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I have fooled myself before into thinking that I could pinpoint a moment where everything went wrong, a singular problem within myself that, if solved, would have prevented my mistakes. A fatal character flaw, I called it. In a way, this realization now only makes me think of Henry. He was always one to psychoanalyze, to think of a solution or deeper meaning for even the most inconsolable things, right until the end. I will never have his accuracy, I will never try. Still, I find myself imitating him, even in his death, even accidentally. He haunts me.
It is years later. Time has far removed me from the last time I saw him alive. Months have passed, even from his funeral, even from the first time I dreamt of him, even from the tenth. He should feel far away, the details of him difficult to recall. There is certainly a lot to remember about my time at Hampden, and much of it is buried (both literally and figuratively) down as deep as I can push, cast away as far as I can throw. I have learned the art of forgetting, studied it as I did my Greek. I have worked to disremember many of the finer details--times, dates, conversations--many of which were once important. As for the more unforgettable memories, I work tirelessly to conjure them as rarely as possible, and find joy in the brief moments where I don't think of them. Sometimes, caught up in one present moment or another, Bacchanals and Bunny Corcoran are nowhere to be found in the forefront of my mind. Those moments surprise me, and the mere possibility of them is what keeps me going in this life. I never expect the pockets of peace, these brief lapses in nightmare, but they are always welcomed. I rejoice in letting things slip away, even if only for a few moments. Allowing dark thoughts to occupy my mind helps nobody, so trying to forget is all I can do. Here is the problem: I may forget what I have done. I may forget what has happened. However, I cannot forget myself. I cannot forget him. How do you forget someone who has settled so deeply inside of you, made a home in the marrow of your bones? How do I forget him when my body aches, betraying me by molding to fit him? I think often of Proteus, a Greek God known for his ability to tell the future, who would change forms to avoid doing so. He would only reveal his knowledge to those capable of capturing him. I have long ago been captured by Henry. You may trace it to the moment I saw the Greek class, and yearned to be near them. You may trace it to the moment he knew me based on his own attentiveness, or to when he saved me from sure expiration in a freezing-cold warehouse. The precise moment of infiltration is unimportant. Somewhere along the line, I lost myself and let him in.
I am sure I know how this happened, because I have observed the process with others. Henry’s carefully cultivated persona of intelligence and mystery--always too emotionally distant to reach, but seamlessly observing your vulnerabilities so that he may exploit them--is done purposefully. Perhaps he guesses your greatest insecurity, a dream you’ve never spoken aloud, a painful truth about yourself.
"You’re not very happy where you come from, are you?”
You wonder at how a person could understand you so deeply without effort, you feel held by his words when he has hardly ever touched you. You feel indebted to him, even after he has intruded upon you. Suddenly, though you know very little of him, he feels close to you. Maybe one day he assists you during a time of need, or lets slip a weighted sentence... a human sentence. You begin to trust him, make sacrifices for him.
“It’s everything and you know it.”
Your heart tugs, no matter how much you wish it away. He rewards you for your loyalty. He feels like safety, like understanding. You admire him for his intuition, accomplishments, and quick-thinking. You linger on his collarbones, you want to be the one to melt him. You think of how badly you might let him hurt you, if only he would be there to comfort you afterwards. You think you are special, causing him concern and coaxing a gentle man from the icy exterior. This is Henry’s way.
Before I was ever aware of it, he had made a permanent home inside of me, and now that he is dead, there is nowhere else for him to go. He is caged beneath my brittle skeleton. I cannot forget him, lest I forget myself. I must remind myself even now that he was only a boy, that he was delusional. I must try to discern why he had so much power over me, why I let him (and, why he still does.) I must remember how he gave me chances to do the right thing, he never forced my loyalty. It never felt that way though, did it? I came when he called, I did as he asked.
Sometimes, during the worst of it, and especially during the best of it, I had imagined futures for us. The six of us having dinner, Bunny’s kids in the yard, a gentle hand on my leg. Sometimes, when I was most hysterical, I allowed myself to imagine that the hand was Henry’s. Henry’s hand...resting atop my knee, grazing my back, exposing the skin on my torso. This is the type of closeness I wanted. Perhaps it was always unrealistic. Perhaps I didn’t care.
