Chapter Text
It had been so simple, the idea of it seemed commercial enough that I hadn't thought about it twice. I was to find myself a job that could support the likes of myself and the family, then settle down with the love of my life. We would live by the edge of a lake, somewhere in mountainous terrain because he believed in spirituality, and openness among the wildlife. And when we had enough, we would retire from our wall street jobs and relegate ourselves to the luxuries that the world had to offer white, cis males.
A plan so honest and true that there hadn’t appeared a flaw. Concretized and glazed like the marble walls that I faced on all four corners in my 8 to 5 shift. This mindset had been taught, traded off by my parents, and their parents, and so on. The all American dream, sponsored by the paychecks of the upper middle class citizens and the plastic that swarmed our seas.
I remember this concept like a holy mantra, praying and weaving the words to be true. It must have been the use of wishing rather than acting that brought us where we are now, where I am now. I wonder If I could turn back time, then maybe everything would be different, and you might be sitting here, right next to me, together.
-
This is the American dream, isn’t it?
-
I met him at my local café, near the street that I worked on. It was the kind of coffee shop that used cacao beans grown only in some exotic mountain tops, and charged tripled the price of a McDonald’s latte. The day was hot, and my work clothes only seemed to taunt me with their material, cashmere emerald looking back at me with a sly grin. I never liked coming here, but a day without caffeine seemed too impossible to live through, and this was the closest option.
He was sitting by the corner of the establishment, reading some penguin classic. His eyes were lidded, covering toffee coloured irises that complimented the colours of his hair and corduroy pants. He didn’t say much, other than a polite hello, and a short introduction.
Britain didn’t seem to be the best fit, the skies were always grey and the clouds were always pissing it down. He was an author, working on his first official literary work that he started about a month ago. He like cats, and enjoyed coming here because his friend from the states recommended this place as a “must-go”.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure what attracted me initially to the man. Was it his voice? Thick and smooth like the chocolate in my cup. Was it his intelligence? He spoke with a vocabulary completely foreign to me, and my parents had always told me to go for the well educated. Either way, it seemed like the feelings were mutual, when he shook my hand and left me with a business card, grey in colour and encrusted in silver foil.
We went on several dates, at upstate art galleries and trips to the local theatre. He had always been a gentleman, offering me his sweater whenever I was cold, paying for all the meals even when I had been the one to suggest for it.
He was exciting and new, like a toy that you’d get at Christmas. I felt like I had something that most people my age sought after, and that masked over any other feelings that would rise up shortly after that.
Was I selfish? I think I’d call it human nature. Because we all want what’s best for us, don’t we?
I think he did too.
-
The memory of your figure feels better than the present.
All I want to do is breathe in your presence, exist in your space, embrace your company as friends from a past life; a past time.
And god, do I miss your touch.
-
He had proposed to me on the day of my big promotion. After an afternoon spent with champagne and jazz music. It was a copper ring, and on top laid an emerald that reflected my face in a misty cloud. I still remember his whispers, as we laid in the queen sized bed that fit neither of us properly. Promises to make me the best husband anybody could have asked for, to love, cherish every part of me for the rest of eternity.
And it all seemed so perfect. Listening to his heartbeat as I lay on his bare chest. Feeling his fingers pull and tug on my hair hard enough to send shivers down my spine. He used to play me songs with those fingers, sappy ballads sung with a raspy voice on late Sunday mornings in bed. Used to trace smiley faces in the dips of my hips as we danced to the crackle of vintage vinyls that played in the background.
I still feel his fingers, ghosting over each and every area of my skin like a curse that can’t be lifted.
And how well they had slotted in against mine, puzzle pieces that seemed a sign from the gods above that we were on the right path.
I still feel him, sometimes.
-
If you go to hell we’re going together.
I’d rather burn on a cross than live a life without you.
Everything seems so pointless when you’re gone.
You’re my vice, and I’ve already been sinning for half of my life.
P̶l̶e̶a̶s̶e̶, c̶o̶m̶e̶̶ b̶a̶c̶k̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶m̶e̶
-
We got wed in the next 3 months. In a small mountainside cabin that I’d rented out for the weekend. It wasn’t large at all, held at most 50 people in total (though in hind sight we probably needed less).
