The well-proclaimed show, Suits’ best closer, Harvey Specter once said, “Poker is not about playing the cards, but the people.” This made me think, well isn’t that basically what life is. As much as it has to do with our contributions to the world, it has more to do with the impression that we make and others remember. The debate of which is more evergreen is easy to resolve, as we have witnessed the accomplishments of Madame Curie and Albert Einstein and many other great women and men that have lived before us. Their legacies will be taught to endless generations to come, yet the doubt remains…is that really what they wanted. I can’t speak for them, nor any other greatly accomplishing donors of knowledge of our society, yet I can speak for myself, and say I would disagree. Machiavelli could write a thousand more books about the brutality of the human heart, and yet isn’t compassion each of our greatest instincts. Doesn’t this call into question how each of us spend our one life on this earth; our one chance to really seize each day, without thinking one day when I die, but instead thinking today since I’m alive. In this thought, there is an undoubtable selfishness present, but the price of such a sin may only be that one day we may fall into the arms of our fatal ends: doesn’t everyone, so is it even a consequence. Well, all the rhetorical questions can be picked apart by each of us like vultures picking at a dead body, with both scenarios never reaching an end, or we could agree to disagree from the beginning and make what we want of it ourselves. To me, this question is answered simply: our legacy is more valuable existing with those who took a piece of us, and whom we have a piece of as well. Those we have shared moments that cannot be recreated, moments that they will take with them to their grave. And yes, this legacy is not eternal it is tied to the mortal lives of those who have grown with us, but doesn’t it add to the rarity and thus the value of the memories themselves. We cherish our world war veterans, for there are so few that have experienced such extremes of both tragedy and victory. So, why do the rules change now?
The Juxtaposition of a Kite
It fights valiantly against the wind, whipping back each time it is shot down. The tranquility of flying the kite is one attained only by those with the innocence of children, yet the very nature of the kite is anything but. It is flown to compete. It serves as a tool to assert domination as the man cuts down the kite of his inferior and is rewarded with applauds and boasts of great accomplishment. Surrounded by many, man does not find happiness in the praise, rather the source of his victory being another’s defeat. Why is it that he gains such brutal satisfaction, a thirst that non other can quench, but acts that stem from such jealousy and insecurity? Forever, proving that he is not only capable, but better than the next. If he does not abide by the unspoken rules of human nature itself, why is it that society is scarcely hesitant to burn the male equivalency of the scarlet letter upon him. Such discrimination and deterioration, to justify and represent that he whom carries the mark, was not able to bully another into accepting defeat along with the role of the man’s inferior. It’s this same insecurity that courses through the veins of the population of man himself and has yet to see the end of its’ time. Although some mask it through their fictitious visors, it is amplified in the plot of each hero’s success and the desire to mimic such is apparent in the man’s eyes, some may even say more so than his lust for women. Hercules is proclaimed a victor at the cost of the lives of the Nemean Lion and the Lernaean Hydra, along with many others, and at the loss of Typhon and Echidna. Why was such a fate bestowed upon them, when any man who’s lived can deduce that gray is the only hue of truth. Still, it is the victors that relay the anecdotes of such feats. It is this same poison that enables us to empathize with the bastards’ hesitance in welcoming familial ties. The same venom that allows some of us to apprehend, and others to advocate for fatal consequences to preserve justice. For what is right and what is wrong, would be the same as differentiating the white from the black in a truth that indecipherably ash. Just as it impossible to separate, the innocence of flying a kite, from the violent victory displayed in its’ rivalrous soaring against the battling winds.
Reflection: The goal of this piece was to restate the commonly said phrase, “not everything is white and black,” While drawing a connection to some of the ‘white and black’ stories that form the very foundation of civilization itself. Pluralizing women and children is to mimic the backwards mindset of the idea that man is great and the others are disposable, to parallel this idea of ‘white and black’ with the same ignorance. Raw emotions of lust, and abandonment are mentioned in this piece to draw connection and facilitate the understanding of the main idea of the piece. There are definitely ‘big ideas’ in this piece that were mentioned and not elaborated, and I will revisit them in the future as I let the phrases sink in to understand the implications of the text rather than the sounds of the words themselves. I tried to experiment a little more with the bouncing rhythm of the words, while adhering to their diction. This is definitely a strong piece that may rub wrongly with some, and well with others. It is experimental, and I will evolve it so that the major idea is highlighted in the end.
