Moineau Rouge VI

               More times in life, the difficulty lies in the small tests of endurance. With big calamities it is always a bit easier to be strong. You see we can be brought together when we experience something grand and tragic. However empathy so often fails us when it comes to the most mundane or ordinary of tragedies.

               These little struggles, the ones waged against the self, against doubt, pain, memory, and so many other little cruel factors. These weigh one down faster than even the most grandiose tragedy. When pain and mistakes become ordinary they seep into world and imbue it with a toxicity that chokes out light.

               And so I can remember Mathieu, he was waiting in that café. From a hangover to a broken heart. Marie and Jean had tried their best to soothe him, but his pain was deeper than words could find. It was passivity, and inaction that asphyxiated him the most.

               Passivity, in the sense he couldn’t do anything but wait. He could wait for Ana to return. He could wait for the day to end. And he could wait for just one more moment to crawl back up and into a bottle. It was a warm place. Yes, and it was the best he had.

               I can remember the voices of Jean, Marie, and Antony. They had words and sounds, but I can’t make sense of the phrases blended into a mixture of syllables. And they spoke as if in a different language to Mathieu, a language I still can’t comprehend.

               It was one based on hope, and an unlikely belief that things truly could get better. It was a hope that we could really get use to our smallness. And from this new comfort we were supposed to find strength.

               The difference was that when despair is new it is different. You move from pleasure to pain, and pain becomes a state of unrest. The real problem starts when you allow tragedy to become the norm. It becomes a daily reminder of our own desperate pleas to a very specific type of emptiness.

               And then it sets in, something beyond despair.  It is deeper. And within this new depth a person finds a terrible darkness within themselves. Every moment spent within it is one in which we float further away from those around us.

               And trust me, as someone gains access to this fresh hell, they realize the likely hood of being trapped within it.

               And I’m still trapped, in a hell deeper and colder than the one Mathieu knew on that day. For the Hell within us is often reflective of Dante’s Inferno. Although the middle of hell burns hot, its deepest depths are frozen wastelands.

               And the burn of those early days in our own despair and sadness fades to an uncomfortable coldness. A Tragedy that engulfs us as it seethes. It’s the difference between a cut that throbs and a wound that festers.

               Your best hope is to escape from sadness long before you plunge into its depths. Because, the truth of the matter is, it’s a lot easier to dive into despair than it is to climb out. And even if you make it out alive, you can’t remain unchanged.

               So the man sitting here alone in this café, staring into his empty glass can think back to the boy sitting there in this same seat reflecting on the immediate pain. Separation, Mortality, and a very new wound. Yet after years of these thoughts and their ever widening avenues of despair here I remain.

               Not sure if the sun will even rise today. Because if I was responsible for willing it to be so, than I would never see light again. For the abyss that I’ve so long traversed and explored has saturated me with its darkness, and in place of my blood is only ink. Ink enough t pen down these lines, and stave off one more night of despair.

Ana and the Gang

Ana and the Gang

With a smoking gun in her hand Ana smiled as the man’s body dropped to the ground. She dropped a pack of matches on the corpse, no words, just a pair of red lips. Her signature left on each kill.

               At that moment she had jet black hair and green eyes. She spoke English with a heavy Ukrainian accent, and this dead man had been her latest victim.

               Ana left the sight of the murder and went to her favorite bar. She ordered a glass of wine and stared into the red liquid. A man approached her and sat down beside her. Neither of them spoke. The man ordered a shot of tequila, and then handed the bar tender an envelope. The bar tender quickly put it under the bar, and smiled. Finally he spoke, “Don’t worry sir, your drinks on us!”

               Nodding, the man finished his drink got up, and walked away in silence. Ana blew him a kiss as he walked away. The bar tender handed Ana the envelope, she gave him a few hundred out of it and smiled. The bar tender spoke again, “Here are the keys to your hotel room.” She caught them, quickly finished her wine, and started for the door.”

               She checked into the hotel nearly a week later. It had taken her that long to prepare her move. Now Ana had blonde hair, and wore pretty blue contacts. She was speaking with a nice Midwestern farm girl accent. Sitting on her hotel bed, she thought it was time to order some room service. The waiter brought her a bottle of expensive champagne and some unintelligible dishes.

