THE HARDEST THING IS WAKING UP THINKING THAT everything had changed.
The usual text messages in the morning had been filled with agonizing silence. Those calls of laughter’s in the afternoon had been sufficed with appalling awkward puns… and that little lifts of joys when you think that there’s someone special, smiling, warmly… that you expect to came at your doorsteps outside your porch every cold, lonely nights.
The last thing you know, you’re invisible… and invincible, to all of that good ol’ stuff that comes your way. That numbness and that bleak space in your heart had been filled with irrelevant hopes of effervescent thoughts that maybe, all of those good times may come back in succession.
But it’s over… completely done.
“Eben… Eben! My head hurts, where you are!” Maro tried to recall the happenings of the past six months, yet it was a complete abstract. In all that has happened, to him, he had been just. He had acted faithfully… while we all did wrong. To his surprise, it was Ian Moone who greeted him, a “Happy morning to you my dearest cousin.”
The hardest thing is when he doesn’t understand, right, even if he tries all his best to know everything about you.
And the worst thing is when you both don’t understand each other’s own superficial words. “Did you have coke? Or just plain weed?” Ian handed a tray full of New York bagels and a coffee mug with lot and lots of cream bubbles. “It will help you sober up. Oh by the way…” Ian tried to feel his pocket thought there’s nothing on it. “Let me get that for you later, its still on the mailbox.”
“What’s the best thing? Is it when you discovered that you need to accept that you won’t understand him but you still love him no matter what or when the loyalty that blinds the two of you had faltered by dishonesty that was brought by loyalty?” Maro asked, with the silver tray resting between his soiled thighs. “His word was in my heart like a burning fire shut up in my bones… I was weary of holding it back.”
Ian grunted while staying a drilling eye contact to this perished saint. “Jeremiah chapter twenty, verse nine… are you still trying to ask a question my dearest cousin Maro?”
“Am I?” Maro said, yet it’s more of a respond to his own inquiry. “You always tells me that you envy those things that I have, that I have enjoyed my life so much that it sometimes hurts, that I don’t deserve it whatsoever. I love adventure, so for me, having this comfortable life in a way prepared me to be hungry. I’d rather run into the woods trying to survive, than to be trapped in this kind of society where the sun never persist in rising. It is weirdly similar, to action movies, it is an extension to the emotion of dying hard, though I’m not afraid of much… yet I’m pretty bad at being fearless. In such, I made myself stand.”
Ian didn’t listen to most of his words. Though he’s the guy most likely doesn’t listen at such mellow sentiments of those people who have lives to live. He is born cynical, believing in himself, and with a tiny pinch of magic, irrelevant and often tan not, insensitive. Born as much as a Beachwood tree, Ian could be expounded in one word… heartless, still there was something that makes his core melt into tiny bits of diamonds… it is, arts. “On the right wall, that was the only thing that I envy about you.”
“The feeling of Picasso…” This takes even Maro aback, “On the right wall, which is my only pleasure. My only one… I couldn’t give you that.”
“For sure you won’t. You’re superficially incapable of such.” Ian smiled bitterly, “Of course you won’t, that number is maleficent, from Picasso’s Rose Period… those circus performers from Paris knows that they we’re too precious to be held by me, I’m Ian Moone… I am no one. Dishonest and fearful, sometimes fear is not as important as hope… that fear is definitely not as strong as determination. Today is best played conservatively. Many of the risks aren’t worth taking. I used my head as an instrument and I’m not that impulsive. That painting is not an enough prize for me to compete. If there’s nothing to win by battling, I don’t fight.”
“But in your heart…” Says Maro. “You had set apart us, your family… you had always been prepared to give us an answer to everyone who asked you to give them reasons, for the hope that you have… you do this with gentleness and respect.”
“Who does not? Who does not lie in everyone’s face?” Ian said before he enclosed the door, but before he went unremembered, he grappled something on his teal colored robe’s deep pocket. “Here’s your letter.”
Ian throws a blue envelope on his bedside. “I thought you never… I guess… then you lied.”
“I do it on a daily basis.” Ian stepped his foot for the tenth time, until he hesitantly turned around. ”if you could see it… it’s from Craig.”
What has a head or a tail, but no body?