Irrelevance
Sometimes it’s the people we trust that betray us the most. They’re the ones we don’t label, the ones we believe will stay because they have passed every hurdle you threw at them. You walk around, telling everyone they are one of your closest friends, someone you trust to be your safe haven when you’re away from home. Yet, it doesn’t matter how many people you tell because you never told the person how much they mean or how vital they are. They hold your hand and walk you through each obstacle you are faced with. You want to believe it’s your fault. You want to be the better person and take all of the blame, but you can’t. Anyway you look at it, you can only blame them. Because you hold people up to the standards of betterment that you hold yourself up to. The standards that even you fall short of, yet you expect better from them, why? Why should you expect anyone to be as loyal as you are? Why should you expect someone else to be your locked box just because you serve as their’s. Even if it means not telling your closest friends, you keep their secrets, for what? Blunt betrayal. The time poured into testing whether they would be a ‘good’ friend or not, the time spent on being a ‘good’ friend to them, the times you thought were ‘good’ all seem to have just been stolen from you. Moments like this seem to compromise the meaning of ‘good’ and the vagueness of the word finally hits you. You knew what you were getting yourself into. You knew you wouldn’t be any different. You knew that you were always an expendable pawn in their masterminded plan for their checkmated victory prize to be one of your closest friends. Still, you smile, and wave, and convince yourself that you’re just overthinking the facts in front of you; instead, you turn a blind eye to instinct. Because you want to believe that you deserve better, you want to believe that people can be trusted. All you want is a friend that you can trust without thinking twice, nothing more. And, against every bone in your body that tells you not to, you say, “Hi.” and the continuum of conversing begins. And, it is this very conversing that justifies your choice because they smile and try just as hard as you, if not harder. Still, your mind is so distracted by all of the kindness that you crave, forcing you to overlook the true purpose of this very conversing; the fact is this is really just a tool for them to clear their conscience from the previous night when they were bitching about you to your best friend: their victory prize, remember.
The Marcus Kings
Dr. Bailey, from Grey’s Anatomy, she is amazing. I mean truly incredible and she is referred to as the NAZI throughout. She is shown to be stronger because she can understand and empathize with the patients and co-workers, I try to be hardcore and all and I am definitely not as tough as her, but even then there are people who get through all of the bitch treatment and all of the insults and rudeness and all of it. There are others they never have to face the wrath of it all, cuz for some stupid childish reason we let them in, no walls, no barriers, no tests. Instead, they get a free ride straight on the angel train the one where they get all of the benefits at my cost, but it doesn’t hurt a bit. I don’t know how life works itself out and this is one of the many mysteries of the big question of it all; I guess I hadn’t thought about it much, not until this episode at least. Bailey, she sees her high school crush-Marcus King-that she tutored and did everything for and she follows suit even after all of her degrees. She slaves for him all day, when her interns could be doing the grunt work-like I said before-angel train. Even after being married and having a successful career, her teenage emotions were able to catch up to her within seconds of his arrival because he was one of the many things she never won as a child. It’s like Hassan Minaj said, “There are times when you see people from your past and you return to the age at which you left them,” I guess the whole package returns.
The Carousel
Compartmentalizing tasks, roles, emotions; it’s what we all do to make sure that life moves forward and that the carousel never stops turning. Yet, we are only saving these misplaced emotions, procrastinating having to feel like we should. Having to succumb to what seems like endless tears or an eternal fiery rage. Without anyone to blame, but fate itself. Without justification for deprivation, we tie ourselves up mentally and emotionally. So, we won’t have to physically fall to our knees and weep not knowing when our body will dehydrate itself to the point where our depression can no longer come out in the form of tears. And, all we feel is a sorrow filled emptiness, one that forces us to rethink our own purpose in life, our motivation to wake up the next morning and continue doing so every morning thereafter. We strive to redefine our sole reason to fight through the many obstacles of life, even if we are ever diagnosed with our rarely defeated enemy: cancer. Or worse, if it’s all taken from us due to a one-minute decision of whether to turn left or right as we cross the road. They call it the butterfly effect, but never would anyone assume that such a fragile insect could be the cause of a fully grown 6 ft. man lying on his deathbed. Never, would he himself expect to need the care of world-class surgeons. Much less, would he expect that even with all of their successful efforts, those world-class surgeons would still deliver unfortunate news to his family due to circumstantial medical unpredictabilities.