He invited a small group of his friends and family over from the UK, and we had basically just drank a lot. There was really nothing more to it. No fairy god mothers, no musical numbers, just two guys standing by the pavilion wearing dress shirts and long brown skirts. I met his family for the first time, an odd bunch of people, but family non the less. We ate pie instead of cake, because he had a deadly allergy to nuts, and I just wanted something that reminded me of home.
I guess that our marriage had been unorthodox from the start, huh?
-
“You look like you enjoy the summer.” he told me on the balcony one autumn night. “The trees, the life, the summer’s sun. I see them in you, in every being of you. I sometimes find myself mistaking your laughter for the summer’s warmth. It’s completely extraordinary.”
“Well, what about you?” the wind shakes the leaves under the moon’s distant gaze. “What do you see in yourself?”
And you laughed, one that was full and one that still itches at my heart even till this day. “Hmm, well I’d say winter,”
“ So that your warmth can melt away the coldness of my being and we can meet again in the spring.”
-
Lee had come into our lives just short of 2 years into our marriage. She had your head of curly brown hair, and green eyes that looked a lot like mine. The adoption process was… difficult to say the least. No one tells you how emotionally tiring it was, no one tells you how many knots you form in your shoulder blades from doing so much paperwork. But I remembered the overriding amount of joy I experienced when we had finally brought her into our arms. The warm little smile that she wore whenever she glanced back at us was enough to make me forget about all the nitty gritty, and everything that we had gone through.
Because she was here with us, and we were together. And I saw the way your eyes light up whenever she grabbed a hold of his fimble fingers, chucking with such an innocence that could light up a whole room.
She felt like the final puzzle piece. We were whole like I’d always wanted to be.
It’s better, I suppose, to have felt anything rather than nothing at all.
-
I watched you hold our baby in your arms.
Even under an amber light, a shadow still casts upon her face.
Your eyes were still, and emotion unreadable.
Swore I could have kept your gaze.
-
It was when your work started receiving heap loads of attention that you grew more recluse and quiet. A collection of short stories that you sent out into the world as a present for our daughter had recently won a nomination for some big award.
Lee and I were your biggest supporters, accompanying you at every event that you attended, cheered you on from the sidelines like it was some kind of large scaled concert. And at the peak of our lives, that was when you started growing distant.
You stayed in for longer hours at a go, coming out for food, and then retreating back to your typewriter that sat in the corner of our living room. I never questioned it at first, blaming your need to impress the public and improve on your already perfect works.
But there was only so much I could tolerate without you. When taking care of Lee started feeling more tiresome than it had been when it was the two of us.
Your absence should have been a warning from the start.
-
Superficial adoration,
The press stoked your ego like a cat.
And what was I to do,
When your eyes seemed to wonder much further ahead than where we resided.
-
This back and forth between inclusivity and self isolation kept on for what felt like forever. I had learnt the ways of solo parenting through YouTube videos and books and my parents, who were unaware of the whole shebang. And I felt angry, not because I was always tired and you never seemed to treat me like an actual person anymore, but because of all the sacrifices I had to make for your lack of support.
I still remember Lee’s 4th birthday, and your face when you had forgotten about it. She was crying, you know? You made her cry, and you didn’t have the balls to do anything about it.
That might have been the last straw, if you didn’t count all the others that I let go of. I was sick of your shit, almost 3 years through radio silence. Couldn’t you stop being so selfish for once in your goddamn life?
If you couldn’t have done it for me, do it for Lee.
She deserves it more, anyways.
-
Remember that lucky charm we got as a present from my aunts at Lee’s birthday party all those years ago?
-
As cliche as it may sound, Wine and whiskey became my only other friend. There was no better feeling than 2 glasses of Tempranillo after tucking Lee into bed, legs propped up onto a cushion as I play documentaries in the background. I remember being at the mattress shop, or whatever they call it, and deciding on a Californian king as an excuse to stay in with you for longer periods of time.
But when I look at those green silk duvets, I only feel a kind of loneliness that makes your whole body go rigid and soft at the same time . It’s been so long since we’ve gone to sleep together, giving up completely because of your unpredictable sleep schedules.
I used to turn off the lights and arrange your pillows in attempts to build a temporary you. I remember crying into your smell, now faintly wavering off into the air.
