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As spontaneous as I wish to believe it to be, I cannot ignore the circumstances that produce insight. At least this one. Primarily it is time, time to think and time to be. Away from constant meddling. When the insight came to me, or was rearing its disruptive head in the depths of my mind, it had consumed me. Irony, irony, and more irony! It had seemed more frustrating than anything any other thought I had. Almost as frustrating as her. But the way it hurt me was unique. It wasn’t some fickle preoccupation. It wasn’t a progressively heavier burden that I learned to flick, throw, heave off of me until it was inevitable to join the perpetually impending landslide that has become my life. It was tangible, not something to be isolated anywhere. It wrapped me wholly, caressing me with unprecedented tenderness. And that’s the problem. Why would I be bothered?
Time. Permanence. Monotony. That’s why. All novel concepts. It’s not that I’m dying, but I felt that I finally did, not in a glamorous fashion but a core part of me had shriveled in imperceptible progressions, and in its vanity there is a void, that time and time again I feel an urge to fill. That core part is… I’m still not certain, perhaps I never will be. The certainty is that I was dying, and had died. Ahhhhh…! That is ridiculous. It is the vitality of my mind and …body that has caused this.
So we start from the beginning. The first beginning I have ever experienced, and that was moving to this apartment. We made some grand promises to languish under the same pitiful arguments and emotional whims, and now what? What am I supposed to do? In this microcosm there is only a certain number of ways she can express her discontent, and a certain number of ways I can supplicate, and a certain number of ways I can drink and beat her. And worst of all, there is only a certain number of times I can tell the same lies. I was blaming her, and then I said so severely, that I had done everything! What a ridiculous thing, to have declared an ego death by finally submitting to her. I kept that lie for a while. Apathetic as one wishes, there is nothing as apathetic as the arguments that we had, which I felt provoked to engage with every time. As that didn’t work I blamed myself, a lapse in character, and everything she had said was correct, and that I had truly not done enough. This belief was much more sustainable, and for a long time (which was only half a year!), I held onto it with constancy. The first insane irony properly exposes itself. How can I, somebody who had been perpetually swept away by the crazy shit that she did, not particularly by force, but by some culmination of habit and love, want to protect some constancy in the face of monotony? This puzzled me so severely, but mostly unconsciously. But nothing happened, for that good half a year. Also ironic. It’s like for my mind to find itself it needs to be incubated by the most perfect circumstances. But I will return to that. Nothing happened until something happened.
She got pregnant. And that is the trivial part. She came back from the abortion clinic late, and woozy from the anesthesia she crashed onto the couch. And I was drunk, but even that could not suppress my regret for not having accompanied her. Was I concerned for the reprimanding I could receive for such a mistake or was I concerned for her wellbeing? And when she spoke so tranquilly, I convinced myself that moment it was the latter. In her moment of weakness, seeing her pitiful figure on the couch, I did not know what to do. Of course, she had cried, and came seeking my assistance far more times than I could count. But all those times there was either a ferocious or conceited bite to her words. First I gave my sardonic remarks, as usual, but she just giggled. No obscenities, no violence, not even movement. I stopped drinking then because of this miraculous sight. I wished consciously (another miracle) that I wasn’t drunk, another first in a long time. I sat next to her staring at her complexion for a long time. As per her usual playfulness she had washed off the concealer on the way to the clinic, exposing two prominent albeit fading bruises. My gaze was often funneled towards them. One looked like a grotesquely scattered galaxy of stars, all of them drifting toward the yellowing fullness of, a moon? Not to mention that I had bought the concealer for this specific purpose. She had once again played a cruel trick which I had to resolve the day after, but at the time how little I cared! Who am I to resent her when here before me was someone completely different, possessing the same memories and tendencies, but ineffably different. I didn’t even have the resolve to touch her. How unjust it is for someone so wretched to regain their innocence under such conditions. Innocence in my mind, for it is clearly a muddied and relative metric. Awkwardly I did not know what to do, but in her stupor she found it instinctual to pull my arm into her bosom. I could not believe my eyes when I perceived a shift in her expression from a perpetual scowl to something that was not. Some resting expression that did not indicate a shred of discontent or superficiality. I could not breathe, in fear of disturbing her. And when had I been so delicate? When have I initiated such a precious moment as such? She has done and provided everything of value to my life even if I believe I hated it. With these thoughts I began to cry, quietly choking, and laid beside her falling asleep.