               Ana over paid him, and flirted heavily, advising him to come visit her when he gets off work, suggesting, “Maybe we could share some of this Champagne together.” The boy politely declined, and Ana was left a little annoyed. Leaving the food untouched, but emptying the bottle quickly she opened up the envelope. It contained four thousand eight hundred dollars. And it contained a name, printed on an index card, Peter Solomon Lyte.

Her next mark.

               

Sanglante de la Neige-VI

               Sanglante de la Neige-VI

He sat down at the bar. This was a man carrying the weight of many worlds on his shoulders. The waitress walked over to him. She had red lips and chalky pale skin. The man looked at her in silence. She blushed out of a little nervousness. Finally speaking the girl said, “Well boy? What will you have?” Trying to smile he spoke, “Get me some wine.” The girl nodded and disappeared behind the bar.

               At that moment, two men walked in. They sat at a table by the door. Only a few people would notice the subtle nod they gave the sullen man at the bar. The men ordered in Spanish. The waitress smiled, “Up from Florida are you?” The men smiled and the girl brought them some beers.

               The man at the bar got up and walked towards the two men with his wine. Each step carried with it the pain f endless indelible sins. He smiled and joined them in silence. The waitress came over and in a big southern smile spoke, “Ah! The sad French boy has some friends!” They still remained silent. “May I join you?” She asked. One of the Spanish men nodded and she sat down.

               Still talking, “Are you guys political exiles or something?” Finally Amin spoke, “Yes, we are Carlists fleeing from the turmoil in Spain.” Camille looked at him with disappointment, and then looked at the young girl, “What is your name dear?” She smiled, “Ana”. Camille looked at her, “Have you ever considered eternity Ana?”

               She laughed, “You mean like going to church and what not? Are you traveling priests?” Bashir laughed, “If priests were damned to hell and cursed for their crimes, then priests we are.” Camille and Amin looked at Bashir. The weight of these days seemed to hang heavier on him than anyone else.

               For Bashir, his loyalty was the only thing keeping him bound to Camille. Camille had saved him and his brother. They owed him their lives, but the unnaturalness of his sickness made this all the more painful. They had lived longer than a man ought to. And worse yet they had hardly aged. They were bound to him and this odd status granted them an extended life. But whereas Amin enjoyed this blasphemy, Bashir wore the pain of his soul on his shoulders.

               That witch had warned the boys that their souls were bound to their unnatural master. They were his familiars and would live longer than normal lives. And the corruption of the curse would draw them. As until now they had remained only his familiars, his assistants, but Bashir knew his brother had become increasingly interested in the idea of becoming like Camille. And Idea that nauseated Bashir. Yet he remained, torn and broken by the curse, but he was bound to Camille and his brother.

               Camille spoke, “No my dear, like walking across eternity, cursed but blessed.” Ana stared at him, a little scared, but she found comfort in his voice, it seemed to hypnotize her. Finally Bashir stood up, I will be returning to my room. He stormed off, and Amin looked to Camille.

               The night is young my dear, join us on a walk. Ana nodded and followed them in silent compliance.

              

Échec-Veronica Verie

Échec – Veronica Verie

               And as I walked up the stairs the answer was already in my head. I was too late. Whoever this was, whoever was behind that door, I couldn’t save this sorry person. I was just walking towards another corpse.

               A few officers ran ahead of me, they got my call. Rick walked up to me, “So by your pace I surmise we are too late?” I didn’t respond. Heck the only thing I wanted was a drink. A gin and tonic, a cold beer, a….One of the officers shouted, “She is dead.”

               I walked past the others, and stared at the corpse. She was beautiful. Or, she had been, when she was alive. Rick looked at me, finally he spoke, “Did you know her?”

               I nodded, “I saw her once.” Staring at the empty pill bottles around her I closed my eyes.

               Veronica Verie was a singer. I saw her perform once a couple years ago. It was a dim lit bar. I sipped my drink as we waited for her to come on stage.

