A story about Death
by Andrew Gold
I wasn’t ready. The walls were falling and I could only imagine my ever after severed from me. That means your lips and your legs and eyes and feelings. The drama drew to an acute and blinding truth, the way I had always escaped was now coming back to take me. I wasn’t ready. I woke up in the morning and everything seemed okay. I even stepped through every room in the house before I realized that something was wrong.
In the mirror there was blood. And I could barely recognize myself. It felt like being lost for so long and coming back to a world rearranged.
I wasn’t ready to understand Life, let alone death, and with all that noise droning, insane, unconscious, intolerable.
In my ears it grew as if something was coming closer; and then I could look at my hands. But I couldn’t allow myself to feel what they had done then. I was not shaking, and the blood was still dripping. I wasn’t ready, I told him that.
And I ended up having to make the decision … well, it wasn’t ‘my’ decision to make.
It wasn’t even my blood on my face.
I sat there and straddled him and wished and imagined him dead; but not dead like in the grave or a casket. When I get to this point nothing is there to remind me that what I do is wrong, and the pure feeling is more than anything, more than even my life with him.
I don’t know why; the blood registers something in me, and bleeding on him triggers me. I made him taste the dark blood last time.
I like taking control of him and making him do things. I think that having sex with his dead body is similar to the same when he is sleeping. And sometimes I just wish he would shut up but other times he’s all I have, all I know, all I mean.
I am always aware and conscious that something could go wrong, doing what we do … there is a risk involved. Like choking someone.
In truth, it’s the best thing I have found in life. And the irony? It will probably end up doing us both in. So I use it to forget, I use his body and for my own pleasure and like an object, because it feels good to feel like I am doing bad things. Especially to him.
The others I don’t feel the same about. But like, there have been whole afternoons that leak into the middle of the night … when we’re just together. I like it when there’s nothing left to give and we’re still trying to do things, and disoriented with the blank slate of the Universe.
It must be that a grease from inside mine mixes with yours; and that is my best shot at love.
I have found that mostly, lovers do lie. They would never look into one anothers’ face and admit the dirty things inside them must come out some time.
Most of them wouldn’t do that, anyway; but I did. I stood above him and watched him drink that dirty from my insides, and I went blind and forever turned into five or six or seven.
I can only call it love being that it’s all I know, and not many would really understand what it means to me personally.
And I never meant to hurt him or get too close. Love, or whatever; it was ours.
So now I look back: I can’t forget the horror happened. I was buried so deep in the middle of everything, drowning, and finally noticed it was you bleeding. I counted the way the clock hands moved over each little number, and shadows casted from the ceiling fan made me worry. I realized this would probably never end. This could go on and on, and I might never find that I deserved it. …From being alone and disoriented in the bathroom, to blacking out and waking up next to you somewhere else. The blood dripping down the side of my face, and I couldn’t even ask any questions.
But there you were, like a memory of Mars, the silent feeling in my spirit thrumming; and the cold breath leaving. The winter light waning; meaning moving from grey to yellow. …And your perfectly polished face without any color. It’s too beautiful; I had to do it, and I remember the last bit of whatever was left was mine. You left that there with me, for me. If it wasn’t for the black out, and the black blood that smelled like disgusting bile,– I might think things were okay being the same. But I sat next to you and dragged on the blood-flecked cigarette, and time crawled over all the surfaces as our eyes barely met. We were spent from doing so much together. But we were close enough to understand intimate things which barely anyone ever finds out; I watched her eyes close and the lights flickered, I watched myself in the mirror changing.
It must be that you were already dead when I woke and I just imagined your last breath. It must have just been wishful thinking, seeing you again.
See, I tell myself “this is love”… and really, it’s happened again, and there is too much blood for me to think.
“Are you dead?” … “I just woke up.”
— Esbat ()
But how pretty the mirror makes us, so we seduce that little frame of reference, in a parade that never ends.
So we were in the dark and messed up, trying to get higher, and we must have made a mistake, we must have been paying for what we did somewhere along the line.
I certainly felt numb touching you, having to reason within my head whether you were dead, or if we had sex and you were just passed out.
But the floor had our clothes on it and I couldn’t do anything but hug you, and cry cold tears.
I know that I’m insane. I know I have ‘fugues’ and wake up in strange places, and have no memory sometimes.
I know that I may be a murderer of atleast two people, and for my entire life I have known this. It was presented like a gift, something I had to share with others even beyond my will.
I fear the way people might judge me for what was inside me.
I feared how she got so close to me, and yet the warmth of her skin was uncomfortable to me. I don’t remember what we were doing or why you stayed, but it was lonely again after I realized what I’d done, that you were gone.
Maybe it was three people, though. I tend to remember these things after everything is done happening; I find myself automatically moving and seeing the way people see me. Maybe Death placed its mark upon my life, and staked to take those closest to me; even from my unrelenting grip.
Maybe tonight we found some reprieve on the linoleum with our naked bodies moving in syncopation. And maybe it is not such a mystery what I am…
I am drawn to the experience, which I’ve obviously thought about a lot. Why your blood, though, after what we’ve both been through? You are gone, and I lost you on the floor.
I can imagine the light-blue faces of all whom might be called “victims,” and I realize it might be scary to some that I am so predisposed to this behavior.
