Date: Sun, 16 Jul 2006 20:16:49 -0700 From: Orfeo Sunstone <orfeo.sunstone@gmail.com> Subject: Life: infamy Copyright 2006 by Orfeo Sunstone Disclaimer: Subject matter of this fictional short story is of homosexual nature, if this offends you or it is illegal to read in your state or country, please leave immediately. All individuals depicted are a figment of the imagination, and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Your comments are welcome, positive, negative or in between. Write to <orfeo.sunstone@gmail.com> Life: Infamy The snow is cold and bitter. Alone like the nonchalant perched shadow of the night, Mark Yeats saunters down the street to wait for the arrival of the train that will take him back to his isolated apartment where no one can touch him, where no one can see him, where no one can perceive the melancholy in his eyes. The limpid wind holds his hands, caressing the delirious warmth of emptiness. Night has caught up with him but he is unaware of her presence. Step by step, like a drifting leaf swaying with the stars, lost in his stumbling thoughts, he contemplates the sorrow that dwells in his conscience. Tomorrow would be another reminder of his passing existence, of that recurring day when he received the breath of life. But what soul on this land would be willing to rejoice it with him? Rejection has been his life's accomplice. Shyness has always led the way. "I saw you again, those blue watery eyes: an impalpable eternity," he wrote in his confession. "Wrapped around your arm was that beautiful woman, always by your side, her skin white as pure milk, and those enchanting lips that keep searching for the perfect taste, that glorious and sophisticated savor of a limitless kiss. Lurking in the background like a wallflower, I followed you around the bookstore, skimming through the books you touched, consuming the scent you left behind, listening to the murmur of your lips, seeking to steal a glimpse of your plausible smile. I yearn to grasp and trace your white skin, to stare into your infinite still eyes, to whisper in your ear the suffering of the sun when the moon and her stars die with the soaring aurora." He lay immobile on his bed staring at the phantomless sky that slept outside his window, several tears rolled along his unimaginative face towards his ears and evaporated. Solitude, his most faithful companion, embraced him and pacified his quandaries. She will never forsake him, will never deceive him. He dreamt of converging with the flowing river of the cosmos but the water was so cold and its depth so profound that he was modified into a water-drop that glanced upon the blue mystery that lies within his imagination. Rambling voices traversed the ocean to land at his feet: "I want my eyes to rid themselves of the fogged air that's trapped in them, to embrace the rain that pours down the length of my body and makes me shiver with gratitude. I want to dance with the moonlight, next to the sea, fondle the unclothed sand with my bare feet. Will the rain stop trembling? Will the wind whisper its last verse? Will my shadow dissipate if I stare into her soul? My hands tremble with despair at the illusion of touching my evanescent dream." The moon is in fervor, a lonely nymph's cry is heard nearby, and the mellow night is fading with each breath. Dawn has yet to surface, but Mark must descend into the catacombs of daily life and fulfill his commitment of a thriving essence. The sky has fallen and the weight of the stars has entrapped his psyche, lethargically suffocating her. His heart is in pain, last night he could not render asleep, tossing and turning were his cohorts. He has fallen enamored with Blue, the man from the bookstore, with the black hair that seems like an impenetrable forest and getting lost in it is a fixation. The snow he steps in does not allow a footprint to be left behind. She rapidly plummets from the sky, flutters with the wind and dances with the politics of our voices until finally landing with obsession on the ground. Approaching the platform of the train station, he sees the man with the blue watery eyes. Time is eternal, his walk becomes clumsy, his braveness disperses on the ground where it finds itself with nothingness and she erases him with a puff. "Oh ingenious imagination, how I long to be the heartbeat that palpitates in his eyes, ooze with his tears, drift down his face, lick his lips, open his wounds and plant my name." The breeze is aloof. Mark approaches, getting closer and closer eventually making the distance between them dissipate. He fears his existence; he wants to flee but is unable, the cobwebs in his mind have entangled all outlets. He fears the sweat of Blues glance, he's the stranger that can take his soul, destroy her, lock her up in a garden of starry stars that shout Blues name and request his essence. Stumbling, he does not know where to go; his life does not fit in him, his heart remains without a remedy. Blue is unaware of the approaching shadow. Perhaps Mark does not exist, someone dreams him under a mosaic of tears. He is water that dissolves with your touch into a thousand particles. An ill story that gathers piece by piece each fragment to repeat his fable. Perhaps he is a mirror