Samuel 86 - Scars bright
That perhaps will read it together ^ ^.
When they were young, summer, David and Samuel were often the first game of the firefly.
expected that the darkness was complete to venture blindly into the river - David loved to show himself to know how to skillfully unravel in the night and he was merely following him, clutching the hem of his shirt.
But the night always slow down, when they were children: there was to leave behind the dinner - vegetables to eat reluctantly and clear the board. The soap dishes.
And there was the dark to wait after sitting cross-legged on the edge of the woods. Chatting about nothing at times.
Sometimes, however, peering into the silent darkness in search of a fragile light - a light that gave right to those who saw it first to become the undisputed god of the evening. One who could order any other thing - that it would decide for them both until midnight. Or even for the whole next day, often. And Samuel
lost forever.
lose because David cheated, is not it - because nine times out of ten claimed to have seen fireflies do not exist. In perfect bad faith.
But it was only this.
It was not even a matter of attention, or luck. Training.
The truth is that the wind broke every time, when the first pin of light pierced the night, and was as amazed as when a star is born - the same miracle of unconsciousness that was repeated endlessly: the immense mass of dark, round - and that shimmering.
That sliver of life stuck in anything.
"Firefly," David cried, jumping up. Pointing towards a dark corner now already - guided by the voice of triumph. But David did not
Samuel never imagined what it has always felt like that light - he suddenly comes to tear the building plot and the days that immediately disappears into the tangle of darkness. He
you close the throat with the same wonder. The same nostalgia.
And let the phone ring vacuum at least until the darkness will not become quite dangerous - until he can make himself the god of another endless night. Heroic and unconscious as that light, perhaps. Or just how fragile and wounded a god only knows how to be - with its vagaries of floods and absences, her tears inside the walled stone eyes very firmly and the traces of his presence spread across the sky. Abandon in the woods.
David has always been everywhere.
He sat on the chair in the living room even a little earlier, a glass of whiskey to his lips and pulled his tie loose on his chest - his shadow reflected in the television supertechnological who insisted so much to give to Samuel and Samuel did not ever even turned on.
He was in the halo of the halogen lamp, ashtray in a vacuum. On the night that always slow down as before. Always blank.
It was in every sound inaudible who broke the silence, all stand up in the ears of the cat. In neat rows of books fill the shelves - "I found a first edition, professor, is quite yellowed, for your tastes?" "This stinks even mold: you go into a trance!"
Even in the empty spaces between one and one volume - "The book that I bought one of your favorite does not exist. And do not say that I forgot your birthday, it's not my fault if you taste so eccentric! "
reach out would be so easy - so easy ... Let
by restraining his arms and let her sink tip the ceiling and pleasure and pain come back to incarnate again - down from the emptiness of the snow from inside the body intact for more dirty with blood and sweat.
Still Life.
or clinging to his shirt as when they were children - Follow him into the woods. Close your eyes and delegate to him the choice of each route.
David has always known he would hurt. More
the flight is higher than the air becomes thin, so thin that the hands may lose consistency. Turn into wings, perhaps - wings still. And Samuel
observes the shape of his fingers in the dark - long shadows that blur the boundaries in the darkness of the night while the boards of the porch just squeak whenever Seneca stretches its legs to stretch. Every time he sits down again at her feet - a scrub clearer. The subtle slide of the hair on the cloth of his trousers.
But no moon, nothing.
And the cup of tea was cold, the wind of the evening became more humid in the hair.
Forgot your sweater at home and do not care, it must prepare the lesson for today.
But he can not think.
I can not think that David, her injuries. To all those who had to deal over the years and they still do not know how to save - his emotional need to become a god. The cause and effect, the only one. And
him around.
He who has never managed to find a language to tell what really has always been at the center of his life, even when the words still had their strength and Samuel is an illusion that repeating his name would have been enough to close the seal, if gliel'avesse whispered in his ear. Between the sheets.
The truth is that neither sex is served. Reach David
now seems more unreal to pretend to close my hand around the remote glimmer of a star, or the appearance of a firefly in the distant woods.
might seem another illusion if not raised at his feet Seneca head - if the light did not follow the trajectories are unusual. And if the gravel crunching under the weight of uncertain steps, too cautious to really belong to him.
The cat runs away to hide, after all - there's the red embers of his cigarette into the night. And the skin does not recognizes the presence of his body.
is still too early ... "Samuel?"
straightening his back, he pulls up.
