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With such a hell in your heart and your head, how can you live? How can you love?
--Fyodor Dostoevsky, from The Brothers Karamazov
You'd always been reaching out for things since you were a kid.
Reached out, arms outstretched, hands grasping, wrists shaking. Reached out, just to hold, just to have, just to feel.
You blamed your life. The circumstances. Fate. Chapters written and set up for you to live. Subtext between the lines you'd never bothered to read but had become an inherent part of you. Subsequent turns and diverging paths you were forced to take, those that led you here. Where you were.
Standing in the spotlight. The paparazzi's darling, the tabloid prince. The center of attention. The very definition of fame.
Dim down the lights. Let the audience leave. Close the theatre's doors, and lock in the ticket stands. Take the bundles of cash, and dismiss the extras. Have the other actors exit through the stage spot, and you'd still be there.
They say all the world's a stage, that damned overused phrase. That life's scripted, written by fate's invisible hands and directed by time.
You didn't believe in karma, not in this life, not anyway. There wasn't a single plausible reason your time was cut short. Not a reason your hands started to twitch. Not a reason that Alexander McQueen scarf couldn't wipe from your skin a scarring mark of the disease consuming you on your neck. Not a reason you'd fallen, been left alone with all the money to spend, (Temporary pleasures, but this actor's taking his queue.), all the responsibilities, without all the time to waste.
The ice was broken, and he’d rushed in, bounded up the steps. You stood there, waiting, because he’d come back. He’d always come back.
(Like you'd wanted him to.)
Wrapped an arm around you. Two taps on your shoulder. A couple. He was tactile, just like you’d remembered. Contact. Warmth on your blazer. Weight. His frame pressed against yours, close. Chest to chest.
And you stayed there. Breathed him in. Holding onto him, your column, your support, your oasis. The heart that steadied when yours faltered. The mind that melded, integrated, when yours fell apart. The voice that comforted, healed you when yours were drowned out, dry.
He was a place to hold onto, to leave your worries, your fear. To pour yourself in. A door you could enter that would always be open. A person, an actual person, not material possessions, not hired company, that you could be the you as you saw yourself with. That base layer, that most vulnerable, fragile piece of you that you had kept hidden from the world.
Only he understood.
He held you then, another time. After dinner—he paid, he insisted. (And you wondered if it was a date. Because he was paying. Because it was a two person dinner, sitting opposite each other, at a tiny table. Candlelights. Wine. The whole affair. You remembered thinking his eyes glow in the lights. Feeling absurdly self-conscious under his gaze, when you’d been so casual around everybody else’s. Branching off topics to discuss, on anything, anything but yourself.
But I wanted to know about you, he stood his ground. Reached out a hand across the table, fingers stroking the back of your palm.
Nobody’s ever reached out for you. He was the first. (And probably the last.)
You remembered your hand sweating, turned cold in his. Frigid. And he shook your palm, comically, smile on his lips (that naïve smile, that beautiful smile believing all was right with the world. That smile you wanted to associate always with him. That overly optimistic, affectionate smile. Fucking Peter.).
You okay? he asked, Pretty sure the AC in here’s still working.
And you chuckled, brushed a strand of hair back from your forehead, took your hand back, onto your lap.
I guess, you muttered, Doesn’t matter.
He let it pass. Tilted his head and winked. Pointed his fork at your salad. Told you to eat up, or there’d be no time. (You’d been consuming wine as a large portion of that dinner.)
You’d nodded and started eating. Stuffed a couple of lettuce pieces into your mouth. Rolled your eyes at him.
Ironic enough that he’s the one who could convince you of all this. Of committing yourself, trying to get a feel for the unfamiliar.
A part of you softened when he was near, you reasoned to yourself. Opened up. Unwrapped. Unraveled. You’d left your heart bare, exposed, and you wanted him in.)
An arm grasped onto yours, another reached to your back, few inches above your waist. You were wearing your white Dior shirt, him some disastrous (ok, not that much) army green jacket over a black tee. (Found out later that both were H&M’s, and you’d bought them, two sizes larger than yours, without another thought. Kept them in your closet. A memorabilia.) You reached out a hand, thumb and index finger holding his jacket’s collar, wanted touch to feature in your memory bank. Capture him, as he was, holding you, for all your senses. His hair was gelled up, sticking out in certain places, his eyes closed, nose nuzzling your cheek.
You were afraid, you remembered. Scared to let him get closer. To hold you tighter. Any closer and he’d caught your heart, redhanded, anxious and erratic. Wild. Out of tune with your nerves. Out of sync with your head.
Out of time with your life.
The first time when he’d trailed up the steps you could control yourself, rein in your heart. The following times—and there were many, lucky you—when he’d run into you, hugged you out of surprise, delight, when he’d stood up, hugged you to say goodbye before leaving—those you wanted to keep your distance.
But he wouldn’t let you, those arms.
You fell victim to them every single time.
(You never hated yourself for doing so, even when you’d repeated and repeated in your head you did.
Yes. Yes, you did.
No, you didn’t. No. Not you.
You could lie to everyone else—that was a talent, your second nature—and yourself.
Except where it concerned him. Where he mattered. Where he’d fallen through the cracks and clung onto you.
Like those arms that drew you in and didn’t let you go.)
Time slowed, when his arms were around you. They say it was an exaggeration, something of a Dali painting—melting clocks, slow-motion movements—but how could it when you did feel time stretching, interminable, prolonged? You believed in absurdity then, for the briefest moment. Magical realism, maybe. Those books you had to plod over in prep school.
Time paused, when his breaths intermingled with yours. Heat. Faint odor of him, sweat and paper. Those thick textbooks and lined notebooks he’d always carried around with his camera kit. Figuring out the next greatest equation to shake the field of science.
Time delayed, when his skin pressed onto yours. Tingles and shocks when his nose rubbed your cheek. Gentle. Slow. Feelings rushing. Sinking into you. When you’d succeeded, taught yourself to shove him away the minute you left his porch, nine years ago.
You’ve got him, that was the point. You’ve got him. Here, with you, around you. When you needed him to be. Too often than you thought you could cope.
Because who would want a fuck up like you?
Who would take you in, pieces and pain, shattered and dishevelled, headstrong and unrelenting. Stubborn and unforgiving. Hotheaded and impulsive. Who would take you in?
The question drummed in your head, reverberated. Echoed. One that you found impossible to dismiss.
Who would take you in?
A hug was only a hug. Arms that you longed to be homes.
But you couldn’t build homes out of humans, they say.
A hug was timed. Fleeting. He held onto you, and eventually he’d had to leave. Eventually time played out, unrolled, and the line, the instruction where your co-star left you standing on the stage, would be reached.
They’d always left. Even him.
You grabbed him this time, an arm around him, your face pressed to his shoulder. Pleading. Voice tear-stained and eyes red-rimmed. Darkened circles under them from sleepless nights and cracked, dry lips that begged him to help.
Please.
It was a first. When he’d hesitated, raised a hand that was still in the the air, before touching your back. Hugging you back.
Peter, please.
Your hand shook against the fabric. This was bad. This was critical. This was death, knocking at your door.
He was closing his door on you, walking away, and the hug was halfhearted. Conflicted. All on you.
The scale’s shifted, just as you’d surmised. As you’d feared. You’d thrown yourself into him, into this, whatever it was, and of course it had turned out this way.
They’d always left.
Dim down the lights. Let the audience leave. Close the theatre’s doors and lock in the ticket stands.
This stage that was your life?
You led alone.