The night was young. Cold, chilly, nothing like your regular August fare, in a place not known for low temperatures. The whisky lay nearby, untouched, besides the now cold food. All was quiet. All was fine. Except for the tears.
He looked down at the lights reflecting off the car. Dull, unfocused, the condensation on the windows, a matte black finish. Maybe it wasn't cold. The chill was all him. All was quiet. All was fine. Except for the tears.
He took another shaky breath and coughed a bit. Put the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, deep and strong. His lungs hurt for lack of air. But they remained quiet. They seemed to have given up fighting. They accepted the smoke and relaxed a bit. All was quiet. All was fine. Except for the tears.
He turned around and looked down at the broken figurine. The glass had shattered all over the floor. "Do you really think the affection you honestly felt for someone disappears?", she used to say. How right she was. The affection he still has. The affection he never spoke of. The affection that still haunts him every night and keeps him alive and awake till the sun comes up. He pulled out his cellphone and looked at the photos. His shrine to her, he called it. The smiles hadn't faded. All was fine. There weren't any tears left.
He reached out for the whisky and took a reckless, overlarge swallow. It burned it's way down, scalding, not comforting. Choking, spluttering, it seemed to fill the emptiness for a while. He never said, if she left, he wouldn't survive. He'd probably hit the roads, he'd drive. the freeways would be his reprieve, the place he'd call home. Without her, they would be the only shelter he'd ever known. All was fine then. Except for the tears, which were wetting his cheeks again.
He fell back against the tarred concrete and moved his hands across the surface. It felt soft and cold. He took another deep breath and closed his eyes. She seemed to be hiding there now, behind his eyelids, waiting for him to shut out the world. He risked another swig. It filled another little space. He wiped his cheeks. All was fine. All was quiet. Except for the tears.
He looked into her eyes now. They seemed to be smiling at him. For long as he could remember, those honey-brown eyes had always smiled back at him every time he looked at them. He could almost reach out to them now. They seemed so close. He opened his eyes and felt the tears gush out again. He angrily gulped down some more whisky and walked across the roof, over the smashed figurine, to the other side… barefoot... The blood created a trail on the terrace floor as he walked.
He remembered dancing with her. "Two pairs of left feet", he called it. "You held me and you danced, I did nothing!", said she. He always thought he was a fighter, that he was strong, that he could handle anything that came his way. He'd come this far living up to other people's notion of an acceptable life. He downed the last of the whisky and stumbled closer to the periphery, standing at the very edge, adrenaline running high. All around him, he couldn't hear a thing. All seemed quiet. All seemed fine. And ever since she'd left, it seemed he'd finally left his tears behind.
The cold started to bite into his skin and he woke up realizing where he was. He wanted to be a reason for her happiness, even if he was not a part of it. He wanted to be part of her sadness, never the reason for it. He couldn't let things end this way. It would be wrong. Chagrined by these thoughts, he stepped back from the ledge where he stood. He moved back a few paces, he finally understood what he had to do.
And then he took a running start… And leapt… To his freedom…
I had just run away from my life…
I had just run away from my life…