All of this to say, I often find myself instinctively thinking of my own actions as Henrylike. I serve the punishment for my actions every day. Even Aristotle knew that two lovers share one soul. I want to crawl out of my skin, out of my soul, and beat myself to death. The vastness of my love for him has created in me a sense of self-loathing.
Of course I love him. Was there ever a possibility that I wouldn’t? I loved him when he brushed the hair from my eyes, I loved him when he implicated me in the murder of our friend. He is my salvation, my sweet punishment, my gentle prosecutor. I invited him into my soul, opened myself up for him, and now I am displeased that he’s here. What did I expect?
"It's everything and you know it."
He said this to me, and I repeated it to you. Let me tell you something that I have not yet repeated.
"θα σου δίνω τα πάντα, πάντα'' , I replied, without even thinking. I will give you everything, always.
I gave him everything. I gave him myself, my life, my body. I loved him, but love alone cannot conquer all. No, this was more than that; devotion. I may deceive myself into thinking that there was something he could've done--a line he could've crossed. This is unlikely. If fatal flaws are unconfined to fiction, then I propose that we all have many. Henry was not an unfortunate disease which I caught and couldn't be rid of. There had been chances, remedies, and I had chosen him. There had never been a singular achilles heel of aesthetics, there had only ever been myself, and my countless nuanced shortcomings. Henry could say the same, though he may have condemned Julian, he knew the problem. He was the reason for all of his failures. Maybe he realized this, put aside his arrogance, and that was the reason for his suicide. More likely, his arrogance is what killed him. I find it easier to believe he was simply bored, couldn’t be bothered, thought he was above a life of pain with the rest of us.
I propose another of my countless flaws: the inexhaustible yearning for tenderness, no matter the cost. I want to feel gently adored. There always was something tender about it all, something romantic of our terror. The six of us had always shared something special, even before everything we went through together. A love for classics, a great devotion of time and energy into something so obscure and all-consuming. How could we have ever maintained a healthy distance from one another, having already been strung together by a common thread. Charles and Camilla, Camilla and Henry, even Francis and myself. Of course, this thread turned into an entanglement, a web we each aided in spinning, which held darker things than even a study of the more tragic Greeks. Soon, a common ground of horror suspended over our heads. We showed up on each other's doorsteps, answered phone calls into the night, and understood what the others were going through in ways that an outsider never could (and never has.) Before Bunny’s death, I had memorized their laundry schedules, learned the ways their conversations flowed. Soon enough, I had learned how they were under immense pressure; how skilled they were at lying, how quick on their feet. The ways they looked when they cried, the crutches they leant on for support, the ways they self-destructed or self-preserved. We had presented our most dignified selves, and now we presented our messiest, nastiest, most horrible selves. Whichever version of yourself showed up on a given day, the others were required to put up with. Whether through drunken physicality, violent rage, or vulnerable confessions, we saw each other through it, however unconventionally. Betraying another meant betraying yourself, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t revel in the belonging, when I wasn’t immersed in the nightmare. I had never felt so needed, so important. The family I found in our necessary relationships was unlike anything I had experienced; it was an unconditional love, because it had to be. I fear I would’ve done anything to keep it, had it been in my hands. If they had wished to plunge a knife into my back, they would’ve hardly needed to hold me down as they did it. I can’t imagine I would ever struggle.
There is no coming back from this. No story will ever be more important, no moment more defining. I could meet my children, be lawfully wed, attend my parents’ funeral a hundred times, all with fragments of another soul inside of me. I could meet the ancient Greeks themselves, whom I have studied tirelessly, and still I wouldn’t understand them as I understand Henry Winter. I miss even hospital visits to a drunken Charles, or pacing around in distress with an over-anxious Francis. There will be a cavern the size of a small Greek class in my heart forever. At least I never have to miss Henry. There is solace in his torment. Even in death, he is with me. I’m sure it is only a matter of time before we reunite, burning together at last, our final punishment. The kiss of him killing me, always and forever.