Next morning it was apparent that the clinic had incorrectly dosed the anesthetic, and as irritable and hungover as I was she was similarly sedated. It happened to be one of the few break days I got, but I still woke up early by habit.
…
Remembering this is not particularly easy. It is the kind of thing that would make me feign weakness for her company, but now, it's something that would disgust me to think of that. But I must remember, that is my purpose.
So I clambered into the bed next to hear, like how I have done so many times in my life. She was still asleep. She had been for an abnormally long time. First I wrapped my arms, very gingerly, around her. There was no response. So light was my contact that I could not even feel her breathing. So I constricted my arm. Almost imperceptible, I noticed a slight undulation in her chest. How relieved I was! Or maybe not. Do I know what I feel now, after all that is done and all I have thought about. I think I was relieved that she was alive, but more relieved was that so shallow and feeble the breath was to indicate she could not perceive me. She must not perceive me.
First her jeans. Or jorts? I feel like she’d find that word stupid. Obscenely short, purely for the sake of my attention. I remember that despite having looked at it many, many times (she’s more clever than I give her credit for), I had not noticed what it would actually be like to wear it. And just how incredibly uncomfortable it felt, partially due to its state of wear, but also just the tightness. The tension in the zipper was palpable.
Next was the underwear. I very much remember thinking (happened a lot for what was going on) that it was strange of her to flaunt her bras much more than her panties. That was strange. Its not like its my first time seeing them, but the mind finds manifestations of its demons whenever its the most fucking convenient. Blankly, I stared at them. It must have looked really stupid. What is better, to falter in the process of doing something unspeakable, or to do with absolute conviction? And then I remembered how much I hated being a weaselly bitch. It was progress, insane progress, that made me aggressively rip it off. Not expecting what I saw. I forgot there was still something else in the way, and again after a very difficult short pause I ripped the pad off of her too. Blood was caked absolutely everywhere, though what was I expecting? And then I could have just proceeded then, and I had just unzipped my pants when I saw her face and torso again. What would she say if she woke up right now? Reprimand me for being a “cockbrain”? Clearly, it didn’t feel justified if she didn’t. With great rapacity I bounded to take her shirt off, but a shirt is not exactly easy to extract from a person who is lying down in a bed. I tugged, then relented. Such vacillation if caricaturized could’ve fit well into a cartoon. Trying strategy, with great care propped up her torso, making sure to not disturb her, and proceeded to wrangle with the fabric with a new angle. It is so ungodly difficult, taking the shirt off of an unconscious person. I went to the kitchen to get a knife. No, I stepped maybe one and a half steps towards the kitchen, remembered what blades and Ashley meant, and stopped.
Something, I don’t want to give an elaborate metaphor for, began gathering in my body. It needed reprieve. I held it, dear god, I held it on for the solid ten more minutes I needed to finish this job. Then I collapsed into her tits. Please, Ashley wake up! Is probably what a part of me was screaming. And another part was carefully crafting a useless argument of I was only falling from exhaustion at the angle where I happened to stand… and then she would obviously ask why were you taking my clothes off??? Now I know, but I didn’t think that far before. But since I’m in the shower so many retorts fly in my mind! Something something because it was itching my skin (piss poor attempt) something I saw a blemish on your skin I wanted to take a better look at (still terrible) something something To take a look at how much weight you’ve gained (somehow the best one, but are you even trying?).