For all those involved, time seems to travel differently in this bubble of overwhelming sadness. The proceeding seconds drag long enough to sustain as minutes, and the minutes become hours, and the hours seem to crawl by slower than days. This cycle of stagnancy carries on until we find it again. That moment that makes us want to hold onto life, that makes us want to fight every battle we can to stay alive. Because in that moment we make peace with the fact that we have found our passed loved ones smiling back at us in the form of our son, niece, or another or have found happiness in what used to be their joys, or have found a way to love parts of ourselves that have adapted to mold to the person that we just can’t let go until our very last breath. Somehow, or someway the family must move on because the carousel will never stop turning. And, again the miracle of life takes its course as we selfishly continue to hold onto that one person, until we no longer hear the chiming sound as our carousel comes to a stop.
Thatha (Grandfather)
Sea Turtle
It’s a Girl!
“It’s a girl!” Well, I did want a girl, but it didn’t look like a girl. It barely had hair enough to cover its big wobbly head and eyes that were big enough to jump out of its face. Its body was small, still it was heavier than my baby doll back home and its disproportionate head kept falling everywhere. In the beginning it’s eyes were barely open, later when they were they didn’t do much. They glanced at me creepily as I walked through my own house. It blinked too often; its eyes weren’t open long enough to make eye contact.
We took it home the day I held it, which must’ve been a momentous one considering my parents wouldn’t stop taking pictures. I had always been my parents’ perfect princess, but this was extreme even for them. Its name was Sritha- meaning well nothing as important as mine. It was so adorable, and still very useless: I couldn’t throw it around to play catch. Or ask it to play catch with me. I was told it was to be my playmate, so I decided to ensure I got my playtime with the new doll.
It slept-all day and cried all night. It always took up all of my parents’ attention. Leaving me all alone with nothing but my dolls: Molly and Piggy and a few others, but they aren’t all that important. I realized I would no longer reign in my household. Instead, I would have to plot for an opportunity to be my parents’ princess once again.
My mom ran to attend an on-call meeting upstairs and left me, the responsible one, in charge. This was the perfect time for me to get to know this little creature that had dethroned me. I talked to her slowly at first, then I lured her in looking deep into her beady bug-like eyes. Quietly, I stepped onto the couch next to the crib elevating myself for my next move.
I gathered all of my strength and pulled her out of the cage that trapped my playmate and dragged her out. She was heavy, I won’t deny it. Well, the following series of events will explain just how heavy. It was okay at first, but then her stupid, stupid wobbly head threw off my balance and pushed both of us onto the floor. The stupid doll kept wailing, not understanding the secrecy of our mission. And my mom rushed down worried that I had hurt it, shrugging off my injuries she scolded me for being adventurous.
The store had lied to my parents, you know, when they told him that this new toy was supposed to be my playmate. Instead, my parents were sold a broken doll with a wobbly head and a loud, annoying overly used crying button that I seemed to trigger a lot.
I realized that my parents were right this wasn’t like my other toys, this one grew: it grew more hair, more teeth, and it grew bigger- more proportional. I liked that it was growing, once we were the same size my parents would no longer be able to say, “Let it go, she is smaller than you.” It was much later that I realized they meant younger, and that was a nearly impossible task to accomplish, but I couldn’t give up without trying.
On my 6thbirthday my parents bought me a massive cake enough to feed all of my hungry munchkin friends, but they forgot to buy candles. Sritha was turning 3 that year, but I no longer wanted to be older, so I pulled out an old candle from my dad’s birthday that said 32. The knife was not accessible, but after acquiring all of the materials I happily sawed off the ‘2’ and shoved the ‘3’ into the cake in the very center. It was a beautiful sight to see, now the doll and I were twins. That’s exactly what I always wanted. My parents didn’t understand the gesture, but decided I maybe going through a mid-single digit crisis, and didn’t question it.