buried in Blue's memory and Blue is a being who searches for the trace of his face. We are lost in the labyrinth of infamy. The train slowly approaches. They board in silence. Life takes us by the hand but teaches us nothing. It spills if you contemplate her, disappears if you look upon her. Life: infinity of vagueness. The rays of the sun are poking holes in the gray clouds glistening the window where Mark stares out with emptiness in his eyes. Its lunchtime and he sits unaccompanied in the far end corner of the lunchroom where he can fade out the chattering of his co-workers. He doesn't confabulate with them; conversation is a fearful task he won't venture to undertake. He turns from his window and looks at his surroundings: nothing, imaginary configurations. The assembly line is deteriorating but no one seems to care for its condition but the rust that grows on its decaying structure. Rumors of the company being sold have spread about like a germ with an ominous tone felt throughout. "Time holds us in its empty hands, the hour grows, soon she will make a decision, she won't care who wins or looses, as long as the course of destiny remains unchanged. She is like the wind that stops on itself, turns around and soars away with the absence of the world left behind," Mark susurrated. Tick-tock and the hours go running by. Darkness starts to consume the sky and in the far distance a blinking star drops from high above. Snow covers the streets. Winter has officially arrived. No one knows it, but winter is fading gradually with sea that evaporates with the clouds. Across the world a polar bear weeps in silence for the agonizing death of his beloved soul. Mark rambles through the night not knowing whether the next step he takes will be the last vestige he leaves behind. He converses with the stillness of the trees. The streetlights enlarge his shadow; deform its shape that struggles not to get stepped on. The people scurrying in-and-out of establishments flatter the sidewalks. Mark has stopped in front of the restaurant where he first met Blue through its sidewalk window. He has not seen Blue their since but every time he passes by he stops and ventures a glance. The eccentric tables populate the place with the red and white mantles preparing for the Christmas festivities. Through the flurry corner of his right eye he sees a patron running out. The figure, not seeing Mark, slams straight into him with a great force causing Mark to land on the ground. Mark's head hits the brick wall and bounces back with a thud. Blue lands face forward and the cracking of bones echoes in the wind. Silence and pain fill the air. Mark is unconscious; sleep has taken over. A blue light enraptures his being. Blue is in agony. Right hand is broken, blood is splattered all over his left hand, and both knees are swelling up. He fumbles trying to obtain his phone from the confines of his suit. He notices a man lying next to him, immobile, sweat gliding down his forehead, blood trickling from behind his neck into the snow. Hypnotized by its own beauty, the mirror in the hospital room is drowning the light of the sun that is peering through the sky. Someone stands over Mark, glaring through the gloomy life that's erasing itself. "If only you could understand why you're like the snow that will fall tonight: fragile, so capable of reviving peace, elevating like a dream through the stream of life, maybe your heart wouldn't be so lonely. "Don't cry. No one knows who you are. No one will miss you when you no longer occupy a body, when your flesh and blood is no longer with you. No one will hear the sound your tears make. You lived in the depths of Nothingness. Love never came and happiness deserted you. "Aren't you tired of the oblivion that dominates life? Remember the night that I gave you a heart but it was so small that you hid it in your pocket? Remember when the years flew by and he grew, no longer capable of sustaining him in your tomb, into a tree? You wanted to measure his immensity, so bite after bite you ate him, swallowing his roots. He slept with you in silence for centuries. "Have you seen the tears of the sun? Every morning you can see the weeping in his rays. He's found out he no longer is immortal, one day darkness will erase his light. "I've seen you embrace your shadow on days when nothing happens and within you your loneliness grows tall and sways and spreads. I've heard the thoughts of your body. The drunken anxiety when you embrace your pill at night, then morning comes and it's drenched in tears. I wish you weren't so lonely. I wish I could give you happiness. "Nothing is real, and what is real is invincible. We never know if we're entering for leaving." No one visits Mark. Today will be one year that he has been sleeping with no interruption. He doesn't move. A tube feeds him. Once every week the flowers on his nightstand are replaced. Blue has been sending them ever since the accident, but he has yet to visit the patient. Tonight the stars will glow and the moon will be conversing with the sea. Snow will fall with the hope of perforating through the window of Mark's room. She will cry and her tears will roll down the glass because she can't reach him. A squirrel will knock but no one