by Rachel Nimeth
Don't go, baby...please don't go
I watched her face then, at the one moment when I thought that we would live forever, that nothing could ever harm us. Her fingers were curled around mine, gripping them tightly. But now that I replay this in my head, I know that it was just my imagination. She didn't have the strength to hold my hand, or talk, or even breathe.
Come on, M&M, hold on just a bit longer
As I was slowly breaking my promise to her, she let out one last breath.
This was the day that Beauty died.
It's been a thousand years since I've seen her face, although the portrait of her that I hold in my head is as vibrant and glorious as she was. I've been writing this story since I was reborn on the day Beauty died, but I fear that my time will run out as well before I ever have a chance to finish it. And though I wish to share my story with everyone, I don't think I'll have the strength or courage to do so. The nightmares of my yesteryear slowly replay again and again in my mind. They remind me every moment of every day that I lost, and gave up, the only thing I held dear. The children of our past dance to a solemn tune in my dreams. They play, and they laugh, and I'd laugh with them, but now they're both dead.
This was the day that the Man on the Moon sang his last song. The day that the Fairies and Nymphs stopped playing. The day that the stars stopped shining, and dreams stopped coming true.
This was the day that Beauty died.
My mind travels back to where I long to be. I can't stand the ache of my present, and I can't bear to face the ghosts of my future, so I run to my past. So long ago now that everything mixes and drips together, like fragmented drops of warm paint. I sit behind a two way mirror, chain smoking and watching myself as a child. I recognize that tattered little girl in old jeans and a shirt torn from fighting. She's sitting on a curb, alone in her world and her mind, when a new looking girl walks over. They see each other, recognize each other, and immediately know the other's language. Laughing, holding hands, they make a pact in that moment to always be there.
That was the day Beauty was born.
The years skip ahead like a bad movie. I see the two girls in a room, alone but for the dense air. The girl of glitters is sitting on her bed, talking on the phone like the teenager she longs to be. I sit on the window edge, pretending to be an outsider to the world I grew up in. Faded black jeans emphasizing the cigarette I hold in my swollen, red hand.
Please don't see me...just leave me like everyone else has
That was the day Beauty saw.
With my eyes closed, I can feel the approach of my story, bubbling in my mind like a rage, like a catastrophe. My hands are shaking, red and swollen like the tale I tell. When I open my eyes and look through the mirror, I see her and I at the party.
No, no, no. God, please, no
I walked out of a stale room, shame and disgust etched on my face for what I've just done. A man walks out behind me, much older, weathered and leathery face. His pants are unzipped still, a smug smile on his face. He had taken what was easily available, but he was still proud of himself. I watch myself walk up to the shining girl. "Please, baby...I just want to protect you. This isn't how your life is going to be. You're too damn good for this."
She wouldn't listen. She never did anyways. I watch myself walk away to gain the prize I had just earned for my sin. My veins ache for that poison. The marks on my skin are screaming for more...they demand and control me, those marks.
No! Don't walk away from her! Go back...please go back...
My eyes now closed, visions of black and gray jump and dance in my mind. Whisps of foggy delusions, clutching my senses like a bird of prey. My whole body relaxing as the poison seeps through to my core...to my very soul. In the other room, I don't see the girl of moons go down the same path as I. Hours and years and eras leap by me, and I awaken to the parasites I called my friends. I feel empty, sore, bruised from the inside out. I see her asleep on the couch, and I think to myself how beautiful she is. Her long blonde hair splays about her head and the dirty pillow it's resting on. I can see her eyes fluttering, and I think she must be dreaming. I kneel beside her and stroke her head, allowing my calloused finger tips to linger over her face.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine
You make me happy when skies are gray
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away
"Come on, baby, time to wake up. Let's go home. Baby?...baby??"
No, no, no! No, wake up. Please wake up
She doesn't move. She doesn't see, talk, or breathe. I hear myself yelling for an ambulance. The dumb critters stand motionless, numbed by whatever they have boiling through their blood. My hand on hers, my body shaking, rocking back and forth, I make a vow I will forever regret.
"I promise on my life, baby, I won't let you go. I can't let you go. Please, M&M, stay with me for just a few more minutes. Help is on the way. I promise I won't let you go, M&M..."
That was the day Beauty died.
I watch myself a day along the story. I'm bound up in my room. Door locked and as dented and bruised as myself. The blood that spreads slowly across my wrist seems surreal to me, like a hand other then my own had done that deed. The razor I hold seems nothing more then an aspirin, a pain reliever. Tears, sweat and blood mix together like an ocean formed out of agony and loss. The whispers in my head taunt and tease, never once allowing me to forget what I had done to an Angel. For three days I placed the blame on everything and everyone I could, just to ease the hypodermic guilt that plagued me. That was the day I died along with Beauty.
And now as I sit here at this tired desk, reliving what I had sought so hard before to forget, I find myself weeping with an almost renewal. I've written this story so many times, and in so many different ways. It has always come out as something wrong, something I can only describe as other. She gave her life for me, and now I'm slowly giving my life because of her. I've no more feelings towards life or death. I've become contently indifferent to both. I took this story's birth as my sign from the Fates. My alibi, my solace, and my desolate haven. The scars that I wear are self inflicted, both physically and mentally. But these are wounds that inevitably get worse instead of heal. The faces of Angel's are everywhere. They hold no shape, no color, no mortal individuality, but they're there. They take from the living what they themselves could never have; compassion, trust, fear and hate. I can hear a tell-tale mock behind my deaf ear at night.
"I can see through you."
It's four years later now. My story leaps and jumps like a time machine. I see myself standing there, looking back at me. Her red and swollen eyes tell me that she's been crying, and I feel a tear drop to my quivering hand. The mirror is now reversed. I see my reflection; nothing more, nothing less. I hear the voices of my Judge's scolding my, deciphering my future. Shame and guilt rest heavy now in my blood soaked hands. Bowing my head, I accept my fate. That was just another day.
This story was written to remind myself what the power of another human being can do to you, your life, and your heart. I hope that someday I'll have the courage to share this with others...who knows. I never really realized until now what love could do to someone, and the extreme and profound consequences it can have on a person when that love is so abruptly taken away.