Lye Kissed to Water
Word Count: 2001
The words felt tinny, broken, oxidized and left in the deepest reaches of rain. Maybe they'd fade away, maybe the rust would reduce them to some shell of themselves. It felt like a curse, almost, stuttered and soft, to speak of such things in private.
But he repeated them. Splinters of bone sputtered out of his lips. Tired eyes reflected the misery. Nothing came of these words - no revelations, no overwhelming realization, no catharsis, no conclusions.
Just more silence afterward.
"Nineteen.
Piano.
Germany.
Reading.
Feelings."
"Nineteen.
Piano.
Germany.
Reading.
Feelings."
Everything deteriorated. Everything degenerated. Like those words, everything rusted into its own private oblivion. He wanted to give up those breathless echoes, to forsake this pointless mission branching into self-mutilation, to leave Richard's life and the lives of all those around him. But... What would come of it?
Alois is gone. Time to move on. Rest and remember the way things were. Rest and rejoice in the fading scent of cedar and fresh laundry.
Alois is gone. Bischofite is gone.
Trepidation is gone. Disgust is gone. Hatred is gone.
But he only repeated those few words once again, each dislodging a little more bone in their recital. Soon there would be nothing left of his skeletal structure, of his emotions - dulled, exhausted gaze lingered on the page, on the ivory white sheet, which stared back at him with the same five words he'd been repeating all this time. His five curses. His five methods of damnation. His five most prominent, human traits.
This was what confined him to humanity. All these things he had to defile should he ever attain the visage he always yearned for. But could he become a youma now, so long after his promotion? Richard knew the answer, didn't he? It lay in the way he shied away from Alois, treated him like a plague, shunned him to the darker reaches of his apartment. Oh, Richard knew. So was he biding his time for a moment to unravel his dreams, or did he simply understand that Alois needed time to oxidize, to deteriorate, to come unto these realizations on his own and fade into death? Did Richard know he didn't need to intervene?
And what else did he know? Those exhausted, red eyes - what other secrets did they harbor? What prying gazes did they reflect?
Maybe Richard understood his weaknesses. He knew that in biding his time, Alois would most certainly peel away in sheets of rust, and soon, there would be no more cause for fear. Richard knew how to wait out the storm. And he knew that, in doing so, in denying Alois those fleeting, ephemeral connections now and again, he hastened the process. In shying away, in blanching at his touch, in denying small graces, he gave the misanthrope a handful of nails.
And like a broken doll, unwavering in its obedience, Alois would construct his own coffin.
Was he bleeding now? Bony, ashen piano hands curled against his chest. His shirt. Contorted the fabric beneath their grasp, the endless sea of black that barred his access to rotting wounds.
Sepsis.
Yes.
This was sepsis.
It felt no different than love.
He cringed. Grimaced. Frowned. Shuddered. Coughed. Sobbed. His grip tightened, the shirt contorted in its capitulation to his despair-fueled siege, and he purged his despair in the form of wordless agony. The walls stayed silent, no Baldwin came, no answer lay in shaken, yearning glances about the room. Not in the photos, not in his eccentric furniture, not in the tiles spanning the entryway. Richard was not here, nor would he be here, nor would he come to the apartment out of some misplaced, romantic notion of requital.
Romanticism was an affliction of humanity.
What bones he had left failed to contain his breaths - each one eked out through stunted groans and long, churning laments. Even with arms to reinforce his ribs, nothing helped. Within his own grasp, he crumbled, rusted, decomposed under the weight of such a haunting truth. Nothing recognized him here - not the sun peeking through lazy curtains, not the warm colors spilling across the walls, not the dog waiting patiently for the arrival of his owner. He barely existed here, barely warranted recognition which only rent further pounds of flesh from him.
Soon he would weigh less than nothing. But would it matter? Did anyone care? Did the Negaverse care?
Did Richard care?
Biting back another seizing jerk, he struggled to maintain some semblance of composure. It didn't matter what it looked like, as long as he could function. Wasn't that all he could ask? He couldn't force the confectionist to look, to come home or see him as anything more than a cockroach peeling into his kitchen. He knew where he stood, just as Richard knew who he was, how he was, what he was destined to be.
Sometimes he whetted the page with those stains of despair, but as with everyone, even him, they passed in time. Nothing lingered, not even his regrets.
He started on the page, normally meticulous penmanship shake with the realizations that rattled through him.
Quote:
Richard,
Oh Richard.
This note may not reach you
______________in time
I may be gone when you read this.
I may be dead
But even I harbor a few dreams, a few
trite fantasies
just like the girl in the forest.
Just like you.