will answer, her tiny fingers will scratch the glass: she's brought an acorn for the sleeping invalid. A note was left on his nightstand that came with the flowers: "Imagine me, make me alive, bring me to your world. Show me your wounds, your frailty, your loneliness. For you I will change the course of the stars, give you the aurora that hides in your dreams." It remains unopened. Running around in the hallway outside the room is a small boy playing with his airplane pretending to be up in the sky with the clouds, taking a peek at the angels that guard the earth. The fog is running away with the dawn. The sun is opening the sky with its delicate hands. Life has given us another day. It's been over a month since Mark came out of his dream, left the hospital and returned home. Today is his first day back at work. Perhaps today chance will stop showing her back and confront him with the smile he's always wanted. Everything seems to be new. Management has changed; the assembly line is no longer the same. Many new faces abound, the corridors are full of them, and Mark is lost. Apparently the company got sold. Some workers say the new boss owns the tallest building in the city, that magnificent structure that the wind sculpts with its many hands every day. His co-workers don't seem to remember who he is. They never heard of what happened and Mark has locked that particular episode in a drawer. It's best not to look back. The past cannot be changed. Leave it hidden in its own shadow. Mark has made a friend, an old man with gray hair, a resplendent mustache, and many crossroads that appear on his face and hands like dried ravines. He speaks with a rasp in his voice. Doesn't talk much and his name is Richard. Not much was said; silence spoke for them. The night is clear with the stars following your every step. Mark once again ventures a glance at the restaurant where he once met Blue; habit has not been altered. But Blue is nowhere to be found. This stumbling phase that has rapture his thinking has not faded into the horizon. There is no outlet for this solemn craziness. Before drifting away in his sleep, he wrote in his confession: "Eventually the winds will stop blowing, the leaves will die of hunger, and love will finally stop loving. Eventually the flame that remains ignited in my heart will burn out and you'll never know the sacrifice my hands devoted to you. "I'll lend you my eyes so you may learn to cry. I'll show you my memories so you may brush their sorrows in the darkness of your soul. I'll give you my heart so you may lose it in the oblivion of your fumbling thoughts. "I would like to leave the memory of I in your body. When I gaze upon the moon and the scintillating stars, my body aches for the warmth of a caress, to feel the lingering trace of a hand, the humid breath of a whisper. I must resign to my solitude. I should know by now that I was not born to love, no one was made for me. Not a friend, nor a smile that would appear in the mirror of my life, a libidinous stranger that would add luminosity in my crossroads. "Last night you were in my dreams. Last night you walked away and in your path you lost me. Last night the snow ceased falling and the sky became sad." Incoherent are the thoughts and ideas that flow from the imagination of the night that feed the hunger of the heart. If only we could contain within our eyes the blue light from the moon so that our dreams could persist dreaming throughout eternity. That moment, where life is bearable, is just minute and immense; a blink of an eye that lasts a century. Our mind is the perfect labyrinth we must defeat. "My son is getting married in two months," Ricard stated to Mark on their lunch break. "I received his invitation over the weekend. I have not spoken to him in over five years." His eyes wore a shade of red. "Are you planning on attending?" Mark questioned while zipping his guava juice. "Who knows...maybe. Would you?' "No." "Why not?" "Why waste a day of my life on something pointless? They will get a divorce after a year." "You don't know that. You—" "Unlike you, I spoke with your son just recently, remember, he's my doctor. He has yet to comprehend what life has bestowed for his undeveloped existence." "Oh, and you comprehend yours?" "Indeed. I know what I want from life, unfortunately, I'll never be able to obtain whatever it is I've subjugated for myself." "And what is that?" "Love." "You don't think my son is in love?" "No. He is enamored with the beauty of his partner. He does not know how to open the door that is beyond aesthetics. Love is attraction toward a unique person: a body and soul. As a great poet once wrote, one loves a person not an abstraction." "And you told him this?" "Of course not. His personal life is of no importance to me." "Then why are you telling me?" "Its quite obvious: you asked." Boisterous clouds float in the sky along with the brightly lit sun. Mark seems entranced by the variety of chocolates behind the glass counter. His favorite, strawberry and white chocolate truffle, took the first pick. This, in a way, was a ritual for him. He indulged in the delicately crafted artifact, its delirious aroma of perfumed satiny, and the penetrating taste that enters, dives deep