, a question far too late to ever ask…
‘Could I have loved her?’
With the crumpled letter in his hand, James staggered to sit down.
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