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From the Heart -- Part 2 Was From the Heart too sad? Here, cherubs, let Aunty Janet make it all better. Sort of. *Demonic laughter* To Set the Heart at Rest (alternative title is Bleeding Heart) I couldn�t sleep last night. It was barely past midnight when I went to bed, and I�m not used to dropping off that early. But ofcourse that wasn�t the real reason for my wakefulness. The scene with Steve in the bar keeps replaying itself in my mind. I keep remembering the shock, like a douse of cold water, of finding out what he really thinks of me. I�ve taken plenty of insults before, heard all the crude names, but I never thought to hear them from Steve of all people. And no-one else in the world could hurt me with them as much as Steve. I�ve always known that he was inaccessible to me, but I never realised until last night just how much. Not until I heard him say the word �pansy�. He accused me of taking him for granted. Of not getting my priorities right. If only he knew what my priorities really are, and how little I could ever take him for granted. But ofcourse, that�s what I�ve taken pains to prevent him finding out: why add humiliation to futility? Taken too many pains, perhaps. Alternating with rage and despair, I feel guilt. Do I really come across as treating my bandmates off-handedly? Other people, admittedly, but surely never them, the most important people in the world to me. Have I feigned casualness so well that it looks like indifference, or am I just thoroughly selfish? It�s all too confusing. I thought I knew where I stood. That I�d established a balance which, if not wholly satisfactory, I could live with: three best friends, platonic and accepting of each other�s proclivities, and if there was more going on under the surface than there appeared to be, then no-one needed to know about that but me. But last night my assumptions were shaken. Have I unwittingly stretched friendship to its limits, risking losing more than friendship? Has Steve�s easy tolerance been no more than a facade all along? There�s no point lying here looking at the ceiling. I need activity, something mindless and energetic to absorb my restlessness and tire me to the point where I may finally be able to sleep. I�ll get dressed and go for a walk. As I pass Steve�s door, I briefly consider knocking, going in and asking him what lay behind last night�s outburst, seeking a calm and honest appraisal of how he regards me. But now isn�t the time. He wouldn�t appreciate being woken early, to pestering and a hangover. I have no idea what time he got back to the hotel last night, or indeed whether he�s yet returned at all. And how can I discuss any of this with him without revealing more than I want to show? The clock says five-thirty in the morning. I�ve been awake at this hour before, but never sober and on my way from bed, rather than to it. Outside the light is pearly. Except for a few late night revellers heading home, and more temperate types on their way to early jobs, the streets are empty. It�s a good time to walk and brood. I manage to tire myself with fast walking enough that, when I come to a small park by the river, I�m grateful to rest on a bench. Watching the Red River drift by, I think about how we too constantly move on through cities. Later this morning we�ll take the road out of New Orleans. Memories of us will linger in the minds of a few concert-goers; but what tangible part of us will remain behind to be absorbed into the earth of the city? "Brian?" I turn with a start towards the voice near my shoulder. It takes me a few bleary seconds to place both voice and face, although those green eyes are not easily forgotten: Zillah, from the bar last night. Hovering a little distance behind him are two strangers, tall and heftily-built, dressed in a style hinting at a goth-punk fusion. The sight of Zillah brings a flood of mixed feelings, and memories which I�d briefly succeeded in blotting from my mind: the pleasure of a vivid conversation, spiced with coquetry; the ugliness of the scene that followed. My desire to be alone right now. My desire to have someone to talk to. "I didn�t think I�d find you here so early," he says. "You were having a pretty good time last night; I would have thought you�d be in bed till noon." "I could say the same to you," I retort. "Oh, I haven�t been to bed yet. I spent the small hours doing a lot of drinking." It doesn�t show. He looks bright-eyed and fresh, brimming with vitality. I wish I could say the same for myself. "My friends," he indicates the two who are watching us, "are on their way to get some breakfast, and, helpless creatures that they are, they need me to help them find it." He takes in my probably woeful appearance--smeared makeup, eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep--and adds "Why don�t you join us? You look as if you could do with some strong coffee at least." I waver between the need for companionship to lift me out of my brooding, and reluctance, in my present raw and vulnerable state of mind, to attempt small talk with strangers. "I wouldn�t want to foist myself on your friends," I hedge. "I�m not much of a breakfast companion at the best of times." Zillah looks thoughtful. He turns to his friends and says, "Molochai, Twig. Go play on the swings or something. I want to talk to Brian." "Oh, hurry up, Zillah," says the round-faced one in a tone of childish petulance. "I�m hungry." Zillah gives that flick of the wrist that means �Go away and don�t bother me.