Helene.
could forget how he had fixed a date with her that night, just can not explain it.
Quickly extends his arm towards the light switch, coving Seneca fast under the bench. From
lane just outside the small intestine of a lighter flame goes out at night.
"What were you doing out there in the dark?" comes the question, and he tries to fit the reality of the new scenario in slumber tired of his own universe of perception: the soft features the friend - So different from the angularity of the male face of David. The Indian skirt that drapes to the ankles - the bracelets of blue stones and silver.
His voice. Clear.
"You made me almost frightening ..."
Looking for the key in the pocket, he smiles.
"waiting for the fireflies," she says as she climbs the steps of the porch and Seneca approaches suspicious sniff my shoes.
"At least expecting something, because you had completely forgotten about me ..." Reversing her eyes, she leans over to embrace him. "How are you?"
"I feel a bit 'as a kid, I just do not has remained very by burying the bottom of the forest. Now things slip from his hands long before you can find the right way to protect them, did you notice? "
" I noticed that it seems more dreamy than usual, Sam, "says Helene, however, the cat glides between them like a caress mysterious. "You should not really spend so much time alone in the dark. It is good for you."
"We go home?" Then ask him, moving away just enough to tap the hair behind her ear.
Yet when he opens the door - when she hears her perfume as she slipped on the eastern crossing the threshold to enter the room - can not help but cast one last look to the forest. Check whether the first stars appeared, the dim light of fireflies.
Nothing. After
found the laptop exactly as he had left on the desk. The phone is still resting beside him - the chair ajar. The cushions arranged in a strange disorder, on the couch.
"I went from Derek before," Helene is saying, and supports the bag on the table and pulls out a sheaf of papers - printed sheets. "It gave me the final version of the script. Avertela should also be sent by e-mail this afternoon, but already I was there I told you that I would speak. A golden-you do best," he says. And Samuel
keep his wrists, bones relief under the weight of the bracelets. My eyes follow the movements of his hands, the convenience with which the curiously female is holding out the adaptation of his novel.
His novel.
"If you're feeling good, clear," is the explanation, but he can not help but avert your eyes. In a hurry. "Otherwise, we can postpone the work to another time."
answer is not easy, much better groped to reassure her with a smile and offer her a coffee, maybe - let her to prepare for both. Allow it away in the kitchen to escape the silent questions of his gaze. Much easier.
be alone.
"The jar is on the wall, the coffee should be found nearby, "he says from a distance, slowly reaching his desk. "Sugar is in the pantry, as always ..."
Standing in front of the file of the script now, Samuel notes from lingering on the folds of the paper, ink Footprint. The round shape of verdana - strange character for a play. Or the perfect character, perhaps - unusual harmony. Almost
destabilizing.
It makes no sense.
malaise that makes no sense, no sense that he pretended not to see the mail of the director. That has not opened, that you have not downloaded the attachment.
It does not make sense that your hands are not able to touch the papers when it was his decision to entrust the adaptation of Helen de The god sick.
You would trust anyone else, for the screenplay - no one else has ever had as much consideration.
And then ... And then the pain irrational because, if the silence has now carved words like broken eggshells - if the language has proved to stupidity and arrogance, if the communication is already following different paths too?
new ways ... It all started from a misunderstanding of the genre, after all.
why he chose to leave his book in the hands of others - to remove from the shoulders of Björn the weight of interpretation that had granted him only and that instead it should never have expected from anyone.
know it was wrong. Very. Yet while
Helene speaks from the kitchen - and he answered absently, while his eyes remain fixed on the paper and hands are still at your sides - that uneasiness is growing at the rate of breathing without the will to do anything to prevent it. And David
missing so frightening, like whenever you need strength.
Every time he is honest, or merely consistency.
No.
Inhale deeply, Samuel raised his right hand toward the edge of the table.
There is a script to read, now, there to take responsibility for each stride. There are duties to be performed, when you love someone.
and fragility can not be an excuse, not in front of the courage that allows Björn yearning to breathe again, somewhere in the world. No matter where - or how far.
does not matter.
"Sam?"
When Helene is part of the room is sitting in a chair, his glasses only to act as a screen between the black ink of the paper and the boy that he was nearly fifteen years before. The boy who never stopped being, after all, and now instead should let die like a shooting star.
Another fragment of darkness. Why
something else must be born in heaven, when the sky is completely dark. When silence is total, and there will be no David to see the first light. A lead in the forest, making way through the tall grass. Among the thorns.
raised their eyes from the paper, gets wet lips slowly.
