Rendezvous
14 March 06 : 02.14 AM
"You're my soulmate. We will sip chinese tea from the same cup, we will dress alike, wearing top hats under the sun and I will get a mohawk while you wear dangling earrings the shape of stars."
I get scared thinking that one day the memories I hold so dear will evanesce, and I don't have anything to remind me of it. That these things, people, events and places only make sense to me and one day I lose it, and it's as if, that memory never existed. It's like something tangible to you; you have a grave to remind you of the dead, and then you have a box full of memories. I want to laugh back at what I did, I want to think back fondly of the people I no longer know, I want to remember so many things that I can never go back to, I want to always, always remember.
I wrote a short story at fourteen for english class, but I so regretfully misplaced it, with only a portion of the script left in my computer. So it's feels like I'm losing a piece of memory. It was sad because the story showcased my style of writing at 14, it reminds me of early mornings when the sky is still bruised and I'm alone in class waiting for school to start, and mostly, it encapsulates my whole state of mind into one simple story, even though it doesn't reflect my life.
The story was simple; three best friends, Andii, Pierre and Dawn. Dawn injected speed and stole from high-class boutiques, but she wasn't bad, she donated blood and loved animals. So with the suicide of Dawn, the two best friends were left to make sense of a world that was so strange to them.
Pierre was a singer/songwriter, at a club called Euphoria, a place that Andii grew to hate. It smelt of cigarettes and danger and loneliness, the walls were covered with flamboyant paintings of naked women, people were dancing under the neon red and silver blue lights. It felt so cold in the forty degrees heat and she felt so inferior to the beautiful men and woman with perfect glossy bodies, she wanted to cringe back and pretend she wasn’t here. Pierre played an acoustic guitar, in a club of demon statues and Prince Albert piercings.
Andii's a painter. She paints life at its most raw and it spoke words the way even words could not. She tried painting her own images of the Grecian goddesses that Dawn had taught her, but all she could paint was Dawn's sad eyes and her bruised wrists. She remembers sitting out on the roof of an empty house with Pierre and Dawn, and they searched for the brightest star in the sky. She fell out with Pierre, who wouldn't stop singing at Euphoria and she was miserable within.
So for a long time, she stopped talking to Pierre. Until one day, she woke up, with a sick feeling in her stomach, and she knew something was wrong with Pierre. She ran all the way to his apartment, only to find him collapsed on his books, that used to stack up so neatly on the floor. He had foam spewed from his mouth, and his eyes were dry and he was shivering madly. What's happening, she was frantic, then she saw bruises on his arms and syringes strewed on the floor. Crystal meth. He was not moving anymore.
Andii opened her eyes. She was having one of those dreams where she died in, so she was awaken abruptly. She dialed Pierre's number, but nobody answered, but she kept hoping. Until one day, the line was cut, the mechanical voice of a woman telling her that the number no longer exist, and she could no longer deny the fact that Pierre is gone. Andii stopped eating completely. For days, she kept to herself in her room, but she could no longer bear to paint. She was overwhelmed with hatred for Pierre and Dawn, who'd taken the easy way out and left her alone. Then came the realization, then came the forgiveness. Then came the coming to terms with her rape, in Euphoria one night, which caused her to hate that place so much.
Cleaning out Pierre's apartment, keeping all of Pierre's and Dawn's belongings in a special place that was out of sight. Then there was singing at Euphoria and grabbing the audience the way Pierre did. There she saw standing in the crowd was apparitions of Pierre and Dawn, and they were pointing out the brightest star in the sky, and tonight, it was her. Then there was closure.
Anyway, my writing this is for a certain someone who'd told me that maybe having that bit of the story left and not all, adds significance to what's left, and that I should write about it-- a story that I once had. I must have missed out major details, but this serves to remind that although the past is real, it is gone, and perhaps meant to be that way. But the future? It's getting closer, dear.