Chimera (26 page)

R
olling onto my back
, I stare at the ceiling I spent so many years studying after Sylvie died. Every breath in hurts, like ribs cracking from the force of the crushing air as I exhale. The place in my chest where my heart should be screams in agony every second it continues to beat. Not even the solitude found in sleep eliminates the distress anymore. Her face horrifies me as soon as I close my eyes; I see the blank stare from her dull eyes. The vacant look haunts my every waking moment. Nothing alleviates it. If only I had run a little faster, maybe if I hadn’t taken the time to put jeans on before chasing her, maybe if I hadn’t taken them off before I dove in…every second counted and I wasted the precious few we had.

Endless obsession.

It’s far worse than anything I ever felt with Sylvie. I knew there was nothing I could’ve done to save my wife. Her getting cancer wasn’t a mistake I made, but Sera’s a different story. I wasn’t valiant enough to confront her about the abuse, I wasn’t courageous enough to make sure she knew someone loved her, and I allowed her to get drunk knowing how emotional she was. I gave her the security to trust nothing would happen to her, and for fuck’s sake, I let her walk out my front fucking door, completely inebriated to her fucking death.

I think about her incessantly.

I wonder if she was aware of the choice she made, then I contemplate whether her decision would have been different had she been sober. I’ve spent hours meditating on what went through her mind as the water took over, if she was in any physical pain or if she simply gave in to it. It’s torture. I will never have any answer—only blame and gut-wrenching guilt. I will forever feel the weight of my inability to man the fuck up and guide her the way she needed to be lead.

Had I been able to assume the leadership role she needed, even if it hadn’t been in a BDSM capacity, had she seen me as a dominant figure, maybe she would have seen me as a choice. Maybe she could have loved me the way I love her. I continue to maul myself with mental abuse; should have; would have; could have, but didn’t. The anger and frustration far supersede anything I’ve ever experienced, but I have no idea how to manage it and parts of me don’t care. Actually, the majority of me doesn’t. The tornado of emotion brewing inside me is going to meet the world at a category five and I have no idea how to stop it.

My head falls to the side, eyes landing on
The Seraphim
. Tears flood my face, racing down my cheeks, pooling on the sheets beneath me. I’ve never cried as much as I have in the last two days. The reality of Sylvie’s death was numbing, there is no word to describe the anguish, affliction, and melancholy Sera’s passing has brought. Rolling off the side of the bed, I manage to sit on the edge, facing the statue. The pad of my thumb traces her delicate features, stopping on her cheek while I admire the pain, the desolation the clay exudes, the solidarity of the stone angel. God I miss her.

Nate stops by around his normal calling time with food but I refuse to pull myself out of bed. “We can’t do this again, Bastian. You have to get up. I’m not going to let you immerse yourself in grief.”

“Fuck off, Nate.” The monotony of my own voice bores me.

“No! Fuck that, Bastian. I fought for five fucking years to get you back to the land of the living. You are not resurfacing in purgatory.”

“What’s the point? Nothing is ever going to change. The pain is never going to leave. It might dull but it’s always there and now I get to multiply that by two.”

“You’ve been living again. Didn’t it feel good? Didn’t you love working again, painting, engaging your hands? Jesus, Bastian, for the last year you’ve been semi-human. Don’t you know that’s what Sylvie would have wanted for you? Sera absolutely wanted you to be happy.”

“I wasn’t enough for either one of them. Don’t you get it?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t get it. Sylvie loved you until the moment she took her last breath and you’re a selfish bastard for not recognizing many people
never
experience that kind of love, myself included. There was
nothing
, nothing, you could have done differently to fight cancer. That wasn’t your failure and you were everything to her.

“I don’t know the ins and outs with Sera; I know she had issues. I had seen it along the way, but B, if she wouldn’t let you in, you couldn’t stop it. Hell, you couldn’t have stopped it unless she wanted you to and obviously, she didn’t. You can’t take that on as your failure. You were a good friend to her, always around, there whenever she wanted company. Besides hiring a body guard, or following her around, what else could you have done?” He’s incensed with me.