I wake up hung over, feeling used, too hot, and I can barely breathe … and I look for you again in the dark reflection of the trail of blood. It’s beautiful, so beautiful that I find nothing. There is not time nor space to move fast enough… I already explained, and we’re both lost.
But I continue to look for what I saw.
It was sundown and I felt blessed to be spending time together. Both you and I looking forward to whatever we were in for; we had the amusements and the spirits in tow, and we were into each other.
But I watched the devil once again tip-toe through my wandering mind, and he swam all the way over to you again. I watched what he was saying … but I couldn’t hear.
Next I knew the broken mirror, your painful fists and your palms beating against my heart. I didn’t feel sorry and I knew what I was going to do … I planned it … and I raped you.
Probably you will not forgive me for what I did. I am not sure I’ll ever see you again. But I admit I enjoyed it.
It must have been your blood that was dripping from inside after I did what I did. I was so horny and didn’t know how to control either of us, and so something else took over.
I dreamt that you never came over that night or day, and that we never had sex and I never raped you. And there weren’t even the four of us to point any fingers in the wrong direction. …
I secretly imagine that you were awake and enjoying me; I have never really been that bad, and it felt like you wanted it, too.
The blood isn’t just yours– and I know you must hate me for doing that, but you also drew blood. And you left me,– you died!
I didn’t know what else to do without you, so I pushed the towels around the floor and dreamed of a red ocean. And dreamed again of having sex with you.
And killing you again.
Now I wish I wasn’t so lonely, knowing you’re gone for good.
This is a story about Death: and the lovers it takes as their tears are wept.
This is the cross of their love, umbilical, all that we have and all we will ever know; this is the silence we’re reduced to, instead of the moan of our insides. So mutedly, I still hear you and can only cover up the sound with my own mouth, and the blood that drips from between our lips IS that perfect love, and you’re not dead because I love you, and you’re not gone because I can touch you, and you’re not lonely because I’m by you.
This is a story about death and the way lovers unite. From our ecstasy to the drawling depression that brings us to this. You would never understand. You would never allow what I know to live.
You had to look at me crooked because I knew it was coming; and you knew it was happening.
There was just one of us beneath that lightbulb, thinking.
And then came the other three. I’m lost because I don’t care about anything else anyway.
So Night can have me.
Like it took you from me.
And sometimes I wish that I would be the one who bleeds the most, or feels the most, or knows something.
Wanting to be wanted, we get so far from what we really are.
I had my hand down your pants, I remember, and the room was dark and we were a bit disoriented,– drunk, drugged, etc. I didn’t really mean to do what I did– How can love end up leaving us with so much pain, and separated from what we know, the only thing we know?–
The pieces of the broken rainbow swimming around your eyes transfixed me; and I was biting your face and lip trying to get deeper.
I didn’t know the stuff we took was so dirty, or you must have taken too much of it. … But my hands were in yours and I felt your strength. I looked into your grey eyes and felt the thrum.
Powerful. I thought, she’s gotten too high and needs to come down again. And so I sort of slapped you to see where you were.
And you shouldn’t have slapped me back, because that was when I couldn’t stop.
That was when the blood started to come, and I went insane. But I still can’t prove, with all those bodies, that yours wasn’t the one I loved most. I remember your fingertips and everywhere they went, from the places on me to the places on you — equally touched.
At one point, I got this rush, so excited that maybe you were still into this.
You were impassive but still we kept touching; I figured the drugs made you cold but not cold enough. And then beneath everything I knew what was wrong; what had always been wrong. Beneath me you were so vulnerable I actually hated you for what I could not possess, and so I decided against your wishes, to take it. I could never prove, however,– to the police or anyone else– that I do love you, and I did love you, and how much it means. It hurts to know you’re gone and I have to do it again. That’s why I hate myself enough to keep this going on. Because there’s nothing else I can do! There will be
five of us eventually, and that should be enough. Finally.
Like I said, I couldn’t prove that I was innocent, and I was totally convinced I was. Maybe you aren’t dead? Those are my hopes sometimes, that you actually sped off without the trail of blood, past the tree line and beyond me. Beyond the floor of the bathroom, our indiscretion, and beyond anything we could
But the nostalgia is there; my entire life I have spent having sex with you, and only now do you disappear, and I am left with the horrible memories, and the loneliness you’ve given me. I hate you and I love you, I realize. You have everything and you took it with you, and ran away from me, after you did what I always knew you would do. And so it’s like you raped me on that floor, too. Neither of us walked away!
And then the others came. And more. Then, the cops and the flashing lights eventually went dark.
But those others weren’t my girlfriend — they deserve to be dead, and she doesn’t.
The cops knew what happened, but I didn’t. Your blood stained my pants and fingers and I couldn’t stop. So I was on the bathroom floor naked on top, and your voice drifted in and out of my ears. At one point it crossed my awareness: I felt wrong and violent and that felt like heaven. You started fighting back; you punched me and I fell. But I was scared when I hit the wall, that there was something more grey in your eyes now. All so that once the blood was drained, we could have that finality I guess.
And you could lie to me forever about not deserving our last night, but I know better. And you could lie that the others were innocent, too. But they didn’t care either.