Ecstatic Failure

He sits looking at her. She's so beautiful. He reminisces how she came bursting through the door, as the bullet went through him. She grabbed him, she put him in the hospital, she took care of him, nursed him. He loves her, god he does, he loves her to the ends of the Earth and back. He wants to have her forever, he had her, he lost her. He thought he lost her because of his mistakes...but they weren't his...

The pain starts. It always starts like this. The bullet wound starts searing, burning, it's going red. Sometimes, he can stop it, sometimes, it just explodes. It's taking over, it's starting to explode...his vision is going, his temples are throbbing, he remembers...those nights when he cried for her, those nights he sat listening to their songs, those days when he called her and she abused him, the day he opened his email and cried for three hours...the day he cried...that was also his birthday...he cried for her.

The rage takes over. He doesn't know what he's doing, he's hearing sounds, he's saying things, he hears himself shout, he sees her crying but the rage, it's there. The wounds are searing so bad, he doesn't know what he's doing. He's lashing out at her, he's lashing out at himself and all he wants to know, all he cares about is why...why does he have those wounds, what did he do to deserve them? Why do they burn so sharply? Why did he get her when he gave her nothing and he got nothing when he gave her everything...why god damn it..why why why. That word consumes his mind, his body, his very essence of being. Why!?

He finally calms down. He sees the marks on her body, he sees the eyes wide in fright, but still filled with love, he sees the marks on his body...and that's when the tears start. She's curled up in a corner, afraid....of him. How does he explain to her that he's hurting because of her, that she's suffering for making him suffer so much! Why did she make him suffer, even she doesn't know. All he's known since he's known her, is deep, deep, complete devotion to her, and he has almost invariably suffered for it.

He approaches her, she winces. He tries again, he says those three words to her, he means them, she thinks he doesn't. He wants to be there for her, she thinks all he wants is to hurt her. He tells her he needs her. She tells him she can't be with him. She leaves.

The wounds sear again. He has no one left to lash out to...only himself. He lashes out one last time. This time, the peace is real and complete. It's pure, untouched. He won't feel anything again, no more pain, no more suffering, no more false guilt, no more love. There will only be...nothing.

The call has been made, she’s on her way.

I slowly put down the receiver of this old red telephone in my non-descript motel room. I knock the glass of water on the nightstand as I do so. It spills; it rolls and falls off the table.

I can identify with that glass. Spilling its insides wherever they may go, wondering who they will touch? Wondering if anyone will feel the contents of its soul on their skin, on their breath and appreciate them? Rolling aimlessly, mindlessly, rolling on only to fall off into the infinite abyss. I feel like I’m falling into the abyss too.

It falls onto that spoon I put on the floor. It seemed like a good idea to put it there. It hits the ball of the spoon, flinging it across the room.

I can identify with that spoon. Being flung across the floor, flung with such disgrace, discarded, degraded and humiliated. What for? I guess I’ll never know. Maybe I was just made to be used, humiliated and flung. Or maybe I was just a cog in a much bigger scheme, like that spoon.

The spoon hits the last ball on that little Newton’s cradle I put on the floor too. That seemed like a good idea as well. That cradle was a gift from her. The energy from the spoon moves through those little blobs, and the last one swings in the air.

I can identify with that cradle too, keeping all the energy inside, holding everything in, all the anger, all the rage, and finally letting it go. I am that last blob, swinging in the air, finally free, finally screaming out in agony, finally flying out.

That last blob hits the little block of wood on the floor. The block of wood....

It has our names carved into it with a heart around them. As cheesy at it was, it was one of the best afternoons we ever spent together. We carved that into a tree as thousands before us had done and thousands after us will probably do. I went to the park the day I found out about him and chiselled that little block out. I was going to burn it, but I didn’t. I guess this is a more fitting place for it anyway.

I can identify with that block of wood too, falling over as its hit. Absorbing all the energy from the cradle and holding it in till it can’t hold on anymore and falls backwards. I fell too...several times. I picked myself up each time, but I never managed to pick myself back up after the day I chiselled that particular block out of the tree.

The string that was held taught under the block of wood goes loose. It moves over the pulley on the ceiling and lets go of the weight it held tight, the weight hits and releases the safety on the gun that’s pointing towards me.

The door opens, the string from the knob to the trigger tightens a little, the door is forced open, the string tightens more and the trigger is pulled. She bursts through the door as the gun fires a single round into my chest.

“You’re late” I say.

“I know” she says as a silvery mist forms in her eyes.

"Tears....for me?..."

Everything slowly fades to black. I am at peace with the world now.