Wednesday, January 01, 2014

The Abandoned, The Murmurings of It All

Sitting in a dark corner bar, kissing you and thinking about all the things we will be doing together, asking the barman for two shots to take in the name of love… Doing what we do best.

I look back and I see myself. I see myself staring at me with eyes filled with big and small dreams. I was fourteen, impatiently waiting for the love of my life to arrive and to put me on a white horse and take me to the land of the amazing. I was fourteen and wearing Band-Aid on my nipples before putting on a dress to prevent the painful touch of the dress against my growing breasts. I was standing in a red dress that my mom had brought me from America where my cousins were said to live happily ever after, the land of the free, the land of big dreams, the land where Daddy always talked about with love and nostalgia.

Sitting in a corner bar, already well over the glamour of the land of the free, sitting there with you and living away the last hours of the year.

Sipping on your beer with much eagerness, you were telling me to set free, to not live to abide by all the freaking rules under the sky, to let my words out without aborting them like a fetus doomed to die unborn. You were almost yelling at me: “Azadeh, stop killing your mind. You have to let go. You must let go”.

The fourteen year old was standing behind the glass and watching me with her curious, adolescent and lustful eyes. She was free, a lot freer that I am now in the land of the free. She did not yet understand the true meaning of the word “consequence” in any language. She just didn't yet have a sky to fly in, but in her little tiny room located in a dictatorial spot on Earth, she would let go without even realizing what it is to let go.

The fourteen year old was looking at me. Your voice faded away in the land of the abandoned. I wondered if she wants to be me when she grows up or maybe a lot more famous and glamorous than me. The fourteen year old always had these dreams in which she would be on a stage with thousands of people cheering for her. She did not know why they were cheering for her. Nevertheless, she would proudly wave at the crowds.  So, maybe she did not want to become me sitting and chatting away 2013 in a dark quiet corner bar hiding in the arms of a man from Mars whom had become the most real thing on Earth to her. Regardless, I could tell in her eyes that a sense of familiarity, her institution perhaps, was attracting her to me. As if, she knew I was her.  

You were holding my shoulders and with your sweet colorful eyes you were staring into my eyes and tirelessly and loudly singing the same song, “You need to tell the world what’s up! You know what? Forget about the world! Tell me what’s up! You have been quiet for enough years. You have some shit to say. I know you do. You gotta talk! You know this world is not real. Nothing is real.” Knocking on my head, you continued, “This world inside this round head is all there is, it is the only real thing. Describe it”.

Unable to respond to your passionate plea, I looked away, trying to kill your voice that was interrupting the world of the abandoned, the world I have shared with no one for ages, not even with myself. The world that I see no point in sharing or to even bringing back to life. What’s dead is dead. The dead belong to the land of the forgotten. It’s a sin to bring them back to life. They don’t belong. We are all dead. We don’t belong. We just think we do.

The fourteen year old waved at me. Finally, she waved at me. She was real. I kissed you on the lips and excused myself to step out for a second. The fourteen year old was so happy to see me. I went up to her and said, “Hey”. Quietly smiling, she stepped forward to hug me. I hugged her. She smelled like my god damn room. My, how much I loved that room, that world, that universe. She smelled like Daddy’s cologne. She smelled like Mom’s old red lipstick, the one that I used to steal every time she was away. The fourteen year old was unwanted, the fourteen year old was terror, she was misery. She had to go. She had to die forever. She had to go.

The fourteen year old smelled like the candles in my room, the candles that Daddy was convinced will one day set our home on fire, since I loved falling asleep in their dim light every night. Her new red dress smelled like Mom’s suitcase, the one she loved the most when she still didn't yet hate suitcases.

Thinking that I was caressing her kindly in my arms, I let go of her to realize that I was beating her up this whole time. Her nose was bleeding; her eyes were filled with rage and humiliation. Waking up to my own crime, I beat her up even more until she ran away in terror while bleeding from her nose and her back. Just before she ran away, I grabbed her irritatingly naive face in my two hands and told her to die, to get lost forever. I told her that her naivete, her calm sense of belonging and her dreams bother me, that the thought of her makes me nauseous.  She only looked in terror. She never talked. I wonder if her voice was similar to mine.

Watching her run in disbelief and looking down at my bloody hands in despair, you stepped out of the bar for a smoke. With your usual smile, you kissed me and said, “Watching some young professionals pass by on this fine New Year’s Eve, madam? Indeed, indeed”, you mocked my usual “sophisto” talk and you laughed. I love your laugh. It’s the laughter of a child, something that you manage to preserve again the storm of adulthood.

I don’t know if you saw what I just did. Regardless, you have always been my partner in crime. I rest my head on your shoulder and tremble at the insanity of all times, of everything that runs by us faster than we can ever comprehend. I wanted to show you my bloody hands and to tell you why I don’t speak up, why I fear speaking up, but I didn't. Knowing you, even blood on my hands wouldn't convince you. I will speak up, somehow someday somewhere. I will.

The fourteen year old grew up last night with blood all over her face. She needed some pain that made her forget the pain of her breast growing underneath her dress. I helped her. We all grow up. We all die. So did I one night one too many years ago. I taught her rage last night. She needed to learn it. She will hate me all of her life. But, she will always remember me. Just like I always remember her, just like I thought of her for so many years before she set out to visit me from behind that corner bar last night.

“It’s cold outside”, I tell you. “Indeed madam”, you mock me. “It is rather chilly and all, indeed”, you mock me. We go back into the bar. You take one more shot and you quietly humor the couple who were sitting next to us. “You see, the girl doesn't give a shit. The poor guy is going to go to bed all alone. He looks 12 to me”, you say.  “What do you think, madam?” you mock me. I say nothing while smiling at your silly statement. “Rather indeed, madam”, you mock my silence.

“Happy New Year, YO!” you say before kissing me. “Happy New Year, sweetheart”, I say to you. “sweeeeeeeeeeetheaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaart!”, you mock me.

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