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Hi, my name is Lady
Sitting
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 | 2005 The Expected Return |
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 5 with 3 vote(s)
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| Created: 2009-02-16 09:27:54 |
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I was stood before a full length mirror. It was plain and square, and rimmed in a shimmering gold. But the shimmers were slight, because the light from outside had been dull. It was only once a year, where the outside sky would be white, neither grey, neither blue, neither black. Because again all the ground had been strewn in thick snow.
Because the world outside was all white. It was innocence. And it contrasted, sharply and darkly with the black of my tight dinner jacket, stretched firmly across my now broadening shoulders and chest; oh it was old now. I would soon need to replace it. But today had been a special day.
Now it had been open I possessed a violent streak. And upon my own maturity it could only get worse.
Then I reached my arms behind my shoulder blades, stretching them as far as I could. They strained into place, and then I released them. It was much too early for this. It was the day I had awaited, seven years I had awaited and yet I felt it was too early. The last five years; they had only been the same. But my capabilities, yet again, had now spread, and those capabilities had been the key to my scar of aggression seeping out into the small, small earth that I was caged in. I was not old, but not really was I young, because two theories had then blended into one and I was in between. And that had frustrated me. And that had confused me, too. I would only get angrier.
Then I turned to the wall of my bedroom. There was that picture of the study room. It did look like the study room… but I could see all the flaws in it now. I should try it again. I thought it funny, that the centre was an office chair. I would retain that feature, I would.
But in the main, my drawings were still secrets.
I always wondered, still, about Carlin Steele. Not that I would see him, no, not at anytime soon. There had been a five year jump to separate us. He was not likely to come back now, and neither the girl, the little girl, the growing woman. That is right. She would be thirteen by now, just like me.
Thirteen. It sounded amateur. I should have been forty, so I felt it. I was tired… tired… really, I was just tired. I had no freedom of speech, so I created it myself and then I would get punished. Anything that I’d had to say would have been negative, or derogatory. And there had still been not a sign of Father in my life. Because today Mother could not attend us. She had left. Upon leaving she had assigned my big sister in entire control. I could understand, and did not mind that. This place had become empty, emptier as each day would pass by. It was the more we were divided and the more we would depart. So Ambrosia had been chosen. There had not been much choice. Mother… she was not fondest of Ambrosia. Oh well, oh well. She would use her when she needed her.
Dirty, was my Mother. I had grown to despise her. Anita Janet Jacobson. And now she would not stay to receive the young man of her son, her eldest, and her own. She would go, far away. Well, that was good. Good. Go. I thought.
Go.
She denied me everything. And of course, there would be one to inherit this property. Oh they were on their way, Anita and elusive Father Frank. So Benjamin is doomed here; he will inherit this big house, this big, but grand, but ugly monster of a desolate place. It was just the place, just the place that would drive me insane. Why, because Ambrosia will leave, and she will live within the pig sty of a Campbell residence. And Matthew did not need this place. He would buy his own residence. But of course it was a luxury. Anyone would love it, would they not? No. Not me, not me. I did more than loathe this place. But then… if I did not want this, then what could I have wanted? I knew no more than this. Although I had been educated, so much and so beyond belief, I knew nothing because I knew no more than just four walls.
It was the way the globe would die to live, supposedly. But then… I had always felt too out of line, and I would hear all the people, they would talk about the roads, about the paving stones, about the street lamps and the parents and the teachers and the children and the schools.
I had been alienated. I was a different existence to all that.
Matthew would then soon be a doctor. He was coming, he was coming today. How had he managed a qualification? He was no thorough worker, was that Matthew. Then again I’d heard of parties. Not too hard, not too hard. But I knew nothing of that either. I was an artist, deep within I was an artist and I could not follow this. I felt my whole life had been a contract. I had not asked for birth, and then I reminded myself and I realized… C… Camille. She had been right, for always. All the blasted liars.
Liars. Liars. I hate, hate, and hate them.
The loneliness. All the influence that they had. It was all a big lie. They had signed away my future and had made it into captivity.