Oh yeah, and there was still one more obstacle I had to remove. Without lifting my head I unclasped her bra. Sliding it from under my nose I inhaled longingly. And then I turned my head while I tangled to smell it again for good measure. And then I turned my head back to savor the source. Then, once again I thought, god damn the skin here is spotless! Not a single bruise nor cut. Untainted, in some arbitrary otherworldly standard that defines who we are, we I am. And because of that it felt so forbidden, like it was a coveted view through a peephole again. I had forgotten just how coveted it was.
I laid on her body for quite a while. I shifted my weight over slightly, as to not hinder her already compromised breathing. My skin tingled with trepidation. My inhibitions and desire fought each other, exacerbated by inertia, and then I eventually made the most monumental step in removing my own clothes. At this point I had, in my physical perception, achieved an unprecedented intimacy. It was not rushed, still partially clothed, and it was not with awkward, forced, courting. The unpleasant memories that remained on her body, and those same two bruises that remained on her face, they were far removed, bygone memories of battles that I have now conquered. While I had all the control, more explicitly than ever before, I still felt absolutely helpless. My skin further tingled with trepidation, or is it now acceptable to call it anticipation? Satisfying its call only left me with more… just more. Wanting more, being more.
Then suddenly, my next recollection was of the awful texture inside of her, simultaneously desiccated and sodden.
And then I was in the shower, much like now.
…
Later, as per habit I began to roll a cigarette. Nothing else was much the same, though. I felt an urge to step outside to smoke, the second time in this apartment, the first time being when she was sick with pneumonia.
I think, and this is the haziest part of my memory, because there was nothing to reinforce it, this is when I began to panic over her reaction. Did I cover up my tracks enough? Did she retain some consciousness that she could not express, and experienced all of that? She didn’t, or at least didn’t mention it in the slightest. I had gotten away with it, but I didn’t know that at the time. So I did fret a lot, I am sure of it. Standing in a pathetically small square “balcony” allocated for the floor, I finished one and immediately began rolling another one.
But this time, my tongue was dry and in frustration to properly seal tilted my gaze just a little bit askew, watching the previous butt tumble into an infinitesimal dot, onto busy streets fathoms below, contemplating the discolored sky, the eternally dismal constant, looking at the faded claw marks that showed extension into my cautiously guarded forearm, all of these, but the things that were absent, my overt intoxication, with alcohol and with her, now with the last impression being such a pacificity, and a lack of distractions like a dead-end job, there was just me.
What am I?
What I could not accept despite my inclination to do so was the perpetual disappointment I had shielded off of myself. And goddamn it, it is clear as day in such situations I do a kink for me to be clawed. For what kind of acceptance and love would it be if somebody did not remind me of just how awful I am? I could feign to accept my weaknesses, but never actually deign to do so. I am, and always was, too cowardly.
Of course these thoughts did not come immediately. It was a formative experience, progress but not the insight itself. Unlike previous horny, inebriated, paternal, brotherly, indignant outbursts, I just slumped over on the railing and closed my eyes. In this awkward position I tried to loosen my muscles, giving way to potentially falling over, and god I realized how much tension I had. Not particularly surprising, but just when I felt almost satisfied, I began to slip. The tension reclaimed me, and all the brash cynicisms came flooding back. It seemed, at that moment, all progress had been lost
After this I would say my self-concept had remained relatively unaffected. But aside from that, a strange development had been initiated, a rather innocuous one. For starters, it was probably the first time I did not drink heavily before or after the sex. I had grown enough of a spine to handle the event without either retrograde or anterograde amnestics. Or, at the time I had felt that this was a progress deeper into self-pity, given that I no longer had the strength to resist her, both physically and conceptually. But these conjectures turned out to be ill fitted when I gradually found myself incapable to smoke anymore, as it perpetually reminded me of this internal altercation. That, but also since I had suddenly acquired a habit in actually ruminating without the constant considerations of her nor mundane affairs. Even after she tossed the tobacco pouch at me (the second time) and we had a terrible verbal altercation, I still did not relapse. My sober consciousness finally began to emerge.
