Tantalus: "Fugue"
I opened my eyes for the first time in months last night. The first thing I saw was the redness of my palms, stained; when I curled my fingers over them in an apathetic excuse for fists, my fingernails watched me as we met, as they retreated under the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. They had grown. Their edges pressed gently into the middle of my hand, leaving their indent until my palms were little red skies filled with little crescent moons.
I looked up to see a small black shape in the corner, leaning up against the wall like a hoodlum, a vagrant. As I tilted my head away from it, the light from the hall caught a silver lock on its side, and I noticed it was open. Slowly, I rose from my seat and crawled to it over piles of laundry, discarded shoes, papers and magazines, evidence of intelligent life. I crushed a card-stock box beneath my knee; the sensation of collapse beneath my weight was chilling, was empty, was sickening in the pit of my stomach. I was not far from the shining metal locks, but I could not go on.
Rolling my hips to sit upon my right side, I positioned my body atop a small episode of t-shirts and boxer shorts in order to investigate the life I had taken. Underneath a pair of khakis, a gift box, like one would receive for Christmas containing some manner of polo shirt one would never wear. I lifted the corner opposite my accidental fatality, smiling at the irony, wincing at the pain, to find little more inside than tissue paper and trash. No loss, not really, but still that sick feeling was tingling at the surface of my skin, writhing against my organs like fresh nausea. Crush.
The moment after, I was suddenly huddled against the wall holding the black plastic mass, running my fingers over the cold clasps on its side. I have no memory of arriving at its side, picking it up, settling into the edge of comfort. Only the textured surface of a misshapen case, the satisfying click and squeal of opening hinges, and the silent song of the body I found within it.
My fingers dragged across the metal lines, calling forth dull tones muffled by the bed in which my friend lay. After so many months, I hardly recognized her, how her voice had changed. I removed her gingerly from the cold comfort of the coffin and slowly gave her voice back, dissonant at first, sweet soon after. Hers was a lost treasure, a long-missed joy I regretted silencing. Still, I knew, as soon as I set her down again, there she would lay until another moment like this. She would not be leaving me, not tonight.
I held her against my shoulder, my cheek. She smiled, returning to me once again. The tips of my red fingers on her neck, I stroked her gently in order: G, D, A, E. We remembered each other so well. I placed the length of hair gingerly against her strings, pulling a single note from her cool, hollow body. It rang through the air of the darkened room, stretched down the hall, lost itself somewhere in the light. I smiled back at her at last, that sickness chased away in this fleeting instant. It was like we had never been apart.
I spoke to her in silence, she answered me in song, deep and shrill with gleeful despair. We passed the next few moments together in a passionate fusion, I with eyelids fluttering, she with her heart exposed. She seeped into my skin, and I became dizzy, my head foggy with the energy of my muse. Our union ended with jarring discord. My eyes had closed again.
"Tantalus!" came a hoarse cry from the hall. "What on God's earth are you doing at this hour?"
"Nothing, Mom," he sighed, lowering the violin from his shoulder. He stared at it numbly, and placed the bow back in its case. Her rotund figure cast a shadow down the center of his room as she approached.
"Go to bed," she muttered from his doorway. "Its 3 in the morning. And clean yourself up, you look like a goddamn serial killer, baby. Goodnight."
She closed his door halfway before retreating back into her bedroom, and leaving him alone and empty once again. He was silent as the instrument whose neck he strangled with one dripping fist. Tant sobbed without tears as he looked back along the trail of blood from his bed to here in the corner, and hoped without expectation that this time, it would be enough.
He followed the red line, violin in hand, stopping at a puddle near a pile of freshly disturbed floor-cover. A shirt box, red fingerprints, nothing. This was going to be hell to get out of the carpet. At least it was still fresh. Tantalus took one of the stained shirts from the floor and bound his wrist where he sat. This one wasn't getting any cleaner.
Here he sat, staring at the wreckage. It was the same every time. It ignited, it burned, it went out, sometimes smoldered for a day or two before leaving him in ashes again. He could still feel the warmth of inspiration, but it grew colder and darker every slowing beat of his heart. He hoped without expectation that this time, it would last. He slept without dreaming, he sighed without breath. Same every time.
The boy rose from his heap on shaky legs. Time for another shower. He was practically soaked. Cautiously navigating his disaster zone, he came upon the case in the corner, and knelt at its side. He wiped the blood from her neck, gently dabbed at the bow with his sleeve. Was it really that bad tonight? Was he really that gone? All this he could believe, but what he did struggle with was how the spark could have been so swift. Such were his strokes of madness. What is genius without it?