RSPECTING BOYS IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN TELLING HIM THAT HE’S BEAUTIFUL. That same day, he read a letter from the most undesirable person in which he never wants’ to have a conversation with. Yet after he divulged word by word, phrases to phrases, on every character that comes out on every paragraphs on that piece of tinted paper, Maro didn’t fell asleep for nine days. On the view deck of SS Tarny, docked at the Newport Beach, California, he revealed what Craig conveyed on his letter. He was talking to me in prayers, thinking that I could sense his agony, but I was busy hauling the ropes on the yacht so that we could be safe.
“He wanted me to see what real courage is.” Says Maro, still, holding Craig’s letter. “Instead of getting the idea that a man could have a gun in his hand, without having to point the pistol on his forehead, he wanted me to go back on Menlo Park, in Northern California, though he had lost it all… he wanted me to go back to his side.”
“You lick before you begin… do you always have to do that?” I said, asking myself why I had said that. I took the sweaty felt letter, entranced, I lifted it up with trembling hands… crumbling the piece of paper and giving it back to him eventually. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry Maro.”
“I’m no glad.” Says Maro, while starring at the blank pale colored sky, he said, “I haven’t dealt with anything as common as libel or some kind of sorts. I rarely win, he rarely does. I see it through that no matter what, I couldn’t be his company. He couldn’t hurt me, he lends me with secrets, but I do despise the pity of his voice. Yet, I do love the smell of his skin.”
“What are those secrets Maro?” I said, without noticing that I was already seating beside him. “Do you want me to have a pinky swear?”
Surprisingly, he subjectively discarded the paper out to the chary waters. “I know that you could only fall in love once, other feelings for love are not actual love. Attraction, aroused… so it’s either of the two where you have fell. I find the last one interesting,“ Unknowingly, he kissed my bare mouth, calumny dissipated the jaunting schismatic derision between us, subservient to the lampoon of a down-casted rotund of opprobrious unbecoming. I had a judicious sensation that all of my wounds had been healed. All of the scars, all of the rotten skin of a dead man speaking… my face, arms, feet and everything that could be scorned, contempt, disdain or mortified… was restored to its priggish prominence. “You could heal wounds, an angel could only do such… are you, a guardian?”
Maro took it with a silent nod of thanks, “As much as I wanted to say yes, I couldn’t… because I’m a ravenous falcon, with a man’s legs and feet. I’m a Fahrenheit, Anselm, I’m a Fahrenheit. I could heal people, just like you… though I’m still living.”
Spouting insults and physically attacking people, I got tired of winning the games, pretending that I was weak and helpless so he would ignore me. It turns out, that he had an exceptional ability to kill time, and break down silence. “Would you make me remember why I was sorry for you?”
“Yes, I could.” Says Maro, with a distinguishing gaze. “Sonoma had died, my aunt Sonoma Silver, the famous runway model from New York, the city of dreams and golden apples. While she’s partying in Elvis Presley’s Graceland State, on a fashion show event… she gauged to find a resting place on one of the jungle rooms of Elvis’s Mansion, to drink wine and smoke cigars. While seating at the frame of the windows brink, she was pushed to her death by an unknown perpetuator. That’s why I decided to go back to our house in Menlo Park, to see my family, to know the truth and to be there when the last will and testament of my aunt has to be pronounced. Whoever did this… that person will pay.”
“How did Craig know all about this… stuff?” I asked in pain.
“He is my father Anselm, he is also an Incubus.” Maro walked passed me, he opened his wings like an angry eagle. “Just like your father.”
I just don’t like spiders… they’re always up to no good. I never trust them no matter how big or small they are. They’re always going to crawl inside your head and plant baby spiders or some kind.
And I thought he was a spider. That’s how I sense him. I could use a turkey sandwich right now, but in the grand schema of life, I’m hungry for a diversified revenge. As an actor, I like playing different kinds of characters from kissing them one by one and making love with them two by two.
Going on different sorts of journeys, I told myself… going to bed with him is just a small price to pay.
I already forgot why I’m angry at them, the Wilkinson Brothers, but I always did… and I always will.
BECAUSE FOR THE RECORD, I HATE YOU MARO SILVER.
I HATE YOU TO HEAVEN’S SAKE.
NEXT CHAPTER… Episode 65: The End Game.