I wouldn’t classify these initial thoughts as insight. I only thought for the sake of observation and information collection. Continuing this trend, for the next good couple of months (and yes, time did begin to pass oddly quickly), there was a greater inclination to use my English major. The most useless investment of my time, had quickly transformed into a last ditch effort to rectify my self-conflict. Those terrible couple months were spent further driveling to myself regarding the hopelessness and oh so unsalvageable life of Andrew Graves. Indeed, how could I not think these things when it was all she told me? And so much did I learn about the chasm between knowing and possessing knowledge. I knew everything I needed to help myself in a multitude of ways that I rejected, but I failed to possess it because I’m a passive bitch. Those lessons that I have gotten to know, even in that run down university, had bountiful insight to the shit that was going down in my life. But alas, I didn’t use it. The shame I felt now, although paltry to what I was trying to rectify, is truly palpable, when I remember the thoughts that percolated in my mind. The thoughts weren’t particularly unjustified, though…
The magnitude of comparisons I had made of my life to the greatest works of the English language, of which I swore and proved to understand. I would go on and consider the rigidity of society, and how so many standards are imposed based on them. There are things to be assumed, and rules to be followed, and when they are not, the reactions are expected, but perhaps challenged very lightly, like a bureaucracy reprimanding one of its corporate benefactors, but nothing as deviant as what I had done with her. In fact, I had accumulated and refined a mental list of the unspeakable crimes that I we have committed, and I told myself the most critical of which I have almost never read about, and needless to say never seen a depiction of redemption:
- Theft of all kinds
- Incessant murder
- Satanic rituals
- Rape, but neither side would find it in the depths of hell to admit it
- Consciously taboo incest of siblings
- Cannibalism
And I hated that I was correct, for the most part. But what I hated more was that this frankly wasn’t enough to cover some elephant in my heart that evaded criminal classification. It is almost pointless to empathetically understand the perspective of a true schizoid. To simply be ignorant of the truth at a baseline level of perception, that is a deep level psychological problem. However, can I accept that classification, despite all the viscerally human things I experience? Reading Pride and Prejudice was an assignment, but remembering it and comparing it to my life was quite the surreal experience. What do you mean that there were expected ways to raise children and family? What do you mean by “proper education”? What do you mean there are events to facilitate the healthy interaction between young adults? What do you mean by the oppression of marriage? Then I tell myself that these were rich aristocrats. But so what? What is the difference between them, rich, well mannered, educated, and me? In the muck of it all I still know enough to make the same mistakes. Lie to loved ones, make a mess of things unknowingly, receive blame where it hurts most, and struggle. For the longest time I could not see past just those initial impressions, no matter what books I pondered or what I tried to make of them. Such a shameful struggle, but a monotonous one.
And that is all there is to recall. Standing in the shower, repeating now rather rigid and repetitive motions over my eternally damned body, I believed myself to have realized quite suddenly: both eternal and damned are not necessarily true classifications. Why must I be judging my life as if it progressed on a screen in front of me, believing I had some superficial obligations and life to return to? There is only her. The insight is that I was just shy of being correct the last half of a year. I had just passed over the experiences and evidence, and I cannot help but smile. I am shuddering in reluctant expectation. For what am I doing here, now with possibly the most perfect life just within grasp? What does a man need? Liberty to take advantage of society’s benefits, sexual gratification, candid company, food, and drink. Of which I have all of. I feel that this would be especially true if I were to support her endeavors in robbing victims, obtaining more resources for greater liberty.
