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"Without eternity we have nothing. The escape makes us real, I slam the brakes as I forget her."
Eternity" (from Rimbaud's Eternite)
Without eternity we have nothing. The escape makes us real, I slam the brakes as I forget her. I wonder what she'll think finding the note:
"This is all just a bad dream...I promise, if..."
I don't want to wake up. I hope she forgets me, but there's no point--I couldn't stand to be ignored any longer.
Her face floats unwelcome into my mind, bringing with it an immense, terrible visitation of energy. On the side of the road now, the city is receding, a small pinprick in the mirror as I beat my head bet my head into the steering wheel, convulsing with the pain of my inevitable surrender, releasing myself to my prolonged solitude.
I didn't leave her. Ever. I waited until...
And then run, to the mirror in the bathroom. Look. The blaze of her laughter over, dense and sick in my ears, the constant frenzied distraction of her voice removed unalterably. It mixed perfectly with the anxious twitch of her fingertips as she stared off beyond me.
I feel light, caught on the weight of everything she ripped from me, pulling slowly, agonizingly over the phone, in touches, cries of amazement, in useless orgasms like a death note, counting the seconds before it collapses.
Last time....wait a minute before you go. I never gave myself to self-destruction.
Pleasure spread filthy over her face, resounding furiously against me with a hollow moan. Disgusted and puerile. It was a final act of possession, tensing against me to let me go. Giving me permission artlessly in pulling me close for a final glimpse of infinity before her eyes fell off, asleep, sealed against any lingering lament for the beauty of the first moment, shattered perfectly, irrevocably as she slept.
Then, the note and rushed car doors run out of the garage. Steeled against morning, driving viciously, gritting my teeth in defiance of her absent sleep, eternally withdrawn.
Now, fresh with the feel of it, I reach to my throat and finger it, the obscure silver icon on a thin cord. She forced it on me, cruelly, stupidly religious. Going cold enough with it to throw the dogma in my face.
Heavily dosed, debauches with god and sleeping pills, I can still see her. Disheveled and riled, stiffly spent from the last act, the last time. I have to promise that. The last time, the end to keep me away from her. No more falsity, no more calls of love-the damned frigid perusal of my vulnerable honesty. What there was of it.
What I could offer of it, that unattainable sense of the best of myself, all that smacks of significance, never, never to be offered fully, impossibly, so damnably what a man is, or becomes. I gave it anyways, offered it up to her freely with so much sacrifice for her to hold vacuously, unseeing as she moved mechanically blind to straddle incorruptible mutes, redheads, all the pitiful refuse of the world she could disdain as she held them, they with no pride, too ashamed to speak as they came or fought uselessly.
And I had 'no right to expect anything of her'.
Not that I would from that smug contemptible smile, only honest in pain around me. I wasn't crippled enough for her, and too full of awe at her moments of irrefutable brilliance, rare as they came crying at me.
Because if it hurts, nothing can save you.
She craved salvation, without suffering, feeling without out love or effort, leaving her steeped with a disgusting pity that she could control and depart from easily. She could never lament, only strike hopelessly, always patient. Always happy.
Still, I want her to follow, crave her cool surrender to my surrender, long dead and refused. Want her tears, her benediction fully realized in the hell, the abnegation of my isolation, forced on me by her repulsive sepulchered eyes, never alone. Always apart.
She cried once, looking utterly innocent, completely debauched with sorrow, beautifully in love flowing over.
And then it dissipates.
But now, no more gardens, no more slick undress. It's time to leave this fallible splendor to find an inspiration that can distill my ego.
I turn the mirror down to glance back again at the small light smeared across the horizon, tinted pink with the dawn.
If I turn back now I can destroy the note, stay a bit longer.
Swallowing this, I close my eyes, digging my fingers into the wheel.
Tense, nauseous, I invoke her face a final time- reviling her unmistakeably. Throwing it all down, away from me with my shoulders spasming, strainging towards a lost equilibrium in absolution, rebirth.
Shifting gears again on the cold stick I pull back onto the interstate gray with mourning and drive off, swerving back to catch another final, disgusted glance, another notice, another pang of lamenting disgust at the small death of her distanced hold on me.
Still I blink and remember the green look in her eyes, the tremor of my name on her lips. I say it aloud, softly. It's a slap on the face, mortifying on the morning air, free on my tongue spitting it out. It dies there, fading against my freedom, pale and purposeless against the light of the day.