Even as a last favor, even through
I paid unto you, and I do not regret them,
please keep reading.
Do it because you know it will hurt me.
Do it because suffering is necessary. Because you want to pay me back in all the ways you never have. Because you owe it to Baldwin, who still looks to you loyally when you brought danger into his life.
When you brought anger and hate and sorrow into yours.
For he loves you, just like I did.
When we first met, the moon still peeled through the trees like a dying disease. Like a threat waning on the horizon. And you were there, you were ready to trounce Alois in that very power you were so sure of. And I liked that about you. You knew where solid boundaries lay. You knew, wholly knew that Alois could not surmount Buddingtonite's power.
And you were right.
But the one you encountered, the one who led you to a swift brush with mortality, was only Alois by proxy.
A new affliction, the dawn to the distant moon.
And maybe that's when it first fell into place, like a deadbolt sliding into its latch. Something fit there.
And that day you ventured your first roots into my life.
But this isn't a reflection of the past.
This isn't some
half-birthed revelation
to paint your heart colors anew.
This isn't a resuscitation
or a burial of sinew.
But would you believe me, a liar, a cheater, a deceiver?
Maybe in knowing yourself, you know me a little better.
Maybe in knowing me, you know yourself a little better.
But I digress.
You are a man with a facade unmatched, Richard.
Not by the White Moon.
Not by the leaders in the Negaverse.
Not by me.
You are of your own rank now. You are something so
That you have lost sight of yourself.
You must understand this. It is imperative.
It is my order to you,
from Bischofite to Buddingtonite.
You haven't seen yourself like I've seen you, in these short days
These few hours, spanned in sparse moments
When I could breathe you in some half-woken piece of time.
I took quiet solace in every touch you never made, all those words unsaid still hovering in the air like lingering static just after a lighting strike. Each breath singed, charged, electrified by you, no one else. And every thought unmade, every glance undone, every heart unbeaten spelled everything I wanted to say to you. All the praise I couldn't manage. Wouldn't manage.
Because I am a coward like you.
You may consider your facade a weakness, a curse, a punitive sign of your own impending demise.
But you mistake yourself here.
Richard, what you have now is your greatest asset. Your visage, that you covet so dearly, spells lies so naturally that it overwhelms me.
You don't know yourself like I do.
You never will.
And you will never feel what I've felt.
Not in these few passing days.
Maybe while you're reading this, I'm dying by your side. In your arms. At your behest. Maybe you found this while I was out someday, long before its time. Maybe someone passed it to you, long after its time. Maybe this message holds nothing for you. Maybe what I'm giving to you is your single greatest revelation, that final push you need to quit treading water and finally live in a way you've never known before.
Maybe,
someday,
you will be as free as me.
Maybe you will walk the earth in such comfort, in such assuredness, that you have the opportunity to enact all your ideals in ways you could finally appreciate.
I cannot wish for anything higher than absolute freedom for you,
Richard.
Buddingtonite.
You will take these words and you will move beyond me, beyond yourself, beyond everyone. You can change this world with your silver tongue, your golden smile. I can see it in your eyes sometimes. It's buried, faint, but still present. You haven't died yet, Richard.
But I cannot deny it now.
You're dying
And it hurts me as greatly as it hurts yourself.
Even while the tree withers,
the dirt at its roots succumbs to the same tired fate.
Maybe you're not reading this at all. Maybe this letter's been burned to ash.
And I am burying this letter with you. I want you to have it
Because I know you've wanted to hurt me all this time.
So this is it, Richard.
This is your chance.
With you, now, is the one weapon you will ever have against me.
This is your time. This is your power. This is your rule.
I give you the last of my humanity, the smoldering dreams of my youmafication. I give you my opinions of you, well-hidden in all the time I've spent with you. I give you permission to destroy me with my own weaknesses, given fully and knowingly.
Because I love you.
Oh Richard.
This note may not reach you
______________in time
I may be gone when you read this.
I may be dead
But even I harbor a few dreams, a few
trite fantasies
just like the girl in the forest.
Just like you.
Even as a last favor, even through
all those wrongs
I paid unto you, and I do not regret them,
please keep reading.
Do it because you know it will hurt me.
Do it because suffering is necessary. Because you want to pay me back in all the ways you never have. Because you owe it to Baldwin, who still looks to you loyally when you brought danger into his life.
When you brought anger and hate and sorrow into yours.
For he loves you, just like I did.
So please,
please
please
keep reading.
please
please
keep reading.