"I never imagined it would be so painful," he murmurs.
The woman approached with caution, then, placing his coffee cup on the table.
"It's too far from what you wanted?" question, his face tilted like to watch it from below. Find an angle to read in the most sincere answers - to follow him.
"Sam, you know. Whatever does not convince you, however small ... "
" It's a beautiful death, "but he responds.
smiles.
" Only that hurts the same. As with any death. "
And when he adds, in a low voice:" I would like that Mark could read it, "Helene shelling just the eyes - a change is imperceptible to anyone not familiar with or know to expect a similar reaction. For anyone who has not met Mark, probably, and the intricate links that united her life with that of both. At the novel.
sometimes reminded him too.
happens at night, often when the sky is so immense to resemble too closely the emptiness of his passing and regret choked mercilessly in the knowledge of a crime that is repeated like a curse. Mark, first. And Björn.
David, in a still different.
All crimes of his innocence.
"Mark would know how to make it perfect, probably," said Helene, and Samuel realizes that even if it could not avoid making that name. She knew she might - or perhaps just the ghosts. Streaks of pale light.
nods.
"I feel much less into the fray, if I could rely on his opinion."
"His opinion was that it was worth it, Helene."
"Probably." A half laugh. "You will certainly find a thousand things to change, though. It was always like that." The gaze is lifted, slowly. "He loved the God sick, you know it? I think it was his favorite among all your work."
"I know," he answers only. Swallows.
And maybe that's the night of the shooting stars, because suddenly the face of Mark is defined in memory with a sharpness that was missing for years - that almost takes your breath away. That takes off guard, as all the memories and more violent - never really faded. Never forgiven. That novel was
for Björn. Even then.
Even while he spent his nights to imagine the imprint of Mark over his body, even as he left that their lives drifted apart.
And it was useless, was absurd.
"I wish ..." He raises his eyes
Helene's face - and a cold shiver. Sharp.
"I wanted to be able to look beyond," he murmurs. "I do know now ..."
"It is never easy, Sam," she says quietly. "Do not blame yourself."
slips a little 'back on the couch, then - leans back looking at me intently. Almost too concentrated.
"You've never told what exactly happened between you."
"I did not never told anyone, I think. "
Pause.
"Mark was not only my roommate, was also my severest critic. My astute reader - the only one whose opinion I fidassi blindly. Whatever I ever wrote was thanks to him, Helene. But beyond that was ... "
glance, hesitantly.
"It was also his body," Samuel whispered, with difficulty. "Every night I spent watching him sleep impossible, to wish it was going to sleep because the sheets slipped just a bit 'lower. It has always been my problem, "he adds softly. "There have never been able, only to love. To love and nothing else. "
" Mark has never said it was your fault. Every time I asked replied that he had to go wrong. "
"I have always believed that there would be time to explain ..." Explain ...
When looking in his eyes he did not hurt, maybe. When desire had become less urgent, or when the courage he had found a passable road. An alleyway.
Months have passed, however. Years.
And suddenly there was nothing more to say - having no one to ask for forgiveness.
"Explain what?" Helene Samuel demand and this time we can hardly Nor, to answer it.
He never talked to her about the death of Mark, even at the beginning. Even when the wound was still open and needs to find his face in the eyes of someone was a strong need. Exhausting.
But it's always been his secret.
The name to be silenced by Luis, the part of himself that David has never met. The biggest mistake - or maybe just the first. What marked the road.
"It was not his fault," Samuel whispered, standing up.
There is the scent of coffee in the air, and the kitchen light is still on. It is still dark, beyond the window panes.
"He was not responsible, "he repeats softly.
It does not know why after all this time they're talking about now - because they're saying just Helene. Because tonight, tonight that there are no stars in the sky and no moon.
And there is no peace.
"I could hear only his body, as if everything else was outside of my field of perception ..." he continues. He approached the window, then.
pushed aside the curtain.
"And I did not see him. I never looked at people, Helene: I only know that the desire distorted masks superimposed the faces of those I love. I have a whole hell of ghosts inside of me. "
A smile. Amaro.
"It is an abyss that calls me all the time. Yet. "
" We all have our ghosts, Sam. It makes no sense to feel guilty about it, "says the woman. But he is not responding.
continues to look out the window until my eyes do not change the focus - as long as you do not define the image of your lips, reflected in the glass, and the mouth of Mark so close that almost seems to breathe again breath. A
acute vertigo - deaf.
