Lazarus Love

She had a freckle on the thin, pale cartilage of her left ear he had never noticed before. It made him angry -- that there was some fragmented intimacy stolen from him, that this first merciful viewing was simultaneously the final one, and that he had previously been oblivious to its significance -- now sickeningly vibrant in its posthumous corporeality.

It felt that way, anyway. That the freckle was more than just a freckle, that it was something pure -- cultivated not simply of the sun, but by some divine intervention, and placed wickedly at the tips of his fingers now. She was still; entirely unmoving, and so, so cold. He was numb, head heavy, hands trembling; entirely inconsolable. 

This exodus -- enveloped in a poison-gas cloud of grieving desperation -- disentangled itself with a startling stillness, pale complexion, and paralyzing devastation disguised cleverly under the same faux cloaked dullness of an old silent film. The room seemed to shake with the shuddering, wretched breath of a wounded animal, and the air was so thick he was dizzy with it.

A year ago, they had brushed their teeth over the rusty porcelain sink of an empty apartment. They had stood shoulder to shoulder, bare feet on the cold tile and eyes heavy with the anticipation of sleep. She had paused momentarily to rinse the dribbling toothpaste from her chin before turning to face him. She had said it softly, and in such a casual manner he almost believed it wasn't the most awful formulation of her lips he had watched before. 

Honey, I want to die by my own design. 

It seemed so silly, to think of it that way -- in terms of passion and beauty and free will. He didn’t agree. 

I want to die in something gruesome: a freak accident, a sacrifice, some grand final bow. 

To sound it out, feel it form upon his tongue and escape his lips -- was it charming? Was it lovely? He knew to choke his words down when they came out ugly; he knew to punish his throat for its ignorance. They had patted their mouths dry in silence. There wasn’t much else to say. 

His knees ached from kneeling upon the hard, sterile floor. He stood unsteadily, stealing a final glance of the tip of her freckled ear. He waited motionless, as if generously supplying her one last chance to spring from bed -- to confess her deception with a laugh and a hint of witty disposition. She remained still. He turned for the door. 

The crossroad was desolate. It was cold and wet outside, and the blaring train echoed mockingly through the forest. He dropped once again to his bruised knees, tilting his chin to the sky and closing his eyes in terrified anticipation. He was no devout believer; his life was not one of a righteous man. He prayed in spite of it. He was reeling, insatiable, savage; incoherent in his bargaining.

Please, help her, please..

I know I don't deserve it, God, but she does...

She deserves it, please...

It appeared before him at last -- not quite discerning enough to be human, and not grotesque enough to be monstrous. It was cloaked entirely in shadows, no matter how the moon shined upon the road. It moved in a haphazard, uncanny manner, as if unable to properly remember the basic functions of the human form. This was no creature of God. Under any other circumstance, he supposed he would be frightened. Instead, he felt relieved.

“Did you love her?”

It wasn’t a question -- not really. It was a loaded gun to the temple. He had loved her so much he used to choke on it, unable to breathe -- as if his feelings had materialized and sat heavy upon his lungs. He had loved her the way a rabid animal might: hopeless, misunderstood, incapable. Aggressive in his loyalty, unknowing of his disease. He had hoped to at least be frightening in such a way that was endearing: eyes shining helplessly, foaming at the mouth, sick, apologetic. 

I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I want to taste your flesh

I’m sorry, I can’t help it

My depth is an illusion, I’m sorry

He was shallow, she could touch the bottom of him -- feel her feet in the mud. She hadn't believed him, she had dived headfirst, and she had started bleeding, and he had become diluted with her. He had loved her as the moth does the porch light: compulsive, obsessive, oblivious. Him, inconsequential and sick with devotion; her, beaming with pride and flickering wearily with age. 

“Yes.”

“Her life for yours?”

“Yes.”

He was a leech, and he had stolen the lovely bits of his environment; he had chewed and spit the rest -- left it undigested and ugly. He had dipped his toes in every pool he had come across, and in the end he was just pruned and shivering. 

“Is life this shallow swimming pool? To want, to pray, to wonder… Does a creature dwell in its depths? Is this water poison acid?” 

The two figures paced toward one another, and with each step the blurred line of man and monster faded. It was unclear, now, who was the buyer and who the seller.

“There is mud in the end. It is dirty, and it is awful. It is foolish to expect anything more.”

The creature shifted forward, offering a pale, slender hand to the man. Hesitantly, he accepted the handshake, bracing for some grand, violent gesture or brutal retaliation. It did not come.

It wasn’t harsh at first. Death, as it seems, is quite like turning off the television. It plays on, but no one is watching. It was dark, and his eyes ached, and he could hear only muffled traces of the train as if his ears were made of cotton. His skin was laced with goosebumps but his head unbearably hot, and his mouth was dry and sour. Still, he smiled. He thought of her reanimated, lovely, and warm. His lazarus love would rise again.