Happy End of the World 3: Philia

PHILIA

She was this beautiful thing with dead eyes that looked deep into your soul and mirrored your darkest desires. She was my lover, my child, my every waking thought. Every night as she laid her body on the satin sheets of my humble bed, I felt blessed. Oh, I have memorized the curves of her mouth down to the soft of her neck, and finally to those bones that top the breast, deep enough to hold water and saliva. She rarely spoke but that did not matter, we were in love and that was my world, my entirety. For years I have dedicated my life to her preservation, to her salvation, she was very sickly you see. A sickness that had no name, or perhaps a name that we did not dare say. My love she repaid with kisses, with acceptance of my creased and sagging flesh, and she whispered to me her moans, her bed sounds. How in love were we, such a strange pair but a pair.

Once she told me she wanted to get well, get a little sun but decided against because I cried. I balled like a child, afraid, terrified, the very marrow of my bones shaking like coagulated jelly. I do not want you to walk, to run I said, I do not want you to leave me, I said. I said so many things, thrashing like a child, and even in her weakness she found the strength to take me to her bosom and sang to me as a mother does to a babe with night terrors. Such kindness! Such a welling heart to forgive the caprices of an old fart like me. Oh, what sacrifice! To choose sickness, to choose, I cannot say it.

So we had received our roles, the infirmed and the nurse. And we played our parts well in the day but at night I think it was she who cured me, her mere touch a balm to my darkness. And that was love.

How dare they take it way! Drag my happiness, hang my soul and leave me to the cruelty of the lonely company of the voices in my head! And why, we did not hurt anyone! Our love was pure.

It was a Friday, a night of rest from the toil and labour of a workday week, and finally I had her in my arms when the brutish men kicked the door, hooligans, ogres! They pointed their weapons, screaming, get away! Get away! Well, in reply, I held on to the litheness of her skin, dug my head deeper to the little fat in her stomach. Get away, they insisted. How could I ever go away from my nymphet? She that was my life for so very long, ever since we met in the darkened alley of romance.

But what use is an old man’s grip against the pull of bullies and guns. At last after what struggle I could afford, I found myself bloody and cowering against the wall. I could not do anything when they finally put her on a gurney and wheeled her away. After losing my one reason for living, a baton met my face, and all I could remember next is darkness, the wailing of sirens, and a distant wailing of a mother. Monster, she was eight years old!

And now I am holed up in a padded cell and nothing is real anymore. Life is now a loop of mad ravings for an audience of none. To pass the time, I carve my flesh on the leather straps that cut to my flesh just to remember those days and her beauty, forever young.

BJC l December 2013

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