To not hazard actions in fear of failure is already so fucking pathetic. But feigning not to hazard undesirable thoughts, clinging onto pernicious ideals of control… jeez, what the fuck have I been doing with my life… Or is it what my mother had done? But blame is unimportant now. It is so clear I had created an illusory comfort, pierced by just a single obsession gone foul. Or it has just never been immersive as it has been foul for the past twenty years. Took me long enough to figure it out. There is again great irony in how an anxious self-containedness works every way against a candid self-concept. Man can run away from everyone except himself, of which he oftentimes will resort to engaging with abusively for the rest of time. Except “himself” is projected entirely onto her. Or really it's both myself and her. Ha, that traditional wisdom still stands; polyamory is innately dysfunctional. But seriously, what do I want from myself, specifically myself? A bit of consistency would be nice. I am so sick and tired of lying to myself. I am far past the age where my emotional responses and tendencies can be greatly altered. At the ripe age of twenty-three, I had a midlife crisis, I surely did, except I am actually young enough to help myself. HahaHAHA! That brat aggressively lazing outside the restroom door had been considerate enough to show me exactly all her problems before we turned forty. Twenty-three… doesn’t the human brain continue developing until twenty-five? I had stopped smoking, and was sober for a day and a half. It took the very peak of my intellectual function to comprehend this simple conundrum?
I, Andrew Graves, charge myself with the following:
- Being, in all possible regards, inexorably obsessed with my sister
A one for all social transgression, huh? Well, plead guilty and I convict myself, for the first time in absolute sincerity, and then promptly absolve myself, also for the first time. Why not? And if I can’t remove all of it immediately, that's fine, I can feed it back to our banter. Seriously, why not? That question has been percolating in my mind for however long this insight has persisted. Why do I care? Ever since I killed Nina, a crime against humanity really, but a crime that is wrapped in my obsession with her, so it is all to be accepted wholeheartedly, I have proven to myself that nobody matters except her. I killed Nina, fucked Julia over and over pretending to myself that she was her. Why, why the middleman? Why do I give a flying fuck anymore? There is no society to intrude onto us. We can escape the law whenever we please, as we have done repeatedly. A terribly actuated lie I had professed saying that “I have done everything that I wanted in my life.” I have not, because I have not lived out the fullest extent I could with her. And now I can. She was right all along. She has given me everything, and loved me more than what a human should have capacity for. There were never any abusers, only victims of other victims. And why be a victim anymore when I don’t have to? This is so, so, amusing! I am beginning to laugh in the shower by myself… ahem, perhaps this acceptance of my love for her has made me much more willing to emulate her characteristics.
There is one more question that remains, and it is sobering up my laughing fit. Why do I act this way to her, and is it really possible to change? Really that is two questions, but whatever. From my gut the answer is that she is annoying, sensitive, petty, argumentative, and quite insane, and a lot of the time I really don’t enjoy that. Sometimes I do, but normal people think we don’t pair well with how avoidant I am. …Her constant provocations for sexual contact ever since we hit puberty sure did not come out of nowhere. To deny that to her, when it was obvious my feelings, must have been miserable for the both of us. Hey, but supposedly no longer, right? Perhaps I’m being too honest, to a person that will never hear it the way I’m presenting. I have already offloaded my person into different people before though (Julia), even if it was still heavily skewed for her. It doesn’t have to be everything, always, at once with her. But, aghhhhh, that’s exactly what I need. I don’t have friends, nobody I would really be willing to confide in. Another shameful fact, but one that I shall learn to accept. It already feels better, now that I have explicitly laid it out. I have nobody else, nothing else except one singular turbulent constant in my life. I am seeking present improvement here, fairy tales don’t matter until something works out for the better. However… I don’t see why I can just lie to myself to be truthful to myself and everybody else. Does that make sense? I told Julia all these things that were meant for her, and I can just say to myself, well this is Julia, and this is the most pacifying and pleasing person ever, and it will be alright, because I can pray that the result will align with itself. Self-fulfilling prophecies are fallacies, but they work, they sure do work.
