Self-Destruction
Is his hair still as long? Are his eyes still as blue?
Can his face still conceal every clue to his mood?
Does his brow still display every beat of his heart?
Did he ask after me? Did you send my regards?
She bowed her head for the thousandth time, her face coming to rest on her knees, where were drawn up against her chest. Tears fell silently from her eyes, only to create darker spots where they landed on her pants. Her shoulders trembled with an unexpected surge of grief that she refused to let surface. Her head lifted almost of its own accord, and, with wet eyes, she examined the knife once more. She took in every detail, the sterling silver head with ruby eyes, the intricately-tooled grip, and the eleven-inch double blade, curved and barbed, with the two points offset just enough to cause two times the pain and three times the injury of a standard dagger. How easy it would be to end it all now. But no. She could not die. She must live, must deal with the pain, must put the past behind her and look ahead to the future. But what kind of future was there? What kind of future could she have without him? Without him, her life meant nothing. She had known that all along. So why had she treated him the way that she had? She had ruined her life, and probably his as well. She knew that he had loved her, truly and deeply, and so had she felt about him. Why had she turned their growing relationship into a train wreck? She had thought often of him over the years, but this past week had been worse than ever. She hadn’t left her room in four days. Food had been placed in her room for her, but she had not eaten it. She could not keep her mind from asking questions for which she didn’t have answers. Was he ok? What did he look like now? Did he still love her? Was he still alive? That was really all that mattered.
Or did you tell him that I’ve died
In every way that matters?
And did you tell him how I cry
With every day that passes?
But what did he think of her? Did he know anything at all about her condition? Was he aware that she had suffered just as much, if not more, than he had? Did he still love her, still care for her? She had no way of knowing, and this uncertainty was worse, far worse, than any specific answer. He could hat her, and she would feel awful, but at least she would know. She would be able to put it all away. But she didn’t know, and thoughts of him lingered. And she knew that they would until the resolution of this matter came about. Even if it never happened. She would bear the weight of her crime until her dying day. And she would do it with a strong heart. Outwardly, she resolved, she would remain as average as possible. She would keep others away from the inside. They didn’t need to know about her pain or her suffering. They didn’t’ need to know anything. She would keep him out of conversation, and that way, if he ever happened to find someone who knew of her, they would not be able to tell him anything that might hurt him. She had hurt him enough when she had loved him. Why hurt him again now that she loved him even more?
That I am raw and bruised and torn
That I can’t function anymore
Well, did you tell him that?
The scars would remain for life, there was no denying that. Never would she be able to completely free herself from her mistake. But she would live with it in silence. No one could know, or her life would become unbearable. All she could hope now was that he hadn’t already found out, impossible as it seemed, the condition she was in.
Well I’d tell him myself, but I don’t have the nerve
And I know to my shame this is all I deserve
But I hope for my sake you were not indiscreet
If he asked how I was, hope you lied, through your teeth
Her head lifted slowly, revealing blood-shot eyes and trembling lips. The knees of her jeans were soaked with the unstoppable tears that had flowed from her eyes over the last few hours. She examined the blade once more. It rested in its stand on the shelf above her desk, gleaming in the light of the small candle that sat beside it. Sever other identical candles sat wherever there was a solid level place to put them. She hadn’t used electric lighting in weeks, but was determined to rely on the candles until they either cleansed her, which she knew they would not, or until they coated her lungs with wax, causing death. Which meant that she would live alone with her candles until her the day she died, unless she gathered the courage to go out and seek the solace that she still believed was waiting for her. And she just wasn’t strong enough to do that yet. For one thing, she still looked the same as she had the last time she’d seen him. She wasn’t ready to take the chance of him recognizing her. She wasn’t ready to run the risk of hurting either of them. Not yet. Not just yet.
Or did you tell him that I’ve died
In every way that matters?
And did you tell him how I cry
With every day that passes?
She stood slowly, not speaking, containing all emotion. She glanced in the mirror and reached for her make-up kit. She had never been a fan of cosmetics, had never liked the idea of trying to change the way she looked. But now it was necessary, and she had been collecting supplies over the past few weeks, preparing for the day when she would once again leave the house. Hair had to be the first thing. She grabbed her scissors and headed to the bathroom with the rest of her gear in tow. She worked over her hair for about two hours, snipping and texturing until it was above her ears, but still looked even and well-cared-for. Then she turned on the shower and carefully worked a package of coloring over her scalp, making sure not a single strand remained the gleaming blond her hair had once been. She shut off the water, dried her self, and looked in the mirror once more. She would be hard to recognize like this. Rust-brown hair fell loosely to the tops of her ears, and her face seemed somewhat leaner than before. Her piercing blue-grey eyes would give her away, though, and she knew it. Fortunately, she was prepared for that also. She had purchased opaque contact lenses in several different colors; they would disguise her eyes and, ultimately, her identity.
That I am raw and bruised and torn
That I can’t function anymore
Well, did you tell him that?
A last glance in the mirror reassured her that she would not be recognized. Nothing about her, save for her height and weight, were the same as they had been. Even her style of dress had changed, and she felt comfort in seeing the girl who was looking back at her in the mirror. She wore a tight dark-green leather halter top, form-fitting black leather shorts, and a pair of sandshoes. Dark hazel eyes stared out, surrounded by carefully prepared eyelashes and eyelids that were rimmed with sea-foam green eye-liner. The rust-brown hair and a layer of hot-pink lipstick completed the image of the sort of person she absolutely couldn’t stand. The typical glamour girl, who worried only about the way she looked, and who couldn’t bear it if any insult was thrown in her general direction, would disguise her well. Those that had known her could not recognize her, and it was nice knowing that she could change herself to fit in with any group of people, much as she dislike doing it. It was living a lie, this change, but it was the key to her survival, and it must be done. She flashed a smile into the mirror for practice and headed for the door.