That’s the same year I met Divya and Deepika, these two twin girls in my grade. It’s also when I learned the twins had to be born on the same day. That was something even I couldn’t change, so instead I went home, and with much patience I finally was able to convince this new toy to agree to a peace treaty. Only and agreement without documentation doesn’t stick, so I crafted a contract using my grape purple crayon I drew two lines. I was sure to switch the colors-forest green-before chicken-scratching my name on one of them, and I handed another color to Sritha. I don’t think she had learned to color in the lines at that time, much less write on one, still the contract was as valid as any other and it hung up on our fridge as a reminder.
This peace treaty did not put out the flames that rose form our constant disputes over who looked more like a princess, who got to choose the channel afterschool, and the most heated topic: who got to sit on the tractor as my dad mowed our massive yard. But, the doll never stopped growing even taller than me, making it easy for me to refute my parents when they now say, “Let it go, she is smaller than you.” This crayoned treaty may not have held much value when it was created, but it definitely foreshadowed the peace we would have in the future.
The Little Things
A bustling crowd gathered inside the coffee shop. All of them eager to get out of the bitter cold. 7 AM, prime time rush, customers migrated to the most popular 24-hour coffee shop downtown to get their drinks, only to leave in a rush. Daily, my eyes scan over the crowd, and I am let down once again; none of them had extraordinary lives.
The customers consist of the typical members of society: the soccer mom who always has way too much on her plate, and the boring, but overly friendly tall-white man in the black business suit and tightly gripped black leather brief-case, who says nothing more than, “Hi there.” to anyone who glances in his general direction. And my personal favorite, the business woman who struts into the crowd with her high, high heels that make that clacking sound every time she steps, and her perfectly curled hair bouncing as she makes her way to order her Caramel Macchiato with no Caramel and no sugar.
Of course there are duplicates of them, like doppelgangers, but of their personalities rather than their looks, though I’m sure Toto would disagree. There were too many salon crafted blonde-high ponytails, and polished nails, and seamless spray tans; the mens’ hair gelled neat and slicked back. Their sweater vests, lint proof; their ties, perfectly color-coordinated with the details of their button-ups. They seemed to be more high maintenance than the women, with their up to date clothing and technology. Yet, they all seemed to be competing in their eagerness to succumb to the consumption of materialistic satisfaction that tends to maintain its tight grip on high-society.
MacBooks were scattered too frequently across the tables and their owners seemed hypnotized. Those waiting in the order-line seemed to impatiently tap the bitten apple on the back of their iPhones as they glared at their blank screens intently, unwilling to rip their eyes away. Aside from the pre-programmed robotic-humans, I was provided a few distractions, or so I thought. There were the social butterflies; the ones that continuously spoke like their life depended on it, but they seemed too pre-occupied in their conversations to take a breath. Still, their discussion seemed void, like the words articulated were blurred together, constructing sentences only in theory; not for the purpose of communication. Forcing me to conclude that this distraction was also a mere mechanical person appearing in an atypical form. This empty cycle of people rushing in and out, like an accordion opening and closing, seemed to be playing on a loop from dawn to dusk: never-ending.
There was a woman once standing at a table, who was busily blabbering to another one, who she seemed to have known forever. Yet, there was no compassion expressed in either of their eyes. The chattering woman, she caught my eye, or-I should say-the white diamond on her finger did. When the sun struck in the most perfect angle, the gem glistened, blinding my peripheral view. Toto barked, upset with my new distraction. Although my initial attraction was the rock, I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes glowed when she looked at it. It was mesmerizing, like she could love nothing more in the world. When her gaze shifted to the man beside her, her enthusiasm seemed to have been suppressed with minimal effort, as though she had said yes to the ring. Still, there was something satisfying about their relationship. It seemed like a perfectly packaged present; the receiver of such a gift would have been too amused to rip open the extravagantly decorative wrapping paper.