within, and becomes contentment. As he was paying for his purchase the laughter of a child was heard approaching the counter quite rapidly. When Mark turned the child bumped into him making him lose his balance and dropping the chocolates in order to grab a hold of the child so as not to fall on top of him. A man came in shouting the child's name, offering apologies to Mark who was just getting up from the ground with the child in arms. It was Blue. Blue was staring at Mark. Time was suspended for an instant. "Come on daddy, I want some chocolates," said the child pulling on Blue's pants. Mark picked up his purchase and without raising his eyes from the floor started for the door nonplus at the words just heard. Slowly, as if walking through the void, a lingering bitter-sigh was left behind pleading for mercy. There are times when the world is comprehensible, when mortality corresponds to our advances, when silence manages to decipher our thoughts. There times when you lose yourself just to escape human life that collapses like a dead weight, wishing never to emerge. "You...you were my tangible sky," Mark whispered to no one. "Would you accompany me to my son's wedding?" asked Ricard in a desperate tone. "No," replied Mark. "Why not?" "I already answered that question." "Please." Mark shook his head from side to side. All he wanted was to surrender to the solitary confines that never questioned. "Okay, then I won't attend either," said a defeated Ricard. He had been trying to convince Mark to go with him to the wedding as he did not feel comfortable being alone. He continued eating his lunch without another word which caused Mark to feel inadequate. "Fine, I'll go with you but only for an hour, no more. You got it?" "Understood." Ricard radiated with happiness. "Guess who else is coming to the wedding?" Mark had no clue and was really not interested in knowing. "More people?" "Well, yeah, but our boss is coming too." "Dean?" "No, not him, the big guy in corporate, you know, Andrew Sigismund." "Interesting." "Yeah, apparently he's my son's best friend, therefore, the best man." The weeks went by and the world was ending. Grand is the ceremony that engages love and eternity when surrender embodies the perfection of the soul. The rituals are disguised with abundance of happiness that raptures the beliefs of daily life. With the blink of an eye the world functions for humanity. Time does not have patience, we are consumed with vengeance. Mark has arrived with Ricard to witness the wedding ceremony that will soon conjure the attending. Surprise, nurtured where life is just an excuse, the king of infidelity to man, makes its presence known. The entrance to the cathedral begun to populate with the smell of jubilation and at the epicenter is Blue with the groom welcoming the guests. Mark and Ricard venture the flight of stairs that never end to greet them. "Good morning father. I'm quite pleased that you were able to make it," began the groom with great satisfaction in his voice, embracing his prodigal father. "This is Andrew, my best friend and best man." Ricard, still surprised and excited at the greeting from his son, turned to his left and shook hands with Andrew. Mark on the other hand was perplexed at finding out that his Blue had a name and coincidently was his boss. Life has accustomed us to pleasantries that relief their expectations when requested by instinct. And if we rob a glimpse of truth behind their masquerade, tragedy would consume reality. Ricard and his son excused themselves for a moment to speak in private after introducing Mark to Andrew. A nod was the only gesture that made its presence known. Mark felt anger, betrayal, embarrassment. Could the governor of his complex being be lost in the scriptures of blankness? Andrew seemed to want to voice some fragile words to Mark but that rare moment evaporated as Mark excused himself and headed toward the inside of the cathedral to dwell on his perverse misery. Once inside he kneeled in front of the Virgin and pleaded with vigor for the annihilation of his expired soul. He stayed in that position for several minutes until all the guests were in place. Then proceeded to take a sit in the very back where he witnessed the jubilation of resuscitation. After the religious ceremony Mark tried to depart his presence from the wedding but Ricard stopped him from leaving. Ricard spoke of the whirlwind that dropped at his doorstep, of all the emotions that vested in reconciliation. "You don't know how to live life," spoke Ricard. "What?" replied a confused Mark. "Are you not afraid of falling into the void and never coming back?" "Sometimes I wish that I would not emerge." "What is it that consternates your existence?" "The `I' that appears every morning in my mirror. The `I' that screams when I remain silent. The `I' that stands up whenever I fall. The `I' that embraces me whenever I weep. The `I' that sustains me whenever I lose my mind. The one that tells me I'm alive." "You need a companion in your life." "My soul is genuine solitude." There conversation was interrupted by the ramblings of the invitees that were going to be seated at their table. Formalities were quick to start, a part that Mark detested. Why introduce