John sat in his quarters starring at the marble of Arc'teryx, spinning blues and greens, of life living, breathing as dawn and dusk, rain and shine. More than two years had passed since he turned that corner, since his eyes had met Cait's, and forever, forever that singular drop of blood fell, as it had a thousand time since, as it would a thousand times more. In the drop her life passed, without ceremony, not to his hands or lips, but to the ground, the sacred to the profane, and what gleamed of steal in her attackers hands was as lightning to his heart, her eyes wide, not in the begging, for the moment was passed begging, but wide in the violation, shared. To bear her rape and murder she could. To share that burden, as now, to know in the last moment, the last thought, that her pain would now live, live in him, in his mind and memory, live a thousand days time a thousand days . . .
He stood. Walked. As if in the walking, the movement, he could escape what could not be run from, could not be evaded or avoided, but there was something in the trying, something in doing, some thing other than the morass of memory, of thought, of the infinite loop of a memory, two years hence, clear as yesterday. And somewhere down below, somewhere on that glorious planet was Ariel. And Kyra. And he wondered where they were. What they were doing. Of their conversation and whether they walked hand in hand or side by side. A tether, these thoughts, these thoughts of a future, of Ariel, of Kyra. A future that needed, demanded he let go.
The mornings were still the worst. The shaking uncontrollable. As if his body, his trained, lean, lithe body was no longer his, chained as it were, to the lash of memory, of pearls and blood, of it all being his fault, to put her in danger, to live the life of glory and consequence. And for what? To what end? The nights were not so bad. Sleep came as a reprieve, as that moment when there was nothing left to do. But the mornings were another matter. For in the morning, the day sat, waiting, for action, waiting for motion, just waiting. And with the waiting, came the weight. And the shaking.
These vivid memories were as rope, anchored in the past, as rope around his neck, anchored in that singular vision of Cait, bent, violated, bloody above and below, taken of steel and shaft, impaled in malice, hatred, a brutality that takes what cannot be given back, but can only be released, as flowers in a river, carried someplace other than from the hand of the releaser, this parting of living and dead, of what breathes and only what now fades.
4 comments:
First, I've always loved this fractal.
Pain. The reliving of pain. The inability to be able to let go. We all have something that has caused this sort of pain in our lives, maybe not to the extent as John, but nonetheless, our own cross to bear. This segment of the story has always made me ache. The thought of someone living with this memory is almost unbearable to me, and yet you make it feel as though it is mine. Your writing does that. It evoke such emotion, good and bad.
Sigh
I hope all is well with you my dearest...
My thoughts and Prayers are ALWAYS on you, as are my arms wrapped around you in a virtual "TIGHT HUG"! XOXOXOXO
LOVE ALWAYS!!!
I had planned to begin with the very same thought, the first that came as I came to your page, namely that I've loved this image since the first time that I saw it.
How effectively you do convey, the torment of his memories, of a sight seen that can now never be erased. Unescapable. Trapped from within.
You have, as I read, not just in this chapter but numerous times before, me in a state of wonder and delight at how profoundly centered the emotion is, how heartfelt the images that occur in the mind of reader - in the part that described the walking...I know I am repeating what I have said many times before, and yet the compulsion is not diminished, to say to you yet again, as though in the repeating I could better make you understand the extent, the extent that is to which your descriptive abilities, in their consistency, far surpass anything else that it has been my pleasure to read. With this chapter, as the 700 plus before it, one thought presents itself each and every time, genius is found, in a poem, in a phrase, in twists of plot, in character, in the melody of a sentence or the pictures that are painted, it is found even in the best here and there, but here it is found everywhere.
With every sentence and passage and paragraph, I thought 'wow', I thought 'again', I thought 'always'. I thought to speak of that touch so spoken of so many times, that magical touch, where when reading, it seems like there is nothing in between. Your words may have come to you, been typed, edited, read one by one, understood, i.e. though logic would dictate such a process occured, of thought, of writing, of reading, of comprehension, a greater truth would be to simply say your words are lived.
Though this chapter was agonizing to read, to feel John's heart in as far as we are able, still it is with joy.
Incredibly affecting, amazing piece of writing.
Frick, Tree. The end especially. I lived it but only secondary it seems, but it seeps into the now and lives like a tiny fear flower that can grow even in darkness. The fractal, it does hurt the mind. It is seemingly impossible for me to understand, or perhaps that's only, accept.
It is so so good to read of you.
xo
erin
You ladies are much too kind, but I'm not complaining. ;-)
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