This seemed to be a common theme: every relationship seemed to be a fantasy. Toto and I, we were real. A little boy saw him once-my toy dog, I mean-and he begged his dad to buy him a real puppy, I watched as his father used $2.54 to hush the boy, with a cake pop. His favorite flavor, he claimed, was Strawberry with white star-shaped sprinkles on top. The father understood this momentary happiness that the boy craved. He accepted it; he chose to use this to his advantage, until its expiry date. I could tell by the detached look in his eyes, that he had hoped this day would never come. He had hoped his son would never grow to realize what true aspirations were. There was an unsurmountable passiveness required of him to encourage such behavior. Clearly, the father didn’t care: that wasn’t part of his character description. Instead, he held the boy’s hand as he skipped to a broken tune that he hummed, while he chewed scruffily on the remnants of his cake pop.
There was a young barista that managed to distract me from my observations every morning. She would always rush in her last order at 7:52, so she could rip off her apron and skateboard her way to school. She grabbed a free coffee on the way out, as though it satisfied her to earn more than just her basic salary-wage would be a more fitting term for the amount she earned. I wanted to name her Sally, because she seemed so naïve to all that was happening in the coffee shop. I decided Sally was not a befitting name for a girl who chose to ignore her surroundings, and with that realization came so many uncontrollable emotions, too many of which I could not, would not label. Though young, the barista had a choice: something she had, and I didn’t. She glided past the clear glass wall, different somehow, less automated than the others.
Moments collided to remind me, repeatedly, that in this never ending circle the stuck-up and snotty, the unsatisfied and materialistic, and unreasonable fantasizers all lived together in harmony. At times, these aspects managed to internally co-exist within each character of the town’s most popular coffee shop. The daily customers that our young barista served included men with the fancy watches who couldn’t tell time, women showing off their orange-tans which they got from being cooped up inside, and the kids who aspired for nothing more than to cherish in the next millisecond of hollow happiness. Yet, this coffee-shop was my single haven. My heart longed for the place and all of the automated people in it, but I was restricted entrance by the boundary of the glass wall. I was forced with the punishment to look in and never be able to be in, to give in. Though, I’m sure Toto would disagree.
Shattered Paperweights
There are moments in life you don’t think about, not until they happen at least. There will be a series of events that flash by in an instance. They seem to change your perspective-completely, mind-blowingly. Yet, when the moment ends, your mind is in tact, but your life is turned upside down, your perspective: inside out. It began the night that I met him. He loved to put on a dramatic show, except he liked his better off the stage.
My heeled boots clickclacked down a dim street that night, barely lit: a few street lamps maintained poorly, at best. I heard the steady beat halt and turned my body to face the man. He sat on the steps of the church, a cigar in his mouth, and puff coming out. A beard shadowed the bottom of his perfect face and his chiseled jawline. It was scenic-truly. If I had been a photographer, he may have been my muse. However, I wasn’t out there to take pictures that night and I’m not sure that modeling was his primary interest. It was hard to look away, I wasn’t the staring type, I promise, I wasn’t. Still, there was something about the posture of his silhouette, the way he sat nonchalantly, without a care in the world.
He probably hadn’t been pushed to make it into Harvard’s business school. Probably, never was overshadowed by an overachieving older sibling, one who made it difficult to make anything seem like an accomplishment. Probably, never had to succumb to the pressure enough to rely on pills to work endless nights; dedicating all of that time towards an unachievable goal. He would have been too witty, too slick to have been caught by his lawyer dad and doctor mom. Never would he be admitted into rehab for misuse of subscription drugs. I had tried to leave the past behind, but my escape velocity was never high enough to permanently rid myself of it all.
The temporary distraction of my thoughts did not steer me from being victorious in our one-way staring contest. He hadn’t even made an effort; he didn’t care to. Marching up to him, I was a confident Harvard graduate, one who had received no appreciation for graduating Magna Cum Laude. The second I made it to my final destination, in front of him, all of that evaporated; I returned to the little girl I once was. The girl who relied on Adderall because the daily coffee dosage wasn’t enough to keep her awake 24/7. His face was unveiled as he moved his head out of the shadows, and I discovered his mocking pearly smile that night. The same one that taunts me to this day, and his playful hazel eyes that sang the same melody, telling me I can have it all. I just have to work for it.