“I did.” I can’t believe I’m admitting this but I have no pride left.

“You did, what?”

“I followed her in an attempt to find out who was hurting her. I stalked her, Nate. It was my feeble endeavor.” I grab the back of my neck insecurely.

“This isn’t your fault, Bastian. No matter what you say to try to accept the blame, her committing suicide was not a reflection on you or your friendship.”

“It was so cold in that water. Even if she had made a mistake and wanted to get out, I don’t think she could have.”

“Maybe not but we both know, you can’t rewrite history, and you can’t write destiny. Her fate was sealed long before she ever met you. You’re not the author of her story, nor the editor. You were simply a reader. She chose to end the book with no epilogue or cliffhanger. You have to accept that.”

“I don’t know that I can.”

Nate doesn’t say anything else. He eats in silence after dragging me to the living room. I listen to the silence, the noises the house makes. I wish for another day. If I could only go back three days and have that one day over again, I would do so many things differently.

“Stop, Bastian,” Nate says with a mouth full of food. He knows I’m torturing myself, I’m sure it’s written all over my face.

“Do you want a drink? I think I have some tequila. Maybe some vodka.” I hop up with more pep in my step than I’ve had in days.

“Nah, I’m good. I have to drive home. You need to go easy on that shit.”

Ignoring his comment, I find the vodka first, taking a shot while pouring myself a mixed drink; well, it’s mixed if you consider ice. The first swig stings as it slides down my throat to my empty stomach but quickly warms it’s path through my body. I’ll take it easy. I just need a little something to ease the pain. Anything to take the edge off, numb my senses, and hopefully stop the whirlwind in my mind.

Nate watches me nurse my drink for over an hour, seemingly satisfied I’m not going to drink myself into oblivion. He is the only person I’ve ever known I could sit in comfortable silence with, no need to fill the void with ramblings.

“You need me to stay tonight?” He’s cleaning up the shit he has all over my coffee table and throwing it in trash. My mind wanders to how easily we as humans discard things, including lives. “I’ll sleep on the couch if you want me to.”

“Huh?” It dawns on me he was talking to me but I only half heard what he was saying. “Oh, no. I’ll be fine. Go home.”

“I really don’t mind. I’m not trying to be all sappy but I’d rather know you’re safe and have a sore back tomorrow from sleeping on your couch.”

“Bye, Nate.”

W
hen he leaves
, I grab the bottle from the kitchen, in need of
The Seraphim’s
company. Kissing her on the forehead as if she’s mine to protect. I plop down on the side of the bed laughing at the irony. I couldn’t help the real thing so I’ll preserve the stone likeness.

Jesus, I’m a fucking moron.

Real genius there, Bastian.

Reaching over to the nightstand I fill the room with Sylvie’s voice, listening to her throaty melodies that never get old. Lying back, I take the bottle with me, nursing it, remembering the two women I loved most. With one’s voice in my ear and the other’s face in my sight, I drift.

The clear liquid ignites my memories in slow motion but I’m unable to distinguish between those with Sylvie versus Sera. I should know, but I don’t. Maybe I don’t want to. If I morph them into one, the despair and heartache won’t multiply but, rather, divide. My mind starts to lay the images of one on top of the other, making it more difficult to differentiate between them, her voice and her hands combined. The best parts of them both fill my mind and for just a moment, I form a smile, albeit a small one. I’m remembering their laughs, their wit, their grace, who they each were but so similar. Being able to hear her and see her, even if it’s a recording and a piece of rock, makes me believe they’re with me, here.

I push repeat on the CD when the music stops flowing, and I’ve found an uplight for
The Seraphim
to keep her silhouette lit but the room dark. With no outside distractions, it’s easier to imagine them here with me. The rest of the house is silent. There’s no moonlight streaming through the windows on this cloudy night. It’s just Sylvie, Sera, and me. I feel a little naughty at the thought of my glorious threesome but the intimacy is encased here. I won’t allow anyone violate it.