yourself to someone you have the least amount of interest in conversing with? Ricard was whisked away by his son who wanted him at his table. Mark was left alone to fend the flies that gathered around him. Except that no one bothered to be near him. There are moments that bring despair, patience loses meaning. And as it has been written: the human being is never what he is but the self he seeks. Alone and contemplating the sole rose that sat in the middle of his table, Mark sat conversing with the fear that copulated his hands. The rose swayed slowly back and forth to the whispers released by her captive admirer. Mark would have found the answer to that terminal question on which he immersed daily, except that he was interrupted by a harsh tone that requested his attention. "Excuse me, but if you are not enjoying the reception, I suggest you leave. Your sitting immobile and starring at god knows what deity, is getting a tad bit weird," said the gorgeous women that radiated beauty only found in dreams. "My sincere apologies madam, I'll be on my way," replied Mark as the dagger stuck in his heart shattered his last dream. "There is so much to forget that I just don't know where to start," lamented the shadow that accompanied Mark to his apartment. "I once drew an unfinished promise along the lines of my body. The foliage of my skin ripened, my hands became cold, the nights touched my forehead, and the hut that hoarded my memoirs in the barren air collapsed. "I once was against this horrid world. I couldn't grasp the language it spoke, the scattered words that resounded in the lips of the streets. I know realize that my feet spoke its tongue. I named your voice Solitude." The veins of the clouds bled in order to quench the thirst of the past. Mark did not report to work on Monday morning, he called in sick. At eight in the morning a cab picked him up to take him to the coast. Having never seen the ocean, the decision was made to peak into its waters, breath the pain in its foam lost in the nuance of birth. When he arrived, the coast was deserted as if awaiting his appearance. He finally was able to dance with the sand to the clandestine rhythm heard only by the pace of time. Mark stared into the distance of the ocean watching the water play with the sun. Not paying attention to the cares of the world, he did not hear the incessant voice of a child calling him until he felt a tap on his shoulder. Mark turned and saw the kid from the chocolate store and a tall figure he could not recognize due to the sunlight hitting his eyes. Moving to the side, the form unraveled itself: Andrew Sigismund. "Good morning Mark," begun Andrew. "I see that you're not at work today." "Yes, sir, I um...," tried to reply Mark as he rose up from the sand. "No need for explanations. Sometimes one just needs to have a day to himself. Enjoy the imperceptible beauty of the imagination that burns in ones mind," interrupted Andrew, starring solemnly at Mark. "Yes," whispered Mark. "Daddy, can we go?" requested the child down below. "In a minute, Robbie, we'll...actually," turning to Mark "I'd like to have a word with you. Would you mind having lunch with us?" He was about to say no but Andrew continued, "It is very important that I talk with you. Please." Mark just nodded an affirmation and all three walked over to Andrew's car. "I searched for you at the wedding reception but did find you. Ricard was worried that something might have happened to you. We were told by Lana that you had left an hour before the cutting of the cake, said you weren't feeling well." "I don't know who Lana is." "Oh? She said she spoke with you for several minutes. She is dark-skin, wore a blue dress with—" "I see. No, we did not have any sort of conversation. All she did was come up to the table were I sat and mentioned that if I was not enjoying the celebration that I should leave and so I left." "I don't believe that Lana would do something like that. She is the friendliest person you can meet. You probably just misunderstood her." "Perhaps, but I truly doubt it, sir. If it is fine with you, I'd like to find out what it is you wanted to converse with me. I'm on a quite strict schedule today and don't want to fall behind." "Yes, yes, of course. My apologies for Lana's attitude, I'll have a word with her when I get—" "There is no need for that. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention this incident." Andrew only nodded to Marks words. "Thank you." "Well, how do I start? Um, do, do you remember that peculiar night in February about two years ago, when, um, you were in an accident?" "Yes. What about it?" "Did, did you ever find out who it was that ran into you?" "How is it that you know this?" "Well, I, um, was...I was the one that rammed into you which propelled your coma." "Oh." "I truly did not—"Mark stopped him from continuing with a raised palm. Warring thoughts tried to split his skull. He could taste the ignorance that swept the air. "I thank you for the lunch invitation but I've got to be on my way." Mark stood up and headed for the entrance. He did not want to digest the information that was just exposed. All he wanted was to spit out the words accumulated in his head and drown them in the