Journal: The Favour
Mood: The Usual
His body lay limp in her arms. His legs stretched out on the ground, arms - that at some point clung tight around her neck - now hung randomly to her sides. His torso lay awkwardly bent backwards against her thighs and his head was tucked into her chest. She was on her knees, hunched over him, hunched over this deplorable carcass, with nothing more than a whisper of a heartbeat every now and then. She cried; she clung. She held on to him. She hated him; she had every reason to, really. This stranger had walked into her life and breathed a meaning into it through her lips, and now he had ripped into her lungs, or what she would refer to as her heart, and ripped all he had given her away. The seed he planted had rooted, and now with each pull the root tore through her flesh. She hated him now, that’s true. But hate is always close behind the moment in which a person is hurt. In tears she whispered, or wished, things like “come back to me” and such – pleads to regain what was being taken away from her. Again, this is natural.
It really was one of many heartbreak stories that play out all over this planet daily.
I paced around both of them. It didn’t bother me. Though I know and knew then, just as he did, that that was what had to happen, his will was still strong enough for me to allow this… thing. By this thing I mean my writing what you are reading right now, the expression of this sentimental scene. Make of it what you wish; hopefully it will make me smirk. In any case, I paced around them both. I’d grown tired of simply sitting in front of them, and she would not listen had I remained so.
“He will die if I leave him, kid.” I said while I slowed my pace. “He’s not going to wake up.”
She just hung on to him, the poor girl. She needed to hear that she had to let him go. That the longer she hung, on the longer it would hurt. And I have to admit I was tempted to say this to her and tear his barely living body from her embrace. Not because it would give me pleasure – it wouldn’t – but simply because it would be better that way. But his will was strong. She asked me to let her try and bring him back, and I would have if there were any chances of her succeeding. Really, I don’t dislike the guy at all. He’s strong. But everyone has a limit, even if he had refused to acknowledge his, and he finally hit it. I had expected her to look up at me in anger. To deposit all he and I caused her into me, which I would have understood. But I have to admit she impressed me. She stood her ground and kept her head on her shoulders without letting go of her “heart.” But it had to be done.
Things I do for him, I swear.
But that had to end, it had been long enough, so I took my stroll. From this scene a road suddenly extended into the distance – upwards. I walked towards them first. I expected her to growl at me and yell something like “you took him away from me!” haha, or something real dramatic like that. To that I could have knelt next to her, facing her, then taken a hold of his hair and raised his face up next to mine and asked her “no, we took him away from you.” I wouldn’t have done it, though, because, again, his will would have impeded it. I digress. I didn’t catch her exact reaction, I didn’t need to. I just picked him up and threw him over my shoulder, then followed my trail up.
Arrived I at my seat. It was comfortable as usual. The poor mangled man lay half on the floor, half on my lap, as I resumed my view it. It’s always warm up there. A rock, flat on one side, on which sat a large seat. This is for your viewing reference. In front of me, the cardboard universe continued to progress. Event after event after even after even. Action, reaction, reaction, blah blah blah.
I looked down to him and ran my hand through his hair softly. He whispered his words. I don’t know why, I would have known what he wanted to say if he hadn’t spoken them. Asked me to reassure him that this was what was for the best. The poor, pathetic man. I stroked his cheek lightly and kept quiet. He did not need reassurance; he knew full well that it was. He just needed to ask me for it.
“My sweet, sweet puppet. Oh, how I hate to see you suffer like this. How I hate to have ever brought you into this world” I whispered into his ear.
“Your sympathy is nonexistent. It is simply my own selfpity spoken through your lips”
“And yours is my rationality spoken through mine.” I replied. He was right, and so was I.
“I hate it…”
“I know you do.” I said. Then I turned his head and kissed his lips softly, and he clung on to the fabric of my pants, then he nuzzled his broken face into my lap and went to sleep, and I let him keep it. I let him keep the chain he had clenched in his hand. All his will was focused on his hand around that chain. And I let him keep it.
I wrote this down as a favor he asked of me.