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I kick a rock and it rolls down the cliff, reminiscent of rabbits skipping on the prairie. It reminds me of the myth of Sisyphus and how my late friend said it’s a story of resilience; I told him then it’s a story of absurdism. The boulder keeps on rolling down and Sisyphus keeps on rolling up. Then I suppose that rock was my boulder and I am Sisyphus, rolling up my sleeves and resisting out of obligation.
I can hear his voice still. It’s haunting – not because it sounds so vivid, so real, but because I know his words are ones he wished he could’ve said to me. It’s not that he was quiet, but he had to be when I’m beside him, because I personally couldn’t sew my own mouth shut.
“You didn’t have to kick that rock.”
He whispers in my ear and I find myself no longer having to fight my own hands from balling them into fists. Resignation has distorted the calluses on my hands; now they have traces of regret and impurity. They wish they could’ve held his hand and feel other emotions other than wrath.
“I know.”
I whisper back. It's a habit at this point. I know he’s not actually there, regardless of if I believe in ghosts or not. And yet he sits with me, our legs hanging off the edge of the cliff, just as usual. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. Because he never replies when I speak. That’s why I always let him initiate any interactions. Maybe he doesn’t want the haunting to be reciprocated. It’s unfair but I understand why.
There’s blood on my hand. I don’t get scared; I stare, my mind empty. I lick it instead. He chimes in.
“How does it taste?”
I keep on staring at my hand, as if he held it. It grows tender under my gaze, as if afraid I’ll lick it again. It hurts but it’s inevitable and it serves me right. Perhaps I really was never meant for softness and delicacy.
“Sour… it’s sour.”
As always, he doesn’t say anything back. But I know what he wants to say. Guilt is always sour. And I would agree, because I know. I taste it in my cereal, in my water, in my pills, in my flesh, in the air, in rocks, in whispers.
I should clean it up, but it is a sourness that is almost tangy, like orange juice. It’s addicting and I want more of it. Yet I stop myself from licking my hand again, feeling my superego scrutinize me. I don’t ask it where the blood came from – I don’t ask anyone, not even myself. Simple karmic retribution, simple divine punishment.
His favorite was lime juice, I suddenly remember, despite mine tasting like orange. He told me once he never knew why he liked me. He didn’t need to know. It’s a Sisyphean task to remember me. It’s absurd. Yet here he haunts me.
Sour… he's sour.