ocean. "Wait, wait..." Andrew shouted at Mark who was walking in the sand towards the bitter cold water that splashed foam at his naked feet. "Wait damn it!" That made Mark flinch. "What?" "We are not finished." "I have to disagree on that," Mark continued forward, the water reaching his stomach. "Do you even know how to swim?" "No, but the mission I'm about to complete, swimming is not a requirement." "Shit!" Andrew grabbed Mark and tried to drag him inland. "What the hell are you doing? Let go of me!" "I don't think so." "Okay, okay, if you let me go I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say." "No." "Just wait a minute. Look, if you are worried that I will sue, you can rest easy: I won't." "I don't care about that. You, my friend, are coming with me." As Andrew was pulling him, Mark decided to grab hold of Andrew's head and tried to dunk him underwater so that he would let go. Unfortunately, that did not work, it almost caused Mark to drown as he slipped and went under water. Good thing that Andrew knew how to swim or else our poor Mark would have drowned and our story would have ended. Andrew carried Mark on his shoulder and placed him in the passenger side of his car, buckled him up, and enabled the latch of the door to child proof. Andrew looked over at this passenger and began, "I know you are really pissed off at me right now, but you got to understand that—" "Don't." "Fine." Andrew turned on the radio and began the difficult task of finding a good station. Unfortunately, the changing of the channels every few seconds was driving Mark over the edge. "Will you fucking stop that! What is wrong with you?" Andrew looked at the perplexed stare that Mark was sending him and decided to just play the CD that was inside the stereo. The drive back to the city took two full hours, the CD kept repeating itself over and over. Mark was trembling with shivers; wet clothes encompassed his body as did Andrew's. The water dripped from his hair to land on his bare arm, during the confrontation his shirt was ripped in several places and the cardigan that he wore was lost at sea navigating the open road to the stars. "Aren't we forgetting someone?" "Nope, my son is with his mother, she is the owner of the restaurant we were in." "Could you pull over at the next rest area? I need to us the restroom." "No." "Wh, what? Why not?" "I don't believe you." "Right. Where are you taking me?" "You know what I'd like to do to you right now?" "You already are." "No, I'd like to crack your skull, open your thoughts and scatter them. Maybe that way we can get the amnesia to guide your fugitive thoughts." "Listen to me as one listens to the rain. Things imperceptibly shake loose from themselves; I too will shake you loose." "That, fortunately, won't happen. You're alive yet you go in search of death. Between the sky and the earth lies a suspended morning separated by a boundary strict and tacit, never expressed: your habitation." "We are condemned to kill time, walking on a road with no name, we sit and watch the hours pass by, hurrying with the clouds over rooftops. I stretch out under the shade of a tree and whisper the word death and for a brief moment I live within it." "Your smile makes thoughtful the exuberant day that will never return." Someone spies on us through the mirrors that seek our image. Tell them your name and they'll spell the dictionary of your life. The car arrived at Andrews' house; he waited 15 minutes for Mark to dislodge himself from the vehicle: rage seemed to dress his features. Once inside his house, Andrew instructed Mark to change into some dry clothes. "Tell me your life, all of it," asked Andrew "No," replied Mark. "Okay, no problem. Answer yes or no to the questions that I'm about to ask. Is it true that when you were 10 years old your parents kicked you out of their house because they found out that you were gay?" "What!?" "Don't ask how I found out, I won't divulge that information. Just affirm or deny, nothing more." "Yes, it's true." "Why would they do such a thing?" "I wish I knew." "How did they find out?" "My older brother told them." "How did he know?" "You said to affirm or deny, nothing else." "Could you please elaborate on how your brother found out? Please?" "I had a notebook on which I wrote my thoughts, a confessional in way. There I expressed my conflicting dilemma of the unveiling curiosity of the mind, except that my mind didn't speak the words that were written on those pages, my heart did. In one of the pages I examined the, according to my family, `wrongful conscience'. I don't know how my brother got a hold of that notebook but once he read it he revealed everything to my parents. He was their favorite. He was never wrong. "My parents sent me to an orphanage where I lived for five years. When I left the orphanage, I received a letter on which my parents requested that I never appear in their lives, that I was a waste of form and matter. It's been now two decades since I last spoke to the family I once rejoiced." "Do you miss them?" "Yes, very much." "Have you tried talking with them?" "No. About 3 years ago, I saw my mom and dad at a grocery store, smiling, full of joy, and then they saw me. I wanted to approach them but the glare that appeared