� "Patience, Molochai, patience." With reluctant obedience the two large men stalk over to the children�s playground, where within minutes they�re squealing and giggling on the swings and slides. For some reason the sight of two big guys being bossed around by a little one brings an odd sense of deja vu, but I don�t have time to think about that because Zillah is sitting next to me on the bench. His beautiful face, close to mine, is arranged in an expression of sympathy. "At the best of times, you said. So I�m guessing that this isn�t the best of times?" he asks gently. "And I don�t mean just because you�re a bit tired or hungover. You seem despondent; something�s bothering you, isn�t it?" He seems kind, and I know him to be charming. It wouldn�t hurt to confide in him a little. No need to give the details or to explain just why it�s bothering me so much. "Oh...well...it�s just that I had a row with Steve last night after you left the bar. He seemed to think I was a poor sort of friend. He said..." I think about a lot of things that Steve said. Self-pity wells up inside me and to my horror I can feel my chin start to tremble. "He said I take my friends for granted. But I...I love my friends...I�d never..." If I say any more the words will come out as a sob. I look away in embarrassment, but a hand cups my cheek gently and turns my face towards Zillah�s. Some emotion shines softly in his eyes. "Poor Brian," he murmurs. His other hand is stroking my hair. It�s so seductive, this gentleness; I could fall into it like a feather bed, burying myself in softness and drawing the quilts around me to hide from all my problems. Zillah would offer me all the sympathy and understanding I deserve. He draws my head down onto his shoulder, rocking me like a baby. "Poor Brian," that husky voice is saying, "ofcourse you do. Ofcourse you love them. And I�m sure you act very lovingly and affectionately towards your friends." And Zillah is my friend. I�m not a fool, I know he�s putting the make on me. So what? If I were to take him up on it, what then? Steve certainly wouldn�t care, he doesn�t give a damn about me in that regard. I could be the slut he accuses me of being, maybe that would make him happy. Or just confirm his opinion. I could damn myself forever in his eyes, shatter any respect he has left for me, let alone the chance of any deeper feelings. But what chance was there ever of that anyway? There wouldn�t be any need for Steve to know. But I�d know. You go looking for someone to spread your legs for while your real friends are supposed to wait. Your real friends, he said. Like him? I sit up and wipe my eyes, pulling away from Zillah. I�ve carried my feelings in my heart for this long, in silence and self-denial. I can carry them a bit longer. If Steve is my friend--my real friend--I can make do with that. But I have to make sure I at least have that much. "I really ought to go back to the hotel," I say. "The sooner I can iron things out with Steve the better I�ll feel. We�ll have a good talk about it and move on from there." Zillah�s smile is bright and cold. "Lovely," he says quickly. "But not on an empty stomach. You don�t want to go having serious discussions with people when you�re hungry and thirsty. It does terrible things to the temper. Come with us first and we�ll have breakfast." There can�t be much harm in that. And he�s right: I�m gagging for a cigarette and a coffee. "Alright," I say. "Thanks." He raises his voice. "Molochai! Twig!" They scamper over like puppies. "Brian is coming with us for breakfast." Their obvious delight at this news would be flattering if I didn�t realise that they�re just glad they�re finally going to eat. They giggle when Zillah tells us he knows the perfect place to go for a bite--open twentyfour hours and never too crowded. We follow him to a walled lane leading to one of the old courtyards that are so common in New Orleans. On entering the yard, I�m first puzzled, then disturbed. There�s no sign here of a cafe, restaurant or patisserie--not so much as a tea-stall. Instead we�re surrounded by blank walls and boarded-up windows. But it�s not until my arms are grabbed from behind that I know something is really wrong. "My babies," I hear Zillah�s voice say. "You�ve been patient for so long, and now you shall be fed." Then there�s a dark heavy shape on top of me, pinning me down; I�m smothered in darkness and weight and hair and snuffling noises and a strange heavy coppery smell and it hurts...I don�t understand...the weight on top of me bucks and thrusts with the regular rhythm of a pulse: it�s like the act of sex with pleasure turned to pain, an orgasm of pain that goes on and on with no coming down... ...until the pain floats away. It all floats away, the smell and the noises and the fear. Or perhaps it�s me whose floating. I�m somewhere between darkness and light; the darkness is behind me, the light is ahead. I�m not quite ready to move on yet. This place is some sort of hallway between the dark and the light. A lot of people have passed through here, I think; there�s a sense of presences lingering, like perfume after the wearer has left the room. Someone was here quite recently, hovering while they waited to move on, someone whose distress was deep enough to have remained printed on the air. I can almost hear their voice--not a physical voice, not a product of lips and tongue and larynx, but a vibration of the mind or the soul, unique and personal as a fingerprint. It�s familiar. "I�m sorry," it sobs. "I�m sorry, I�m sorry, I�m so sorry." Poor voice, I want to comfort it, it sounds so heartbroken. An image forms of the object of these apologies--not a picture, but the sense of an identity. Me? And now the voice is more than familiar. I know to whom it belongs. More words shape themselves in my mind. Echoes. "I didn�t mean it." "Forgive me." "I love you." He�s not here now--these are only memories he left behind for me--but somewhere up ahead he�s waiting for me. Time for me to move on. I reach the light and find his presence there--not a memory, this, but the real thing, the essence of him. No need for explanations. We understand now--everything that needs to be understood. We fold into each other, merging. The light is all around us. The End Cheesy, I know--that ending is almost as cliched as "And then I woke up and found it was all a dream." It occurred to me that now Steffi will be lonely and I'd have to write a trequel and kill him off as well *more demonic laughter* Prev Home |