Before the closed the lid on her melancholy face, he reached to her strings to pluck in order, a little message, a little prayer. D, E, A, D.
...
I looked up to see a small black shape in the corner, leaning up against the wall like a hoodlum, a vagrant. As I tilted my head away from it, the light from the hall caught a silver lock on its side, and I noticed it was open. Slowly, I rose from my seat and crawled to it over piles of laundry, discarded shoes, papers and magazines, evidence of intelligent life. I crushed a card-stock box beneath my knee; the sensation of collapse beneath my weight was chilling, was empty, was sickening in the pit of my stomach. I was not far from the shining metal locks, but I could not go on.
Rolling my hips to sit upon my right side, I positioned my body atop a small episode of t-shirts and boxer shorts in order to investigate the life I had taken. Underneath a pair of khakis, a gift box, like one would receive for Christmas containing some manner of polo shirt one would never wear. I lifted the corner opposite my accidental fatality, smiling at the irony, wincing at the pain, to find little more inside than tissue paper and trash. No loss, not really, but still that sick feeling was tingling at the surface of my skin, writhing against my organs like fresh nausea. Crush.
The moment after, I was suddenly huddled against the wall holding the black plastic mass, running my fingers over the cold clasps on its side. I have no memory of arriving at its side, picking it up, settling into the edge of comfort. Only the textured surface of a misshapen case, the satisfying click and squeal of opening hinges, and the silent song of the body I found within it.
My fingers dragged across the metal lines, calling forth dull tones muffled by the bed in which my friend lay. After so many months, I hardly recognized her, how her voice had changed. I removed her gingerly from the cold comfort of the coffin and slowly gave her voice back, dissonant at first, sweet soon after. Hers was a lost treasure, a long-missed joy I regretted silencing. Still, I knew, as soon as I set her down again, there she would lay until another moment like this. She would not be leaving me, not tonight.
I held her against my shoulder, my cheek. She smiled, returning to me once again. The tips of my red fingers on her neck, I stroked her gently in order: G, D, A, E. We remembered each other so well. I placed the length of hair gingerly against her strings, pulling a single note from her cool, hollow body. It rang through the air of the darkened room, stretched down the hall, lost itself somewhere in the light. I smiled back at her at last, that sickness chased away in this fleeting instant. It was like we had never been apart.
I spoke to her in silence, she answered me in song, deep and shrill with gleeful despair. We passed the next few moments together in a passionate fusion, I with eyelids fluttering, she with her heart exposed. She seeped into my skin, and I became dizzy, my head foggy with the energy of my muse. Our union ended with jarring discord. My eyes had closed again.
"Tantalus!" came a hoarse cry from the hall. "What on God's earth are you doing at this hour?"
"Nothing, Mom," he sighed, lowering the violin from his shoulder. He stared at it numbly, and placed the bow back in its case. Her rotund figure cast a shadow down the center of his room as she approached.
"Go to bed," she muttered from his doorway. "Its 3 in the morning. And clean yourself up, you look like a goddamn serial killer, baby. Goodnight."
She closed his door halfway before retreating back into her bedroom, and leaving him alone and empty once again. He was silent as the instrument whose neck he strangled with one dripping fist. Tant sobbed without tears as he looked back along the trail of blood from his bed to here in the corner, and hoped without expectation that this time, it would be enough.
He followed the red line, violin in hand, stopping at a puddle near a pile of freshly disturbed floor-cover. A shirt box, red fingerprints, nothing. This was going to be hell to get out of the carpet. At least it was still fresh. Tantalus took one of the stained shirts from the floor and bound his wrist where he sat. This one wasn't getting any cleaner.
Here he sat, staring at the wreckage. It was the same every time. It ignited, it burned, it went out, sometimes smoldered for a day or two before leaving him in ashes again. He could still feel the warmth of inspiration, but it grew colder and darker every slowing beat of his heart. He hoped without expectation that this time, it would last. He slept without dreaming, he sighed without breath. Same every time.
The boy rose from his heap on shaky legs. Time for another shower. He was practically soaked. Cautiously navigating his disaster zone, he came upon the case in the corner, and knelt at its side. He wiped the blood from her neck, gently dabbed at the bow with his sleeve. Was it really that bad tonight? Was he really that gone? All this he could believe, but what he did struggle with was how the spark could have been so swift. Such were his strokes of madness. What is genius without it?
Before the closed the lid on her melancholy face, he reached to her strings to pluck in order, a little message, a little prayer. D, E, A, D.
...