               There I saw a woman walk up. She was pale and wearing a red dress. Her eyes were a steel blue. They were a stolen blue. She took them from a deep well of despair. It was a bottomless pit in which her soul seethed and her moments fleeted. She wore a depth of pain under that dress that cut through every inch of her.

               And as she spoke before the song you could hear days spent washed in booze and pills. Every moment of this woman’s life was unending despair that suffocated the hope out of each person she encountered.

               When she was fourteen she ran away from her home. Her father was an abusive drunkard. He had gotten worse after her mother died. Those early days of desperation and suffering brought about so many scars on a young girl’s psyche. These were wounds she would carry her entire life. And when she left she brought all that pain with her.

               Days spent waiting tables and pumping her veins full of junk. Nights chasing away the sickness and pain with a bottle. And all the while she was emptying her heart along with each drink. She was spending every cent on drink and drugs. And spending each moment wandering ever forward toward the inevitable.

               Her pain was as authentic as it was tragic. And who can really not love a tragic beauty a little bit. And so Verie’s skill and beauty only grew juxtaposed to her pain. All the while she only slipped further away. Veronica, a shattered woman, she was inching further into desolation.”

               Now I look at her lifeless body. She was lying on the floor. Next to her were empty bottles of pills and wine. Empty like she was now. There on the floor a beautiful woman destroyed. She was destroyed by her pain. Broken by days spent lost to the endless suffering that cascaded in her memory.

               I bent down on the floor next t her. Kissing her hand I put a sheet over her. Good night beautiful angel. The officers looked at me in silence, and finally I spoke, “Rick, this woman didn’t deserve this.” Staring at the ground I continued, “None of them do! Why the hell is it so dark in this world? Why are we so alone? If only she knew it wasn’t so bad. Those scars might never fade, but over time we can learn to forget them. Learn to forgive those who left them, and atone to those we left scars on!”

Rick interjected, “Jean, it’s not your fault!” Staring at him, “Rick, I wish I could have. I couldn’t save anyone, but why the hell do I have to deal with all this. Why is it me that they are drawn to? Every time one of these poor wretches dies I lose a little of myself. And now I’m losing more than ever.”

Rick wanted to speak again. I just looked at him and nodded. I walked out the store and out to the street. Staring at the pavement I began to think of those I lost already. Of my mother, my father, those friends and lovers, all of them fallen into oblivion. All the while I couldn’t help any of them. They died and I couldn’t save them. I was weak, as weak as them. So why do I go on?

Well at least I knew what drove me to march on tonight. Tonight it was only a vodka tonic for me. Yet, however maybe I could find more. Like that pretty woman that just smiled at me……….

Monte

               You do it a hundred times. You watch their eyes follow the Joker as he lands face down in the middle of the two red queens. You smile ever so slightly as they go to point him out. They hesitate. You pressure. They miss. You make money. People are their own worst enemies.

                I play with the heart and diamond bitches, my money card is the clown. “Find the clown and make a buck, he’s never in the same place twice,”… oh but he is. He’s in the middle. He’s in the middle every. Damned. Time.   “Care to try your luck?”

                The street was hot with people begging to give me their dollars, the winners walked away proud. I paid them to bring me more losers. It’s always a pleasure to do business.

I had a lurker today. She was a hot young thing who watched eight people out of ten pay me. Then sixteen out of twenty. I never let people just watch for that long, pay to play or hit the road. I’m no corner guitar man. But I let her watch. She saw my clown pay 17 people. He paid them from the same cozy spot between my ladies every time.

As the sun went down, the crowds started to dwindle. Nobody trusts a Three Card dealer in the dark. But before I packed up, I called her over. She’d already had a nice little quip worked out. Of course she did, she knew I saw her there. She’d said the same simple thing again and again in her head for at least the last hour.

“You and me, let’s play,” she smacked a moist hundred dollar bill on my platform and smiled at me.

I said, “Dollface,” she liked that, “magic man don’t play checkers. I play chess. And I only use three pieces.”

“Lay ‘em out,” she picked up my speech patterns. Good. Mirroring. She’s trying to build rapport, but I’m always one step ahead. I scratched my nostril and her nose itched.

