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frabjous-fragment · 1 year

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fragment #23

there aren't enough fish in the sea

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frabjous-fragment · 2 years

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revised this one a bit, was fucked in the head when i wrote it (like with most of these) but i thought it was worth polishing up and making more clear. if you read it: 1. wow really? 2. hope you enjoy

fragment #22

REDEMPTION

It was an evil premise from the start. Of all the lies I told myself, I was at least honest about that. What I had planned was vile, wicked, and there would be no sympathy for me from the decent majority. But even now, I think it was just.

Can those two be in agreement, evil and justice? I think it's a premise that is owed at least a brief consideration; all of the good men back to Jesus and before are very clear that the moral, socially constructive thing to do is let it go, move on. Meanwhile, Hammurabi was among the first of tyrants, and he prospered through the institution of a code of justice that, though barbarian, is arguably more justified than much of what governments today do.

But only some of us get to move on. Some of us win. Some of us cheat and backbite and lie and steal and wound our way to our happy ever after. Some of us try to do things the right way, and it just doesn't give. You don't get up to nearly what they took from you. You wait 3, 5, 10, 15 years for karma to sort it out; it never does.

It never does because karma isn't for the living. It's not for you. It's another abstraction of the fundamental truth that spiteful action makes society worse off in the long run. The idea that being good benefits you is an easy conclusion to come to when you have kids and loved ones to carry on your legacy. What if you have nothing? What if it was taken from you? What if you were stripped so bare that nothing was left to grow?

And I really tried, you know? I didn't think about it for months at a time. I didn't feed it. It grew by itself, between my miserable life and the knowledge of what I lost. Every time, the comparison grew more and more terrible. I never recovered. I was never going to. I was becoming this distortion of myself, not who I was, fixated on returning, returning, returning to a version of me that could move on and be myself instead of carrying an atrocity tattooed to my pulsating ventricles. What I wanted wasn't revenge. What I wanted was redemption.

…

I hated looking at it. I had given in to evil- it was just so easy-, but not to sadism. I had resolved to myself I would take no joy in the act. It was simply what had to be done. I had placed it in the glove compartment for reasons other than safety, which I didn't care about. Wouldn't matter soon.

I was always a pretty good driver, able to maintain my focus as I thought, especially along long stretches of empty highway, even at night. It's why I had elected to drive at night and sleep in the day. I bought hotel stays, because fuck it, money wouldn't matter soon either; might as well enjoy some part of this.

As I drove up there across the country, I played scenarios over and over in my head about how things could happen. What would he do? How would he react? Hundreds of times I visualized the immediate aftermath, desensitizing myself to the guilt, how destroyed Mark would be, more hurt than even I ever was. Every time, I exhaled and released the thought, able to keep it in longer and longer, like a drag from the blackest cigarette, until finally a rationalization clicked in. I wasn't doing this for Mark, after all. Mark deserves better, of course. But Mark didn't care about me when it mattered, so why should I care about him? This was for me, so I could be free. I had come to this conclusion because I couldn't fool myself into thinking I was helping Mark somehow.

I had it narrowed down to a short road with twenty houses on it. Luther was a bit harder, but all these years later I could still pick out Mark's face for sure. I'd watch one of them leave for work in the morning and know which house it was. I'd sleep in the day in my car. Then I'd spy on them through the windows, wait for Luther to leave the house, and just do it.

I was thinking so hard about the whole thing that there was no build up of anticipation as I drew closer. I just realized I was coming to my last few turns and the car rolled to a stop. Thank God, honestly. Soon as I could twist my keys out of my car for the last time, I cracked open the door to let out the heat of Hell that was baking me, and caught my breath in the open air.

It was such a beautiful neighborhood. I always hated the suburbs, but I would have been happy to live here. Something about it just felt right, like people actually went outside and existed in a common place. Maybe it was just that the climate wasn't an oven, like where I lived. I remembered the listing I had seen during my research. Four bedrooms, man. What were they doing with four bedrooms?

I remembered this life could have been mine. I nearly cried.

…

I was home. It felt so wrong, and so right. I felt like I was going to get caught. But there was nobody to catch me. This was all for me, life with my lover. And after all, I had managed to spend my birthday, March 13, with him, somehow, just like I'd always wanted.

"Oh yeah, it's Daylight Savings," he said. "Remember to turn the clocks back." How could I forget? Besides, everything's automatic now, even the damn microwave.

I walked from the foyer, laden with ornamentation and attention to detail beyond my capability, into the kitchen, by its little glass table, where Mark sat, using his phone. Photos of our younger selves ran across the digital photo frame. They badly needed to be updated.

"Hello, cutie," Mark chuckled. "Why's that dumb look on your face? You're not dumb."

I mumbled something about how I just remembered how much I really loved him, gone from my memory soon as it had come out. He seemed to like it.

I fluttered into the living room the same way I had fluttered into the kitchen, and let the warm feeling of cozy familiarity with the space come over me. I put on that bullshit corny romantic ballad music that only I like. Before I knew it, I was dancing like a fool. Mark joined me. Neither of us needed to speak. I could see on his face how much he enjoyed watching me idolate, how much it meant to him. We danced and swayed together, half solemnly; I recalled how in Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid, the titular character dances for the prince "as no one yet had been able to dance", though her feet bleed with every step, only to be rejected in the end. Then the song was over, and I was in his lap, holding and being held.

I clung tightly and confessed the truth I always wanted to, my eyes tearing up from experience relived. How Luther had manipulated him, lied about conversations Luther had with me, struck at moments of emotional vulnerability, played off his fears. How he didn't do it for any sort of genuine concern, if he was truly honest with himself, but because he loved him. He knew we were going to move in together soon and he needed to stop it if he were going to have any chance of the life he wanted. He created conflict and jumped in on his need to have someone to live with, moving in closer and closer from his position of advantage.

None of it mattered nearly as much as I wanted it to. Mark shrugged. "Nothing to do about it now, Luther. I'm so happy with you."

Nothing to do about it now.

…

The clocks turned back, and everything was as it had been, and as far as I knew, always would be. It was March 14, 1:00 AM, and I was with my lover on my birthday. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the intruder peering in on us, eyes full of hate, because I had what he wanted. My heart seized, and I nearly choked over my words.

"Mark, you have to listen to me. This is all my fault. We have to stop him. He wants to tear us apart-"

"Shhhh." Mark put his perfect hands on my face, and helped me wipe away the tears. It felt so nice.

"Please, you have to listen," I tried again. "He's right there, right behind you. He wants- I deserve it, you can still-"

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Liar; he already had.

…

I watched with senses cold as the life drained out of me, out into the loveless dark. My time was running out.

The window was foggy and soundproof, but I didn't need to see or hear much to realize in my mind that I was the intruder now; that I was not a need forever taken, but completely substituted. To shatter the glass would be to snuff out the flame built on the embers of something I once believed. It was too late for us, and too late for me.

But it wasn't too late for my redemption. In fact, I had a better idea. And it would only need one bullet. I emptied the rest out, and waited for a few more seconds.

As I peered through the window, Mark's lover and I finally locked eyes.

Real or imagined, Mark's love is washing over me for one last time. I am removing the safety and cocking the pistol.

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