He lies on the Jester's cart - 2
Peace I seek within.
The stormy sea crashing against my chest shakes me while I stand still. The damp cotton of the pillow. My body seems to have lost its substance. My limbs have disappeared, I no longer have them. A trunk, then just my neck, and finally, all that remains are my eyes, staring at a gray, indistinct, opaque surface.
I am only myself as long as I can still think my name. I am air. A single breath. I could disappear, but I am still here. I wish I didn’t exist, but I can’t annihilate myself enough to fulfill this sweet desire. I could be with you now. Beneath the damp earth, in the dark. In the warmth of your arms and crying in the silence of you who are me, with me. And who left me here alone, believing I couldn’t make it. To go mad, drop by drop.
What’s normal is turned upside down, what’s familiar no longer exists. Life, plans, thoughts of the future. Me, smiling, waiting for you to come toward me, the summer sunset blowing through our hair, the sweetness of knowing we would share the beauty of things together, the simplicity of each morning, that constancy slowly becoming the foundation of my happiness. From here, I would build my future, my serenity. From here, the joys would bloom, adorning my neck like pearls on the most beautiful evening.
It’s true, and it was here, in these rooms. I still feel your scent, your clothes folded in the wardrobe, the change of clothes you’d need the next morning when you stayed the night, they’re there for you and for me. I dig my nails into my palms. Bit by bit, everything falls apart. It’s a world collapsing, silently, without raising dust, and the bricks sink into a white sea. I remain alone in the void. I have nothing to cling to, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have the strength to grasp it. An infinite room, the void surrounding me, and these quicksand pulling me down to my waist and leaving me there. To watch what happens without being able to move.
The silence is pure. Crystal-clear. The morning in the suburbs is an untouched gem. I open my eyes. The hours are still young. The light is blue, filtering through the blinds carelessly closed the night before. I laid here and here I remained. A worthless accessory, a new trinket in this concrete hole. I will come to hate everything that exists, even you, even you, if I don’t already hate you. If I don’t already scythe through the souls of everyone in front of me just to scream at you that I hate you, that if I’m here, it’s your fault. That I deserve to be happy with you, and I don’t deserve this punishment. I would tear your hair out, your skin, bite into your flesh, and tear you into a thousand tiny pieces, and each one would smile at me, love me, and I would cry, just as I am crying now.
It would be easier. Simple.
It would all be easier if you weren’t here with me now.
If you weren’t looking at me with those eyes as you lean against the doorframe of my room.
You appeared a few hours ago. As beautiful as I remember you.
You stand still and look at me. Your eyes are cold, you don’t smile at me like you always did, but you look at me.
You don’t speak.
I got up last night. To believe it was a dream, I reached out my hand, and you stepped back. Then, kneeling on the bed, closer still, and you stepped back again.
Can’t I touch you, Marzio?
Standing, facing each other like any ordinary day.
I step forward, and you step back.
This dream of flesh, slipping along my skin like a cold vibration, the numbness of sleep drifting away. I wait, I wait for the eternal seconds for your figure to blur, to disappear, to return where it belongs, in my mind, in the dream, in sleep.
I remain still in bed. Waiting. In vain.
It doesn’t happen. You stay there, still, motionless. As my limbs grow stiffer with each passing second. Compressed under the weight of fear. My mind coils around my spine, forcing it to arch. Resist, resist. And finally, admit it. You’re going mad. There’s no other explanation. You are here, inside me, so strong and vast that I cannot contain you. I project you outward to breathe, to leave an inch of space in my soul. Just enough to find a moment of peace.
And yet, you are so real. You are so close. You are so true.
What do those eyes mean, what are they hiding, what do you want to tell me with your presence?
I dive into them and sink until I surface on a placid lake whose waves are still in the storm, eternal and plastic. What dark secret are you hiding, you cannot scream to me.
What further pain are you asking of me, my love?
