Hergest Ridge

 
“At last, when you free the marionette from its strings it’ll lie lifeless before you, for that which binds it is also its life source. And if you’re truly a great man you will breathe life back into it, inspire it to live a life of its own – for freedom without inspiration is the worst kind of death.”

Winston, I want you to understand something. You’ve made a mistake, there is no denying that any way we look at it. But as undeniable as the mistake is, there is something even bigger to consider.

Making mistakes is part of being human. Christ, even a robot eventually breaks down and things go wrong. But we humans, we make mistakes all the time.

I need your heart to stay open. I need you to fight to keep it open at all cost, because if it shuts, the bond that we use to nourish each other will begin to decay. Every painful memory we’ve gone through until now as a result of your actions will seem like a minor infraction when a much higher level of suffering creeps into our lives.

Please, don’t give up on us out of fear that our trust is somehow forever broken. The things you’ve proven to me since that awful day are things you could not have proven if you didn’t screw up. You fought long and hard, and I’ve forgiven you a long time ago. But this, us… it’s not going to work if you don’t forgive yourself. I need you to forgive yourself so we can once and for all put this behind us.

I don’t want to look back at what was, and what could have been. I need you to hold my hand, and look forward with me. There is nothing in the past for us to live off. Our life lies ahead, and you’re the one I want to experience it with.

“Well then, what does it mean to you?”

“Does it matter?”

For a moment, only the ivory encased clock made conversation, its constant tick-tack banter a heartbeat of its own.

“It means I am done. It means that hope is a good swimmer, and I have to find a way to drown it.”

“Is that what you are doing now? Drowning hope?”

“Yes. I used to think that if I leave it out there long enough, it would soak up enough salt water and go down on its own.”

“How does one go about drowning hope?”

“With needles. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Because I stick needles into my arms.”

“Hadrian, please show me your arms.”

Hadrian removed his sweater, and was now sitting in his olive green tshirt. On it, an invitation to travel, Prague – Czech It Out.

“I told you, there is nothing to see.” His arms smooth, no bruising, no entry holes, he crossed them across his chest, closed his eyes, and put his head back.

“Hadrien, do you remember now why you are here?”

“I heal fast, but I don’t care if you believe me the part about the needles. Can I smoke now?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“You ask me questions all the time, to which you know the answers. Maybe we’re both hoping to hear something different for a change.”

—

Her high heels off, Oriel headed down the dimly lit hallway on her way to the bathroom. Her jacket and white blouse joined the uncomfortable shoes on the floor. Before she started the bathwater, she pulled off her skirt and let it lie where it fell.

Through the dark apartment, she walked to the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of wine from the fridge, and started toward the bathroom again.

“One broken machine, trying to fix another.” That’s all she could think, as she sank her bare body in the bath water coloured with therapeutic salts.

The lit candles warmed the walls and cast long, dancing shadows. Oriel reached for the syringe beside, and pierced her wet skin with the needle. Then, she uncorked the wine, drank from the bottle, put her head back, and slowly drifted into unconsciousness, hope drowning in salt water.

Love is a warm liquor, fluid and flowing, not to be tamed or confined. Poured into a broken heart, it weeps to the ground and is displaced drop by little drop on the soles of the feet of others – carried off, mixed with dirt, left to dry on the exhale of a spring day’s breeze.

Hate is a cancer, a solid mass caught behind the ribs choking the soul desperate to heal. Without holding on or being held, it rattles and grinds the ribcage – it can never leave the way love flows through a broken heart. Piece by piece it needs to be fragmented before it can cripple the body from within – broken bones, broken bodies, broken human beings.