And the fantasy of the all too familiar to his knees wedged between his legs, his fists clenched. Wrists.
David.
David has always been that he has applied to certain visions and suddenly one wonders if it was not a conscious act of will, for its part, wear the mask. A mask that he has not been set, but recommended. Carefully prepared - formed over the years. Day after day.
Samuel startled, suddenly.
"I think I need to eat, maybe. Eat something, "he murmurs.
let go of the curtain - Helene turns to look uncertain.
"Have you seen David, lately?"
"No, I think I've seen him after that night at home ..." feel the answer from the couch. "Why, did something happen?"
"Nothing, just a difficult time ..."
Silence.
"I'm from you in a moment," then concludes, in a hurry, looking away. Entering the kitchen, leaning back against the wall. Shaking hands on the back of his chair - his eyes closed. Dry lips. The
missing. There seems to be
truce that night - wherever the mind is only positive shades.
Only madness.
It is a regret of not being able to notice strange even to identify exactly what was the last time he heard his own hands - the memories are shipwrecked in the early reels, as relics of life swept away by the current and there is too little light for distinguish the contours of every moment, of each emotion.
I knew then, that after that there were not other, perhaps it would have at least taken the time to look at his body - other than watch this carefully, as you do with the places where you know you're not coming anymore. Or with the important days that die at sunset.
is not the longing of farewell, though - that lump in my throat that makes the moment so painful to record a scar as deep as the nostalgia that will follow. A sign that speaks of all nights spent with his next breath, all the moments when her laughter was enough to turn the switch on a new life.
and war, the armistice signed with the imprint of the teeth in the flesh.
Del longing to open his lips under his and afraid to ask for a kiss. Of terror to offer it. Samuel
if often wondered if it was not just a way for him to serve his beauty. Maybe it really has never forgiven the perfection of his body - the shape of her lips. Or the absolute ease with which he convince him to do anything.
With a single glance.
Yet there is also the pleasure of knowing that after all those years, David is still a mystery to him. The same mystery that prevents you remember the taste of his mouth - that prevents you imagine if and when you will live again. And what pain will lead this time. What
revenge.
"I still to coffee, Helene?" Question, trying to breathe.
But awareness of the border crossing shakes his voice, his eyes moving from one side of the room in search of common objects. Landmark solids.
Find the woman leaning against the door frame instead.
"No, thanks. I'm okay," I hear you say.
And it happened there - suddenly the memory bursts in mind with a sudden clarity.
There were the books open on the kitchen table, and dozens of sheets marked with different spellings. Correct notes and tasks to be disordered and the usual cup of tea in a corner.
The low light of the lamp.
was winter.
Samuel recalls the backs of the hands covered by the sweater - the pen rubbed against wool and the hum of the heater turned on in the background. Remember the inexplicable speed pulse, the sudden feeling of excitement and fear.
And slowly raised his eyes from the leaves - the vacuum of the unexpected release button on his chest. His back against the door frame - challenge and eroticism and games.
That smile.
Close your eyes had not been for nothing - as now therefore focusing on the image of Helene, try not to even hear the sound of his steps.
The noise of the belt undone.
And the weight of his body on his back - his fingers clawing at his hair. To sink into the flesh, as if he's read his mind. As it always has.
The imprint of David is a pain you feel for days, the same injury that at one time claimed by Mark Samuel. The same who would never dare to ask anyone. None.
But there is always at the bottom - below each point. Beyond love and consistency, a damn mark the base of the neck. A glaring abyss of confusion and chills - the real distance. By Björn.
's there.
in the constellation of desire that illuminate his nights, in which over the years have traced in the sky designs more gory. Who have killed friends, dug scars.
Summoned demons.
E which take the form of bestiary chilling now, because now the horizon is covered with snow and the world looks so white and smooth that even the smallest shadow would be violence. Further violence - the most heinous sin.
Helene speaks. The
is asking to postpone until tomorrow to read the script - go to bed that looks tired. Should sleep more, eat regularly. Had dinner tonight? Telephone call to the director this week, there's no hurry. No problem, really ... But
Samuel knows that he will spend the evening studying the papers - because he needs the pain has been complete. Why the night has become so black to swallow any light in its depths - it must descend to the bottom in his hell. And why now is the time now.
Time to face the demons. One by one.
And let the dark sky each star.
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