in there eyes revealed disgust towards my person. I occasionally see them here or there, even my brother, but nothing." "Any relatives?" "None that I'm aware. You see, my parents never really took me anywhere with them when they went to visit our relatives. I guess they were ashamed of me, I don't know. Maybe they had the premonition of what was to come." "Is there any one in your life?" "Nope. Nor will there ever be." "You have no friends?" "Friends. That word is so foreign to me that I'm afraid I don't know its meaning." "You were a loner, weren't you?" "Still am." They sat in silence; a silence that had no meaning. Andrew excused himself to run and get dinner for them. Once he was out of the house, Mark decided to depart as well. "Matt please report to the front office," said the voice in the intercom. Matt was working diligently, like a fixed idea whose goal was the interminable design. He listened to the creation of silence, iridescent of salt and sand. "Mr. Sigismund is touring our facilities today and requested to speak with you in the conference room down the hall. He's waiting for you," spilled the secretary. Mark tapped the door then walked in and was faced with a raging Andrew. "You requested to see me Mr. Sigismund?" questioned Mark. "Why did you leave last night?" seethed Andrew. "I prefer not to discuss personal matters at work, sir." "Cut the bullshit and just answer my question." "If that is all you needed, sir, I'll be on my way." "Fine, have it your way. The company is downsizing to save operating costs. We regret to inform you, Mr. Yeats, that we are no longer in need of your support. We appreciate all the years you spent here with the company and wish you the very best in your endeavors. Your last day will be in three weeks from today." "What? You...you can't do that." "I can and I did. Have a good day Mr. Yeats." "But...but...why?" "I already explained. You'll need to excuse me, I have other more important matters to attend. Please close the door on your way out." "Yes, sir," whispered Mark. At the end of his shift, Mark decided to stop at a bar to drown his sorrows, release the pain that he had planned on terminating. He paid no heed to the people that crawled in and out of the establishment, nor did he pay attention to a certain individual that sat at the other end of the bar, staring intently at his person. Mark felt delirious and content. Drunk but with enough vigor to head home, he started for the exit only to bump into Andrew, the mortal that was spying on him. Mark ignored him and continued walking, but Andrew grabbed his arm and stopped him from going any further. "Your mother...she passed away," hushed Andrew. All Mark did was stare strenuously at Andrew. "Thank you for letting me know." The darkness of the night hid his pain. He wanted to rip his heart out just to relieve the agony, smash it with his hands and bleed it to death. "I'm sorry I couldn't be what you hoped for," Mark spoke to the sky. "I wanted to make you happy but I always failed. I wish I would never have made you suffer. I love you." He cried with rage that night. Mark hid behind the tall oak trees and witnessed the funeral procession which was full of people he had never seen before. He gazed at his father and brother: solemn. Mark carried a sole flower in his hands, a fringe lily, his mother's favorite. He let a few tears shed but quickly wiped the residue. After everyone had abandoned the cemetery, he approached the tomb that contained the lifeless body. He sat beside the tomb for several hours. The sky unfolded its cry and dropped some water bathing the earth that laid undress before it. He would have stayed there for the earth to decompose his body and resurrect as the lily that flowered on top of his mother's tomb but his runaway thoughts were awaken by the sound of footsteps. Standing near his mother's grave was Andrew. Mark stood and greeted the man before him. "Good day, Mr. Sigismund." "Mark." What else was there to say? Words did not come easily to Mark; they created a whirlwind in his thoughts but were never able to compose living sentences. He glanced at Andrew's slightly opened mouth and wished for a syllable to erase the agony, but instead he found the impeccable evidence: the secret. "I spoke with your father. He mentioned that your mother died of a cancerous tumor in the brain." "How is it that you found out of the death of my mother?" "Well...I know your family." "How?" "Uh, um...your brother, he...he is a good friend of mine." "Does he know you're a faggot?" "What the hell did you just say?" "You heard very well what I said." Andrew stood very close to Mark and was about to swing his fist at him. "Don't." "Fuck you." And he swung. Mark fell to the ground, his nose began to bleed. Andrew picked him up and was about to swing another punch but he saw pure misery in Mark's eyes. "Shit," was all he said before he embraced Mark and planted a kiss on his delicate lips and tasted blood. Mark tried to pull away but Andrew held him with a tight grip. Andrew covered Mark's mouth like the moss of the rooftops that try to converge the sentiments of the heart. Andrew traveled Mark's face like the sea to the sand, mouth of water covering his eyes, delicate hands subdued