Leaving me alone wasn’t enough; you’re here for something more, to collect your dues. I remain fixed on the bed, without strength. And yet this makes me feel pleasure. Everything is over, but you are still here. Your eyes are cold, it’s true, but that’s your skin, your face, your white shirt. And I could stay here long enough to forget myself. It’s enough for me to know you’re watching me, and everything else can be forgotten, food, water, and, eventually, breathing. You will take me with you, we will leave through the door together, and go far away, wherever you want.
- Oh, the world is made of many things that we want, but you can’t have them all!
The voice is shrill, unpleasant. A surge of electricity courses through me, and my lifeless body trembles with fear in every fiber. The hairs on my arms and legs stand on end as if they want to escape.
I shift my eyes, then my head toward the window, arching in tension. Against the light, there is this small figure sitting on the desk, legs crossed, body leaning back, arms stretched out and resting on the surface. The hands are old, wrinkled, the long, bony fingers tapping the wood in jerky movements. Bells dangle from the tips of the hat, glimmering and reflecting the droplets of light seeping through the window. The costume is white, seemingly made of silk, and on the short torso, it splits into two symmetrical parts, one white and the other black.
I don’t see the face, and I’m not sure if I can’t, or if I don’t want to.
My Marzio is still there, I can feel him. He’s watching me.
- He’s not going to leave.
That raspy, sarcastic voice again, barely holding back from bursting into an evil laugh.
- He asked so insistently to return. And for the devil’s sake, he insisted, insisted, annoying! Annoying! —he slams his fists on the desk— He’s just a spoiled child. I told him he’s a spoiled child, but he kept insisting, insisting, crying, crying, —he says, mimicking wiping his eyes with his fists — And I asked, ‘What is it that you need to do? What is it you want to say?’ He told me. — There’s a long pause. —And I replied, ‘Alright, alright. Let’s go back.’ But there are rules to the game, otherwise there’s no fun! — he raises his finger and waves it in front of him.
I still can’t see his face, but I don’t move; I’m frozen, still, paralyzed.
- You understand I don’t have all this time to spare, I have many things to do. But you can’t refuse something like this. You can’t, because you have to know how to have fun while time passes. We’re not angels, we’re not perfect, we can’t always be strict and say no. Every now and then, you need a pastime. Every now and then, you need to find a distraction. Every now and then, you need to play.
He stands up on the desk. He’s barely over a meter tall, and now I can see his profile in the light.
He’s old, his face full of wrinkles. His nose is long, the tip droops down like a crow’s beak, and his ears are elongated, with long golden earrings hanging from the lobes.
- The first rule is that he can’t speak, — he says, pointing at Marzio —grinning crookedly.
- The second rule is that time is short.
- The third rule is — he stops. He gazes into the void, swaying forward on his ankles. He’s on the edge of the desk, arms outstretched, raising one foot behind him, teetering in precarious balance. — I have to go now, — he says, but I don’t see his mouth move. His arms rotate slowly. — But I’ll be back to talk to you again. After all, we haven’t even begun. But we’ll have fun, we’ll have fun together!
He laughs. A shiver runs through me, piercing my spine. I haven’t moved, yet it feels like I’ve been thrown into a centrifuge. The room sways before my eyes, and I have to grip the bedsheets to make sure I don’t fly away. I breathe. I’m still alive. I’m here. I breathe.
I turn.
Marzio is still there, standing motionless by the doorframe. He’s cold. It’s clear that he’s dead.
His eyes are ice cold. They hide something.
Copyright © The MaDMan, 2013. All rights reserved.
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Great stuff here. The introduction of the jester. I'm finding myself so entrenched in the prose I feel like I'm actually in the room to a degree of deep immersive thought. Bravo good chap! BRAVO!!!!
That's shattering, that someone would play with the bereaved and their memory of their dead loved ones. But then again, as I try to tie this chapter to the intro, I'm not so sure whether Marzio is actually dead. I shall read on and see :)