I never washed those bedsheets, because it was the last thing that was still attached to you.
-
Sometimes I think about you and all I wanna do I write you a love song. I can’t help feeling this way. People tell me I’m empathetic, you know?
And then I remember that I can’t sing, so I would write you a letter describing everything that I’ve felt in such an excruciating amount of detail that you finally understand why I still stay.
Then you can finally say-
-
After your finalized project, you started making an effort in our lives. For a moment in time, everything was like it had been all those years ago. There was laughter coming from the living room, and I would smile to myself as I prepared dinner for the three of us. The both of us would tuck her into bed, telling her stories and singing her lullabies until she slowly fell asleep. We would retire to our room, and dance like we were in our twenties again, to the sound of Etta James on a crackling vinyl. And for once, I was at peace, laying against your chest and falling asleep to the rising and falling of your chest.
For once, everything started to turn in my favor. I was happy.
-
I remember the doctors words, during my grandmother’s later stages of cancer, that there’s a moment of true peace, and calmness that spreads throughout the victims body. Before they leave us all again.
-
The
The
The
I don’t know how I’m supposed to go about writing this down. Because no matter how many times I recall the situation over and over and over and over again in my head. I still can’t understand why-
I don’t
I
I don’t want to play the story teller
I just want you here.
Is that so much to ask for?
I can’t stop thinking about you I can’t stop thinking about you I can’t stop thinking about you I can’t stop thinking about you IcantstopthinkingaboutyouIcantstopthinkingaboutyouIcantstopthinkingaboutyouiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
-
Smile
-
You died. There, I finally said it. Slit both your wrists with some shards from my empty wine bottles. I locked Lee out of our room when I saw you, couldn’t- no didn’t- let her see it happen.
God, your blood, it was everywhere. A cruel crimson red stained and pooled onto those misty green tiles. I was trying to clean it up, because I wanted to believe that you were- you still,
Ah
I saw your wedding ring, it laid atop the soap holder. Untouched, wood completely clear of any trace of what had just happened. Ran my fingers across the small W.S that I had imprinted in the local craftsman’s shop.
The police came in waves, and the last thing I remember was the officer telling me that it would all be okay, or something like that. Everything from that night is a blur, if I’ll be honest with you.
It took us 3 weeks to plan the funeral. We held it at a location by the sea, near a reef that had been used to sight see orcas and dolphins. I saw your family there, you know? All three of them, disheveled as they could have been. They met Lee there for the first time too, and Tommy was crying as he told me how much she looked like you.
When they carried your body out, dressed in the same skirt and dress shirt we wore on all those years ago, I felt my heart cave into my body. I thought that If I really, really were to look at you this once I was going to convulse in the carpet below me.
But I did it anyways. They put on all those glitzy, movie makeup to cover up all your scars and moles, and I couldn’t stand they way your highlights shined into my eyes. I wanted to see you, not this glamorized, perfect version that laid beside me.
It was twenty minutes into the event that I had to go give my speech. My feet were shaky, my hands were shaky, everything was shaking. I opened my mouth, willed my body to form the words that I wrote down on parchment paper. And looked over at the stained glasses that lined the halls of the small church.
-
“Wilbur Soot, is-was everything to me. I could spend an eternity listing out every single reason why, but I’ll just stick to a few instead. He was: a lover, a husband, a partner in crime, a voice of reason in this mess of a world. Wilbur was my log fire in the cold night, He was the ice to my malt whiskey. He changed me as a person, and I’ll always think over the times we shared as fond memories. Ones that I’m glad I had been able to create with him. Our relationship was never perfect, but it was human, and that was all that I really cared about. He used to swoon me over with stupid little songs that he’d write for me whenever I was feeling down. Wilbur was just unapologetically him, and that was what stuck to me since that day in that small little roadside café.”
“This, being here today, is bittersweet to me. I’m here once again with all of you that I consider close friends and family, and for that I am grateful that you took the time out of your lives to be with me today. The reason for our gathering though, that’s what hurts me the most.”
“Before he left, Wilbur wrote something that I felt like sharing with you today. It was the last thing that he spent years upon years perfecting, and I know that he’d want all of you to hear it as well, or a short sector of it, for that matter.”
“So, here it goes.”