And if he didn’t want to know
Oh, my friend, don’t tell me that
Did you never speak my name?
Did he never even ask?
First on the agenda was food. A hunger that had been non-existent for the past several months was stabbing at her. Fast food, cheap food, junk food, she didn’t care what it was. She took her key from her pocket and slipped into her car, the car that she hadn’t driven in three years. Had her license expired? She checked. It hadn’t. She heaved a sigh of relief, pressed in the clutch, and pulled out the starter knob.* The engine sprang to life with the rumble and slight shake of the front end that she remembered well. Windows went down, the sunroof was opened, and the dark blue Mercedes rolled out of her driveway and down the road. It was less powerful than she remembered, probably because it hadn’t been driven by anyone in a year and a half. Oh well, it ran, it drove, and it did both with style. She pulled into a fast-food franchise and ate lunch. Her hunger satisfied, she headed for the harbour. Windows went up, the sunroof was closed, and the dark blue Mercedes was left with its doors looked in the all-day parking lot. She sauntered along the sidewalk, her eyes concealed by small elliptical sunglasses.
Or did you tell him that I’ve died
In every way that matters?
And did you tell him how I cry
With every day that passes?
It was growing late, and with each passing minute her sprits rose. She hadn’t been able to find him in the harbour, and she’d been searching for six hours. Maybe he had been able to put what had happened away and continue living. Maybe he didn’t come to the harbour, depressed and dejected, because he couldn’t get that day out of his mind. She was becoming truly happy, almost positive that he still had a life ahead of him. She would make one more round of the harbour, and then she would be satisfied. Up and down the docks she went, with no sign of him or anyone she remembered. In and out of the various ships she wandered with the same results. She was finished. She had looked for him and had not found him, which must mean that he was out there living and enjoying himself. The sun was beginning to set as she headed back to her car. There weren’t very many people out anymore, and the full lot in which she had parked was now nearly empty, and her car stood out in the open, with nothing near it except a man, a tall, young man with beautiful grey-green eyes and shoulder-length blond hair that flashed in the golden light of the setting sun. A thin man whose clothes were ragged and torn. She frowned. After all, who would jump for joy when they arrived at their own automobile only to find a man unknown to them standing beside it, as if he were waiting for their return? She must be bold. She walked directly to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. The man lifted his head and his eyes locked with hers. A man unknown to her? Oh shit, it was him. Wearing the same clothes he had the last time she had seen him. He hadn’t been able to put the past behind. Here he was. She shut the door, ran to the rear of the vehicle, and stared in shock at the license plates. She had forgotten to change them. That was how he had been able to verify that the car was indeed hers.
That I am raw and bruised and torn
That I can’t function anymore
Well, did you tell him?
Did you tell him?
Did you tell him?
She realized how strange her flight to the rear of her car must have looked, and reached out a finger as if to brush it lightly along a scratch in the paint that she hadn’t noticed before. She opened the trunk and reached inside, searching for her make-up. She applied a new layer of lipstick in the “true-ditz” style, to hinder recognition, and walked leisurely back to her door as if nothing had happened. He didn’t know her for who she was, thank goodness. She opened her door once more and was about to get in when he spoke to her. His voice was soft, flat, and emotionless, not at all like it had been before. “Excuse me, Miss,” he said. “When did you acquire this car, if you don’t mind my asking?” She froze. She could not answer him. She had a light but distinct European accent that would give her away and she hadn’t practiced covering it up. But if she just left him there, the action would display clearly who she was. She had to try. Flashing him a smile, she answered loudly, doing her best to throw a Texas-style accent into her voice. “Only this mornin’, darlin’, why do ya ask?” He smiled back, but his was a sad, wistful smile as he gently lay one hand on the top edge of the open door. “I was just looking for the girl who used to drive this car. I haven’t seen her in three years, and I want to know if she’s okay. The last time we met, she was quite distraught emotionally, and I, well, I just wanted to tell her that I’m here for here always, no matter what. Do you think you could pass that message along?” She shot him another smile and nodded cheerfully. She didn’t trust herself to say a word.
Did you tell him that I’ve died?
Did you tell him how I cry?
Did you tell him?
Did you tell him?
Did you tell him?
She drove home as fast as she possibly could, pushing the old Mercedes up the its limits. It really was a grand road car. A sharp turn into her driveway spat dirt and gravel in the all directions, and the big car rumbled to a stop as she put on the parking brake, slammed in the starter knob*, and leapt out without even bothering to lock the doors. She didn’t stop running until she reached the living room couch. She pressed her head into the cushions and sobbed, her whole body shaking violently. Her make-up was smearing, but she didn’t care. She had more. But she wouldn’t use it. Next time she would go to him as herself, except for the rust-brown hair and the dark hazel eyes. She would use her own voice and her own personality. She would be herself once again. She would emerge from her shell and open herself to the world.
*From 1974 to 1976, the Mercedes-Benz model 240D used a knob that was pulled out to start the engine and pushed in to stop it.
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Psycho Chimera! is copyrighted 2000 by Adrian Metallium. Self-Destruction is copyrighted 2000 by Adrian Metallium.