I recognize I’m teetering on the edge of reality when I begin talking to the statue, telling her I would have protected her. With slurred words I commit to her, vowing my love, love I never had the courage to share with her. “Did you know?” Her response never comes. “I tried to save you,” I croak through choked sobs. “The water was fucking frigid. It was dark but I kept looking until I found you.”

She never moves, never answers.

Stone cold.

She stares back at me as if she’s waiting for something more profound. I have nothing left to offer as Sylvie sings in the background about a tormented soul ripped apart by the loss of love. Her music used to bring joy to my heart, but now I wonder if I ever actually listened to the lyrics or acknowledged what she was singing about. Each song that comes through the speakers reverberates sadness, one I wasn’t aware she felt. I doubt I ever heard the words, only her voice, it always made me proud. I’m now a blubbering mess, a shell of the man I was seven or eight years ago before cancer came into our lives.

With sun peeking through the blinds, I see the fatigue in Sera’s face and hear how tired Sylvie is from serenading me all night. I close the blinds, and turn off the light and the CD player, allowing them to rest. Tiptoeing from the room, I close the door softly behind me. Flipping the light on in the bathroom the walls begin to spin as the floor falls out from underneath me. Hitting my head on the counter I almost blackout before heaving into the toilet. The stench is wretched but I can’t decipher if it’s me or the alcohol mixed with stomach acid that’s so putrid—not that it matters. Still naked, vodka bottle on the floor by the loo, my body crashes to the floor. My flaccid penis rests on my leg. “You piece of shit. Stand up!” I yell at it. “Why the fuck are you just lying there?” Grabbing it with my hand, I pull on it, yanking it, attempting to stroke it to attention, but the motherfucker doesn’t even twitch. It’s as limp and lifeless as Sera’s body was on the bank of the river.

“Are you quitting on me, too?” Screaming, I’m afraid I might wake up my sleeping girls in the other room. I slap it, repeatedly angered when it comes flying back to the same position, flaccid and unmoving. My soft cock a metaphor for my pathetic life. The reflection of light off my razor catches my eye; I reach for it to cut off the cancer between my legs. Unable to stabilize myself, I stumble back to the tile floor, cold and unyielding. My head jerks back in response slamming against the tile before the blade ever meets my skin.

The pounding isn’t just in my head; it’s at my front door. Dragging myself off the floor of the bathroom, the smell of vomit and urine overtake my senses. I don’t bother looking in the mirror before I answer.

“Goddamn it, Bastian. I knew I shouldn’t have fucking left you alone last night. What the hell have you been doing?” His face is beet red and marred with anger.

Ignoring him, I turn away from the door. “For Christ’s sake put on some fucking clothes. You look and smell like shit. I sure don’t need to see your junk too.”

Giving him the bird, I grab my robe from the bathroom but it’s not in any better shape than I am. Not caring, I take a seat on the couch next to my lifelong friend, meaning Nate, not the vodka.

“You’ve gotta pull your shit together. You can’t go down this road again.” I don’t acknowledge anything he says. What’s the point? He’ll never close his eyes and see a dead woman or hear a song on the radio that tortures his spirit. “Who did you hang with last night? Jose, Jim, Jack?”

Glaring at his sarcastic shit, I say, “A fat Russian.”

“How much is left of that half you had in the kitchen?”

“Fuck if I know, Nate. Would you like the bottle? I wasn’t counting shots.”

“What I would like is for you to get your head out of your ass and realize you have a life worth living, a career people would kill for, and people who care about you.”

“Reality check, good buddy.
You
are my only friend. I haven’t talked to my parents in years, both women I loved left me, and Ferry was the only other thing close to a friend but I’m pretty sure jail time is going to sever that tie. Can we not talk quite so loudly?”