There was no longer an oblivious child, there to fight for a girl. There was not a boy who would stand in a hall with a doll in his hand and then mourn for its ailment, for a rip in a miniature dress. I now knew, in a way, in my world, everything about them. And yes, with age it was my business. I would leave this place, I would, and I pledged I would. They did not want to lose this place… well… precious, precious, precious house. It was not precious to me. Mother and Father, they would; they’d have to find somebody else.
It was all I had to thank my Grandma for. She had opened the door. I had been seven years old. But she had opened doors for other things too, because today, it was the age of mass information, communication, and entertainment, yes, most of all there was entertainment. Because in study rooms there had been more computers, and there was internet, and there was mobile phones. In my study room I had a second desk, faced away from the wall and the door; a little den of privacy where I would find my countless remedies.
Yes. Bodies. Bare bodies that would mingle and tangle and intertwine. There were the sweet, wet tongues that would run over skin and the plumpness of lips, and then the keenness of wh0res where the nails had been as cutting as pins. But that was the beginning. Oh yes, there was better. Of course I was very much drawn to visual things, as I always had been, as always I would be. And the more that I watched them the more I would urge, yes to return to my original creativity. But I had grown successful at scenery.
Yes better still, there was child p0rnography. There was the same mingle of the bodies but the adults and the children. I would have thought it would deter me, but no. And then a further hatred grew, for me…me… because she’d hated me. Camille, she had hated me. Look what she’d done to me. For now I craved the things I had hated.
And this was where it had gotten even, even better.
I would do a simple search, for the stories of abused children. And I had found a particular website, where a person could submit their own story of abuse rather by first name or anonymously. The website had been set up, I had noted, by a man called Adam Spencer. Well, he sounded like an average man. But the website was created in an attempt to help the suffering and maltreated to gain help and to get their stories out in the open. The stories, apparently… yes they were all real, but theoretically they would help others who had had similar encounters and so anybody could submit them. I would file through them, and observed that, as expected, the majority of them had been s3xual stories.
So when I got to one of these stories I would slowly read through it. Simultaneously I would undo my trousers and would move my hands over myself. Because this, this was where an evil man had been born. And then I had read through a comment that was submitted by Adam, and an extract of it I had etched on my mind. “There will be some people who will use this website for adverse purposes.”
Aye. That was me. And I had thought to myself, please refrain, no obsessions. For one day it could be… a major problem. In fact, if anything, it already was. The guilt, the remorse was unbearable. It was a brutal tug of war, between the strength of my conscience and the strength of my s3xuality. One day it would stop… it would stop… at least, one side it would stop. I would either continue without guilt, or I would stop and the guilt for the time would persist. Which one was the worst? I could not stand the thought of my outcome being filled with the bodies of strangers and the stories of sufferers. For when I would read all the stories I would blame all the victims.
But then I would always be down when I would go to do this. But when I left it I would only feel worse. Why? Why? I was drawn to something that just made my so sick, made my keyboard look so bitty and sickly that I could not swallow to touch it. I had typed every word. Every single one I could think of…
Oh that Adam… all the victims would have loathed me…
But now was not the time to think of that. Now it was the time I would suffocate that, I would smother it and cover it and forget all about it. Either way the spine of my alteration from childhood was all much a secret. It was only the aftermath that I had made visible. So I headed for the exit of my bedroom and I turned the small silver door knob. I noticed the little flecks of the brown on its surface and I thought it needs polishing. After a string of corrupted and now twisted thoughts it was all I could bring to my mind. I would wait in the big hall for the arrival of Matthew. It was likely, oh Anne Pretty would be there and Ambrosia… and Ambrosia would bring Mike.
Mike Campbell was a wonder of my life. I had never really seen him properly. I would now. I would see him now. In a way it had gutted me… I did not want to see him… I could not see people for I had degraded myself. I did not want Matthew to now see it, after all these years and years and years I had missed him but now… I was a wreck. I had sailed and I had crashed. And now I would burn in the dark of his eyes. I would act and I would pretend. I was the boy that he had left, I was just older, I’d convince myself and he would see no difference. I wondered too, what he would know of me, of course, for now there was technology, but not just technology. It was advanced and widespread… it was advanced and widespread yes it was…
But then I doubted they would speak of me. Again, I was the cruel child; I had battered Steele’s Carlin. God, that day. It had stayed by me since.