the increasing fear of fallacy. As their lips departed, Mark leaned his head on Andrew's shoulder. Could it be possible? Had his Blue truly kissed him? "Thank you, but I must leave now," whispered Mark. "No, wait...don't leave...please. I'm...I'm...I love you." "I know." "Don't you love me?" "Yes, very much. For several years now I've been in love with you. But your declaration has come too late. My soul is vacant, death arrived before you." "No, please don't leave." "I must." "But why?" "The love that I had for you was too much to assimilate. Slowly, with excruciating pain, he bled to death. For an instant you held it on the palm of your hand. I must go now, someone is spelling my name in a story that has no journey." "I don't understand. You just can't leave. I won't let you." "We use to meet everyday at the train station. I would meet you in my dreams. Night after night I carved you with closed eyes, but I never had the courage to talk to you. That is the injustice of being." "Please stay with me. Let us start anew. You got to understand, I truly love you. I need you in my life." "I understand, but you have to comprehend my logic. Every word you utter augments the pain." "I don't want to cause you any pain, but I must let my heart speak." "We have no meaning just irony and pity. Life belongs to others and is never ours." "I wish now that I had never met you. I wish you were a dictionary so that I could shake the words out of you just to hear you say `forever yours' and not just this instant that will wash away with the night." "We've said plenty. Let us part our separate ways and let the words we've spilled this day be the bifurcation that ends our encounter." "No, this is only a `see you later'. I will not be defeated that easily." The city is divine with the foundering night. The glow of the lights seduces the darkness of the sky with the trees slumbering in defeat. Wallowing about, Mark navigates down the streets hoping to elude the meandering thoughts that remind him of Andrew. "I'm indifferent to the death that bears my name," wrote Mark in his confession. "My heart filled with thirst and I tried drinking life in one swallow just to see it splatter prolonged nights of emptiness. I waited for an extended ephemeral blessing, one that would alleviate the disastrous fascination of building lies for the absence of faith. I tried penetrating the silence that, dominated by fear of stupidity, drowned my naked thoughts. The color of my desire has withered. "Oh precipitous solitude. False Eden, who is the eternal reminder of memory? Atrabilious mind that failed to halt the heart and ended asphyxiated in the disquieting emptiness of a thought, why can't I liberate myself from your abundant disparage? Happy sorrow that never answers, sing me a song that will close my wounds for the night." Mark awoke to the resounding footsteps that advanced lethargically to his bedroom. He analyzed leaping from the bed to combat the intruder but was paralyzed by the realization of this moment being his last minutes spent in this useless life. The silhouette of the approaching form was christened by the moon that glowed persistently through the bedroom window. "I miss you," said the matter that now sat on the bed with one hand on Mark's leg. "It's been over a month since I last approached you." "Andrew?" "Where you expecting someone else?" "Yes, actually." "Oh," voiced a distress Andrew. "The ripper." "Well, I did come for your heart." "It's already been sold." "I've reposed it from its previous owner. Mine, egotistically mine. Don't turn the lamp on; I'm afraid of this not being real and you vanishing." "Don't undress, this cannot happen. Walk away." "No, not this time. Let go of the covers." "No..." The covers slide off Mark's body effortlessly with such placidness that time halted to a pair of eyes where beauty is illegible. Gentle and quivering hands roamed Mark's figure like the fine slow movements of the stingray that brings peace to the silence that always questions. Oh sweet surrender, let all that is pernicious crumble to this delirious sentiment that is love. Andrew navigated through Mark like a ship lost at sea, savoring the soul of the forgotten. Lips of water meandered bathing everything in its path. Cold rapid hands opened the hidden valley of lasciviousness that conquered the night. Flesh against flesh, never separating, always yearning. Their bodies spoke, mingled, climbed and descended in the interior of themselves. "Every morning you awaken in my head," murmured Andrew. "The scent of your presence, parachuting breeze, chanting a fortuitous discourse, offered serenity. I lost my shadow when you perused a glance at me. Give me perpetual love, the essence that makes you immense, I'll give you my soul." "Brush away the pain that blocks happiness from entering my heart and I'll be yours eternally," Mark replied as Andrew ran his fingers through Mark's hair. "You are my religion, Mark. Let me embrace my fears with your dreams. I love you." "I love you." Morning rose with plenitude of light, but for Andrew and Mark, morning did not come, their lifeless bodies rested entwined. Death came after contentment governed the heart of the soul. May God offer then not peace but glory.