Many moments must have passed before the silence broke. The tongue of the bell slammed against the interior, and the chimes resonated through the quiet night. I took this ringing as a blessing for what I was about to do next. I smiled back, a much warmer, kinder smile than his. The kind your neighbor gives you the first day you move in, as they offer you a delicately crafted basket of freshly baked goodies. Before, they begin to bombard you with selfish errands.
I sat myself next to him, on the steps, the night covering more of us than I had anticipated. I was jittery, as though I had just downed a few Adderall’s. His cold hand found my bobbing knee keeping it in place, stable. I wasn’t sure if that’s what comfort was supposed to feel like. This advancement was not unwanted, rather it was unfamiliar. He questioned my tension, he didn’t need to hear my reply, he already knew, but I hadn’t known what the answer would be at the time. I deflected and turned the question on to him, “Have you ever feared something you couldn’t escape?”
He thought about the question for no more than a minute; the pause was merely a formality. He knew his answer before I had even asked the question, “Fear: I’ve heard of it, I just don’t subscribe to the practice.” I was too amused by his calm to question the honesty of his response, as long as he was able to live out his character’s role, so could I. With that, I had unknowingly, but willingly submitted to play the temporary main character of this marionettist’s grand show.
Our first date was a casual one, similar to most others’. We sat at a coffee shop sipping our drinks, as I kept peering at his perfect features. In a moment of silence, I was drawn away from him and to a woman standing at a table.
She was busily blabbering to another one, who she seemed to have known forever. Yet, there was no compassion expressed in either of their eyes. The chattering woman, she caught my eye, or-I should say-the white diamond on her finger did. When the sun struck in the most perfect angle, the gem glistened, blinding my peripheral view. Although my initial attraction was the rock, I couldn’t help but notice the way her eyes glowed when she looked at it. It was mesmerizing, like she could love nothing more in the world. When her gaze shifted to the man beside her, her enthusiasm seemed to have been suppressed with minimal effort, as though she had said yes to the ring.
Still, there was something satisfying about their relationship. It seemed like a perfectly packaged present; the receiver of such a gift would have been too amused to rip open the extravagantly decorative wrapping paper. My future had appeared in front of me, yet I refused to believe it. What him and I had was real. Unlike the woman, I had loved him, even without a ring. The uncertainty that fueled the fluttering butterflies in my stomach was not if I had resembled the woman, but if he had. His love for me seemed genuine, but his gestures seemed to serve a dual-purpose: both to entice and to mock.
Much like my parent’s pressure, his love gradually became all-consuming, and briefly vanquished any prior doubt. Each adventure of ours seemed to teach me a little more about myself and others, but never about him. His mysterious personality was an attraction at first, and it should have become a concern. I could not answer my family’s questions: where does he work, how old is he, where is he from, etc. Once they had met him, even they stopped playing 20 questions. He was charming and could please anyone without compromising information of his own. I had expected him to open up when he was ready. Although I came from an educated family, I wasn’t smart enough to realize that I was the one who wasn’t ready to forsake what he had given me. This relationship came with many ominous questions, but none of those answers were worth forfeiting this overwhelming present: love, something I had never received from anyone.
As a symbol of our commitment he presented me with a clear dove paperweight. Every present he gifted me was out of the ordinary. Never did I receive a bouquet of flowers or a perfume, instead each had an unattainable beauty. Almost as though he was teasing me, showing me that he could posses such items; being with me was merely him settling for less. It made me want to work harder to appease him, to make him want me as desperately as I needed him. I hadn’t known what the dove had stood for then, but I had come to learn the irony of it all in the end. Until then, we had kept it in our secret room, the one where we whispered meaningless nothings to one another. I hadn’t realized that they weren’t the only verses that were said in vain.
One night, in this secret room of ours, we had hosted our own dance party with only two guests: him and I. After quenching my thirst with more than a few drinks, the alcohol had taken over and enabled me with the courage I once craved. “You like to lie, don’t you?”
“Not always.” He wasn’t drunk enough, yet he had let me in just a little.