On this thought I had entered the big hall, by the doors from the left side of the house. I was the last to be there. There was Anne Pretty, she was stood on my right, her now graying hair tied tight down her slim back in a lengthy plait and she was all dressed in white. It was a smart, white dress with neat darts sewn in down the front and a red belt around her waist. It was a dull, but rich sort of red. Then in my mind I was thinking, my, she looks like an angel. Then I thought of the white, the white shirt beneath the black of my jacket. She was looking at me, and she smiled slightly. I gave her a glare, but it was a glare that she recognized so she made no complaint.
She was a meek woman, in actuality.
And for a second time I thought of the incident with Carlin, and how it had changed Anne’s idea of me. On time… ugh, Camille, she had once mentioned that…
“Benjamin Jacobson is g4y. He likes to kiss other boys.”
Carlin Steele. And of course, my outburst made me man.
But Camille was a reoccurring thought, and she emerged and she breathed like a rancorous abhorrence. She was dead; she was a ghost and she was a part of my life everyday. Oh, she was gone but she still had a role to play. Then I contemplated something. My own death would mean very little. No one knew of me. I did not have power. I did not control anybody. There would be no one to release, and there would be nothing to believe.
So now my eyes met on Ambrosia, at my left. Today she was dressed in blue. It was cold yes, it was distance. We had not passed a word for the entire five years. And that was how each day had ended same. But she wore the same black make up. And it reminded me, I had not heard of, and I had not seen Swain, her potential secret lover. I pictured she had left him, or he her, or that time had let them fade. I hoped she’d stay with Mike, just because… even if… if it kept Samantha happy. And then my eyes had hit the man, and… they were wrong because, physically, he had not been as described. He did not seem as strong. He did not seem as handsome. But I imagined, by the hints on his face and the livelihood of his demeanor that his personality would then defy the all of that. He would have deserved it, Mike Campbell. Oh he had much deserved the praise, but me…
But for me his now new presence was a turning point. Slowly and steadily I was gradually breaking into the unknown. Seven years ago my presence today would have been most certainly barred or dismissed.
Then all four of us waited in silence. It was the norm, and the silence of the big hall. Then eventually, there was the ring of the doorbell. Then it was Anne, as the employed, who would step in to open the door.
Then my feelings began to change. I felt a strong emotion, quite commanding, begin to set in. It was Matthew… it was Matthew; how I’d missed him, my brother, only brother; how I’d died when he had left me. And the woman with her back to the door, she had comforted me. She was comfort no longer. Only video was comfort. Only my own, p3rverse world had been comfort where I existed alone. Now I could not have stood her, because I was not worth her, and as for every statement made it is correct, there is always a good reason.
Then the door had burst open, and then in the man entered. He was twenty seven. And he was not alone.
He had a woman, a small woman with thin bright blonde hair and a large rounded stomach… she was pregnant.
And he had been the same man. His face had not changed; he was still happy, like a snapshot of time that had kept there forever. Yes, that was it. I could have been trapped in a time warp. It was the one thing that had made me feel happy inside, and he had never let me down, and he had qualities, such good qualities. But there was one thing… one thing to override it. The similarity.
Camille.
For another time today she had come back to me, but it was this time in the form of my beloved Matthew. They had the same olive skin, and the same chocolate eyes, the same high cheek bones and the bridge of the nose. But they were different people. Then it brought me back to the thought of relations, and then it brought me to the thought of inbreeding. It was surrounded by a medley of sickening links.
I could not think like that of him… no… I couldn’t. He would not be like that. There was different air to his face though, because Camille’s had been sharp and then his had been soft, and they had individualized their expressions.
At the sight of her brother, Ambrosia’s face had then lightened, and then she had stepped further forward in the direction of him, and he had looked straight back at her and they had looked so more joyous as to see one another than they had ever done before. She was the first he had noticed. I was hiding, in the corner. Then it reminded me, it was Samantha’s corner. She had hidden here from Carlin when he’d bullied her. They had played for years without me. As far as I knew, they didn’t really come around anymore.