When we first met, the moon still peeled through the trees like a dying disease. Like a threat waning on the horizon. And you were there, you were ready to trounce Alois in that very power you were so sure of. And I liked that about you. You knew where solid boundaries lay. You knew, wholly knew that Alois could not surmount Buddingtonite's power.
And you were right.
But the one you encountered, the one who led you to a swift brush with mortality, was only Alois by proxy.
A new affliction, the dawn to the distant moon.
And maybe that's when it first fell into place, like a deadbolt sliding into its latch. Something fit there.
And that day you ventured your first roots into my life.
But this isn't a reflection of the past.
This isn't some
half-birthed revelation
to paint your heart colors anew.
This isn't a resuscitation
or a burial of sinew.
But would you believe me, a liar, a cheater, a deceiver?
Maybe in knowing yourself, you know me a little better.
Maybe in knowing me, you know yourself a little better.
But I digress.
You are a man with a facade unmatched, Richard.
Not by the White Moon.
Not by the leaders in the Negaverse.
Not by me.
You are of your own rank now. You are something so
glorious
That you have lost sight of yourself.
You must understand this. It is imperative.
It is my order to you,
from Bischofite to Buddingtonite.
You haven't seen yourself like I've seen you, in these short days
These few hours, spanned in sparse moments
When I could breathe you in some half-woken piece of time.
I took quiet solace in every touch you never made, all those words unsaid still hovering in the air like lingering static just after a lighting strike. Each breath singed, charged, electrified by you, no one else. And every thought unmade, every glance undone, every heart unbeaten spelled everything I wanted to say to you. All the praise I couldn't manage. Wouldn't manage.
Because I am a coward like you.
You may consider your facade a weakness, a curse, a punitive sign of your own impending demise.
But you mistake yourself here.
Richard, what you have now is your greatest asset. Your visage, that you covet so dearly, spells lies so naturally that it overwhelms me.
You don't know yourself like I do.
You never will.
And you will never feel what I've felt.
Not in these few passing days.
Maybe while you're reading this, I'm dying by your side. In your arms. At your behest. Maybe you found this while I was out someday, long before its time. Maybe someone passed it to you, long after its time. Maybe this message holds nothing for you. Maybe what I'm giving to you is your single greatest revelation, that final push you need to quit treading water and finally live in a way you've never known before.
Maybe,
someday,
you will be as free as me.
Maybe you will walk the earth in such comfort, in such assuredness, that you have the opportunity to enact all your ideals in ways you could finally appreciate.
I cannot wish for anything higher than absolute freedom for you,
Richard.
Buddingtonite.
You will take these words and you will move beyond me, beyond yourself, beyond everyone. You can change this world with your silver tongue, your golden smile. I can see it in your eyes sometimes. It's buried, faint, but still present. You haven't died yet, Richard.
But I cannot deny it now.
You're dying
And it hurts me as greatly as it hurts yourself.
Even while the tree withers,
the dirt at its roots succumbs to the same tired fate.
Maybe you're not reading this at all. Maybe this letter's been burned to ash.
Maybe you died
And I am burying this letter with you. I want you to have it
Because I know you've wanted to hurt me all this time.
So this is it, Richard.
This is your chance.
With you, now, is the one weapon you will ever have against me.
This is your time. This is your power. This is your rule.
I give you the last of my humanity, the smoldering dreams of my youmafication. I give you my opinions of you, well-hidden in all the time I've spent with you. I give you permission to destroy me with my own weaknesses, given fully and knowingly.
Because I love you.
When the pens ceased, the hand no longer shook, the tears no longer stained the page, he breathed a sigh of welcome exhaustion. It was done - the mistake was made. But he would not yet pass it to the one to destroy him. Not now, and not for a long time coming. Instead he carefully blew against the page, urging the ink to dry,
or perhaps dispersing the words across his breath, into the confines of Richard's apartment as an incantation long neglected. But nothing left the page, no rivulets of ink spilled away like his sorrows, staining the table beneath or the floors stricken with fresh, crisp carpet.
For mistakes undone were mistakes never made.
So Alois folded the page into thirds, sealed it within an envelope. He signed his name across the back in practiced hand, in a bookkeeper's hand, with the tittle atop the i spreading its stains across the envelope.
And Alois stood with it, this simplistic, utterly plain representation of all things left unsaid, and he took it upstairs. The banister creaked, the stairs popped under his presence. Wood settled. Feelings settled. Dust settled.
And in the guest room, nondescript and bereft of any sign of his company there, stood both barren and ready to receive his burdens. So she shut the note in the top drawer of the dresser, still coated with a fine film of dust, still bearing no sign of use. Maybe Richard would never find it here. Maybe Richard would find it tomorrow.
But he took that chance.