“So, you’re a bit of a fabulist, a teller of tales.” I tried not to push his buttons too much, even drunk, self-preservation had become a high priority.
“Sometimes lies are more interesting than the truth.” If there was ever a truer statement, I may have questioned him then. I didn’t know of one, and so our conversation had reached an end.
Every word he spoke, danced in the air, resonating, meaning more than what was being said, but not enough to acknowledge that his implications were intentional. All of his promises were baskets of woven tales created with the strands of fleeting truths. Still, he was able to make me do something once; he didn’t force me to, instead he made me yearn for it.
There was a girl, he had gotten bored of her, left her to ‘rot’ with her own self-destructive personality. Instead, she boasted about escaping his grip. I didn’t understand why he cared about a toy he had thrown away; someone he chose not to care about anymore. He was insulted and terrified for his own reputation. He didn’t like losing control over his puppets, didn’t want them to ever fall out of his trance. Even if they weren’t with him, he wanted them to be emotionally loyal, like a man’s best-friend. She wasn’t-and so, he fueled an infatuation, in me, to follow her into a dark and lonely night, like the one which I had met him.
A gloom hung over the city and fogged the night sky with a thin veil the color of smoke. The same smoke that shielded me, as I ventured to fulfill his desires, my desires. I trailed her through the crevices in between the tall and elaborate historical buildings, they were constricted like the Calles of Venice. There was barely enough space to breathe, which only encouraged me to fulfill my desires. Before I could think, the savage blood-thirst possessed me, pushed me to bash her head in. It was easier to breathe now, I wasn’t sharing the shortage of air supply with another anymore, and I left her just like that in that narrow Calle.
There is a quote by Raymond Chandler, “Down these mean streets a man must go, who he himself is not mean.” I hadn’t known if I was mean, or if it was merely the streets I had chosen to walk, but I had made a decision that was irreversible. One that I had thought changed me; really, it showed me who I was, and how far I was willing to go.
Initially, I thought this mission was for him, for us. I expected him to be overjoyed, I thought I would be rewarded. Instead, he ran away from me, from the boredom of a terminated conquest. I was oblivious to his true intentions. From the moment that I had met him, I had known that our journey together would be different than all of my previous affairs. I hadn’t acknowledged his flaws. He hadn’t let me ponder for too long, he filled those spaces by showering me with the affection I was deprived of for so many years, so I didn’t complain.
I hadn’t realized that when he took me to the botanical garden filled with red roses, that he had another motive. “Each of these flowers is gorgeous in its own right; however, some of them are gifted at birthdays, while others are placed at graves.” I wasn’t sure what he had meant at the time, if he had meant something by it at all. Now, it made sense to me. To him, I was just another red rose, but I wasn’t delivered to a girl waiting to cut a chocolate cake on her birthday; I was placed at the grave of my own shattered soul.
He was done holding up the mirror for me to see my monstrous reflection glaring back. I could see it without him now, so he no longer served a purpose. His next victim was probably waiting for him, but I didn’t want to give in to logic. All of those compliments seemed too meaningful to have been spat off the tip of his tongue: all of the times he told me I was his favorite.
So, I went to confirm his love for me. Our secret meeting place was one of the whispers that he had confided with only in me as were most of our conversations, but the key to this room was one he kept even from me. A glimpse of the shiny coating caught my eye, and I pulled it out from behind my dresser mirror. I’m not sure if he left it for me, or if I had found it, but it was now mine.
This tiny piece of brass opened the door to a room, one which had the power to determine the series of events that succeeded. The room was empty, our dove paperweight gone. I could assume that the bird was now enabling his next victim with the freedom and love it resembled, and closely followed by its most deceiving nature-a tormenting peace; one that she wouldn’t be able to escape. Knowing all I did, I didn’t sympathize for his next victim, I hoped that this paperweight would destroy her the same way it did me. Such a fragile thing remaining so in tact, while we were shattered one after the other.
I’ve never played the game with the flowers, never whispered to the tune of ‘he loves me, he loves me not’. I was too smart for it. The trick: to pick a flower with an odd number of petals. Buttercups, marigolds, and the likes. Still, I have lost: ‘he loves me not’.
The Little Things 