And I wondered that if still, she would miss me, and it made my heart ache. It would burst in my chest, all the voids and the missing… because it was what had brought it all, and the wrath and neglect…
Then as I gazed up from reflection again they were stood, Ambrosia and Matthew, in the centre of the hall, and yet this time they had both rushed towards each other, and now I had been left on the side. I imagined the figures parting of Samantha and Carlin. This hall had held all memories.
“Oh Matthew” she had cried, her fluent voice then echoing in the emptiness, and the world was a whirl of echoes. “Matthew it’s so great to see you back… Matthew”.
And her words had spoken for me. They released their embrace, and it was relative love. Normal love. It was love that should happen. Then she said it for him.
“Matthew I love you.”
I was glad for him because I was unloved. If I had gone, they would have praised. They would have said, yes, he is gone, the young boxer is gone. Gone. That meant dead to me, but it was they way they always put it and the way I used to put it.
They released other, and it was an everlasting, unforgettable moment. I noticed their own partners, on each side of the room. There was Mike, and he looked pleased for his Ambrosia. Then there was the other woman, and her face had stayed solemn. In fact… she almost looked emotionless, but then so did Ambrosia. Some people just did not have the face for the feeling. At times I was sometimes one of them.
It was like the blossoming leaves of an evergreen plant, sprouting and winding round the room like the nature of the people within it, like the nature that I could not suppress. She had stepped back from him and then Anne had moved in and she was shaking his hand. I stayed, shadowy in the corner. It was then that I knew that I could not repress it. I was Benjamin Jacobson and I was a demon. I was distorted and malfunctioned. I was not the person he’d left here, because my natural attitude would let all its fiery rays shine through like the tentacles of an evolving creature I had carried in my stomach all these years. It had been like a gestation period, or a seed that would germinate and burst. It was the seed of hate.
Then Mike had stepped forward and he gave his “hi” like the common people. And then Matthew gave it back. They were all astonished. He had been mixing with his poor people, but nobody had said it. Well, they wouldn’t dare. It was also best that Mother did not know. Her return would be in months, and the months that were without her had not been without an emotional sense of luxury. His own partner still remained motionless. She had the strangest, pale eyes. They could have almost been white, but they were blue, like a glass of tap water. And that was it too, because they were watery, like a little ocean. And then Mike had made a gesture towards her, and he said:
“And this must be your wife, Diane.”
Still, she did not move. Then Matthew had laughed and said “Yes; she’s expecting.” I could not comprehend it; how was it not odd that she had not moved and she had not spoken? They were being accepting. She was dressed very dully, in a t-shirt and jeans.
There was a lot of commotion. They were speaking, and I was drifting further and further into my usual contemplation.
When I had next looked up Anne and Mike had been gone. As I did so, I met eyes with Matthew. I had heard the pair go, but I had thought nothing of it. And now he was talking to Ambrosia in a quiet tone, and yes, his eyes had met me. His wife still stood the same. It had occurred to me that no one had informed me of his marriage… in fact, no one must have attended his marriage. Ambrosia could have, or perhaps Mother, and there could have been days when I had not noticed their absence.
In fact, it was a definite question of when, but of course, as I know, I could not have guessed.
Now the man and the woman had parted, and they stood side by side. There was a matter of meters between Diane and Matthew. He began to approach me, and the feelings inside were unimaginable; I could not comprehend them because now they were so great they had become nothing more than a nothingness. Well, how could I react? He was standing there, right in front of me. Then he spoke up.
“Come to the stairwell.” He said, and he was staring me directly in the eyes. “I have heard nothing of you. Perhaps we can talk there.”
And Ambrosia was watching us. I just nodded, and then he turned back to her and added: “Look after Diane, Ambrosia. I will get back to you.”
“Yes Matthew.” She replied.
He’d said the stairwell. He’d made a similar choice too, because he resided there too and there was everything too for now him and Camille. Except for their intentions. So I followed him out and as I glanced behind my shoulder I saw Ambrosia then advancing towards Diane, and Diane looked at her without a glitter or reaction in her eyes. We were climbing the stairs and we came to the platform again, on the middle of the stairwell. Then he slumped in his usual seat. Yes, it was a picture of a once upon a time. Ignorance, it had been bliss. But this life was no fairytale. This life was tale of a lack of direction and of torment and of dying. But for Matthew… well, I stress it could have been a story of success.