But damn, my blood boils, just thinking of the things she has done to me, and worse of all the things that I have done to her. I have been happy, overwhelmingly happy, before though. I have been happy in her presence without that corresponding dread, shame, and anger before. A couple times, at least. Think, Think…
…
This is surprisingly difficult. There’s that one time that I said it would be romantic to jump out of the balcony. I think the reason why is that I could be with her, as honest to my intentions as possible, end my life, and not have to worry about her annoying tendencies. That doesn’t help, because I wish to enjoy her while alive. There must be something else. I was drunk, wasn’t I? It's been almost a year, almost a year goddamnit. Important things must have happened goddamnit. Think!
—
“... No retort? Nothing?”
“Nah, you got me…”
“Fine, I’ll do it for you!” Indignantly coy, she made an… attempt, at mockery.
“Actually, what sucks today, is you
And what do I suck? Sounds like wishful thinking to me
I wish you’d shut the fuck up, alright.”
“Pfft… No, I think you’re pretty funny.” Was he seeing things, or was it just the alcohol?
“Pretty funny? So not that funny.”
“Pretty much…”
“Pretty funny, and pretty pretty.”
“So not even that pretty?”
“Mmm-m… Shut up. You’re my Ashley…” It was too forward, and he found it necessary to cover it up with something sarcastically grand.
“The most striking thing in the cosmos.” … failing miserably
“Or most strikeable?”
“Hahah, no! God, you’re awful”
“Pretty awful.”
“Awfully pretty.”
“Aww, shucks. Beer goggles…”
“Mmm… I don’t know about that…”
“Nooo… You’re lying. You’re lying, you liar.”
……
“...Is this a trick?”
“Huh…?”
“You want something…”
“Yeah. You.”
—
“Are you done yet? You’re wasting water!” A myriad of followup complaints that bounced around in her mind. They were rudely interrupted when she heard, through the clamorous noise of the shower, a disconcerting laugh.
“Why are you laughing like that? Are you drunk again?” She violently slammed open the door, which was what would have happened if the door handle was not already broken. Instead the un-oiled hinges let it glide peacefully open, cushioning its momentum.
“Does it matter?”
“So you are drunk. In a shower? You weren’t drunk before you went in there where can you be possibly hiding–”
“Does it matter if I’m laughing about being with you?”
“W-what do you mean by that…?” Recovering a little bit of her composure she hastily appended:
“That sounds awfully backhanded for something that probably isn’t a compliment. God, can’t you just be genuine for once-”
Andrew was not gritting his teeth very aggressively to remind himself of the conviction he had supposedly accumulated. There was no jest in her remarks this time, but he mustered himself to continue with an abnormally softened tone:
“I’m laughing because I have the gift of being with you despite the cockhead I am.”
“So you are drunk.” From explosive indignation she melted into a protective, disgusted scowl. Progress was made. Seizing the opportunity Andrew leaped up, at the hazard of slipping in the wet and extraordinarily grimy shower floor. He made some bizarre and satirical gestures, not gracefully, but nonetheless coordinated enough. All of this proceeded with him being naked. A macabre dance indeed.
“You think a drunkard… can do this?”
This time Ashley was fully lost for words. Aside from a few stammers and stutters. Petty anger could not discolor much faster than this. Still naked, Andrew approached her and took both her hands.
“I am not drunk, and I meant what I said. Either way, I forgive you for thinking so.” For a second there flashed a patronizing smile, but it receded promptly to something deeply compassionate as he delivered a delicate kiss to her cheeks.
“I’ll forgive you every time. For everything. For anything.” Both of his hands cupped her head.
“Because you’re my beloved. My very own piece of work.”
A silence hung in the air for a brief moment. He felt that something was missing, something he must have said before, an inclination for words to express some constant desire to qualify his emotions. It did not feel right to leave it so positively, yet the inclination was outweighed. He kissed her. She slumped over ever so slightly and closed her eyes. In this awkward position, with Andrew’s great insistence, her tongue weakened its tension.