There was the pale light, once again that was streaming through the window and then highlighted the tan of his skin. Yes, this was the lair of the tanned and the dark and the olive, and the H3ll of the pallid and the dusky. But here we were, and he said something.
“How is life?”
How is life? Since when? Since he had left it started with… oblivion. A hole where he was gone and then confiding with old Anne, and then there had been her sickness. And then there was the predicament, and the horror of Camille. Then there had been her death, and then the parting with Samantha, and the rejection of Ambrosia. And then there had been the ultimate remoteness and seclusion.
Then there had been his return.
And for all of this I could only say one thing.
“OK” I answered him. “And you?”
“Brilliant.” He responded immediately and enthusiastically, his big, brown eyes widening with eagerness. “Eventually I will move away, a bit closer to Father. Then I can start work and making money. What do you think?” He peered closer at me, and he too, his eyes now coated in thickening moisture looked so pleased to see me. I did not think that he should, but if he thought so and it would not harm him then I supposed I’d carry on. So I said:
“That is good.” Well, he was lucky. Then I thought, perhaps I ought to touch on something. “And you’ll have a wife, and a baby.”
And then I pictured Diane. And when I returned my own gaze once again to him I could see her picture in his eyes too, because the wetness could have looked sad and it also could have looked like Diane. It was a very sudden modification of his mood, and for a moment I thought I might have regretted mentioning it. He was the only person that I would regret that for. He was leaning forth, his medium build and height looming in his crouching position, and then he had responded.
“Yes I will.”
It was unusual for Matthew. He was normally a book that was spilling with words. And there was a forlorn element and a quick strike of mourning in his voice that I had never heard before. Was he just in love? Then I was thinking, maybe I should carry on. I wanted to find out. Funny as it was, because ordinarily I was never this persevering when it came to direct contact with other people, but I trusted Matthew, I really, honestly, to the bottom of my heart trusted Matthew. Despite everything, this conversation still would be hard. He had actually missed it. He had actually missed a literal half of my life, so where could we start? What could we say? In fact, he had missed more than half of my life, just a bit, but it was more. Even still, there was connection, and for once I felt another line had been drawn, swift and pulling between the two of us. I went for it.
“Is she coming with you?” I required courteously. Then I folded my hands in front of me, and then it struck me I was acting. I was acting, sweet and polite. I wanted to keep in the dark, just to keep him away from the unfeeling b4stard that my bad life had created and had molded with its clever, crafty hands. He nodded back to me slowly, and then he expanded his now previous answer.
“Yes. But I doubt she’ll last for long.”
I was shocked. What… what could he possibly mean? Oh God no, not another complication. Did he mean she did not love him? Did he mean… what could he mean? He had not waited long before continuing his explanation. He would then spare me all the pain of asking.
“She is not healthy. She has dementia, and now she may not last for long. But I can give her some children. And then maybe one day I will care for them without her. She is not set to go soon, though. But eventually she will.” He had spoken with no sighs, just straight forward, simple words with their own meaning. He was an optimistic, he was very optimistic. He had described it all, and everything summed up as all “brilliant.” And it was killing me, for I knew that as soon as he was back he would be gone again and this time it would be forever. He would be away, he would disappear and he would be like Father. He was going to leave me here… but oh; I could not stop him… no… I would sponsor his success. But my Father was as good as dead to me. I had no father, not really. I just only hoped that Matthew would then take his children and his wife overseas with him and then they could have a father.
But no matter what did happen I would always remember him, and I wanted him to have the best. But it puzzled me; why had he married her? Was it pity? Well of course, of course that is why I did not know. Maybe Matthew felt the same way that I did; I had faith in him, and only him that he would do as best for his family. Maybe Matthew felt the absence of his father, and the father that we shared as a family that we were. But this was it. This could be my last conversation with the brother that I had loved, forever and ever and ever.
And then we had been family, as a family that we should be and he would never be apart from me.
Never. And the look in his eyes on this moment would be a stain on my heart and never, never, never would I let him pass me by. |
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