“One, two, three,” face up diamond, Joker, heart, “Find the one in the middle.” I pointed at my clown and told her exactly where to find it. “One, two, three,” my cards were face down. Enigmas.

“Before we get started,” let’s make this game interesting. I pulled out my hundred in tens and laid it on top of her bill. “As always, it’s winner take all.”

“But?”

“But if you win … I’ll give you my cards.”

“And if I lose?” Flirt.

“I take you back to my place and we play a different game.” I looked her right in the eye, and smiled.

“Deal.”

Silence

Silence

Sometimes silence slices deeper,

Leaving lacerations exposing our bones,

Revealing the naked reality of what we are,

Exposing the ruins of who we were.

 

And when the cold passes,

It sinks into our veins,

Pumping silence and imbuing despair,

All the while signifying nothing.

 

Deep, dark, and desolate,

Yet silence cuts across the darkness,

And the words left yet unsaid,

They mock the thoughts wasted in my minds.

 

All the while my days shorten,

And my pace slackens,

So I watch the moments sail by,

And I stitch the cuts closed.

 

Ana the Ripper

          Daddy, are we going to be on this boat much longer?” Young Ana said to her father. He laughed, butchering some French as he responded to his daughter. “I'm an envoy for the British Parliament to the French President.”. Ana rolled her eyes, “Don't you think those cheap bastards could book us a more luxurious room for travel though?”

            Ana's father laughed. His daughter had grown so beautiful. Her French mannerisms reminded him of her mother, but the poor woman had died a few years back. Some strange disease they picked up traveling in the orient. For his part the man had gotten his daughter the best education and primping English pounds could buy.

            It did however annoy him that out of all her courses, all Ana seemed to enjoy was the medical sciences. For his part he hoped if she remained devoted to it, at least he could hope to move her towards botany. Her father planned to marry her off to a nice English gentleman, hopefully he could even make a great profit off of the union.

            As they stared into the murky channel waters Detective Solomon Light was going to see his girlfriend. A beautiful Irish woman named Marie Jeanette. Marie was a kind young girl. She had pretty red hair and treated the detective quite well. He always told his friends at the pub, "If only my job wasn't so dangerous, if only I was a merchant or something, then I could really make an honest woman out of her."

            Yet, Solomon knew that if he died in action that it would break Marie's heart. And of course now that Solomon had been visiting her so much people have been calling her a common prostitute! "Musing to himself, my Jeanette? A prostitute? How dare they!"

            When he arrived at Marie's she put on the tea and fixed Solomon's dinner, "You spoil me Marie". She smiled, "Oh Solomon, you are an angel." As the tea boiled Marie planted a kiss on Solomon's forehead and they sat down to eat. And as Solomon sat happy and in love Ana's father was introducing her to some minor nobility.

            The count smiled, "I'm a count in Austria! My family can be traced back to Charles V!" Ana's father looked amazed, "Charles V you say? Have you met my daughter?" Ana walked over filled with boredom. Her father put his hands in the air gesturing, "Introducing, Lady Ana de la Malfleur!" Sarcastically Ana took a bow but barely looked at the old Count. "He is fat she thought, and the night rolled on. And as the people went the darkness hung in the air. The stench of death sat upon it like smoke rising.

            And when Solomon showed up at work the next day he was aghast! The officer walked up to the detective and spoke softly, "Polly Nichols has been found dead. A working girl. Her throat had been sliced and her body mutilated." Solomon stepped into his office feeling ill. It was days like this that he dreaded most.

            In the salon the old British women were chirping about the news, the look of boredom hung over Ana's head. Her father was rambling to more high class types, but the entire day seemed to drag on endlessly.

            Staring at his desk it felt like it had been ages since he had thought about anything but these horrific murders, "Nichols, Chapman, Stride, and Eddows. The trend was alarming. Who would be next?" An officer walked in, "Sir, you've been at it for days, what don't you get some rest. Go see that woman of yours, I'm sure she would love some protection tonight." Solomon stared at him, "You are right, I am beat."

            Sitting in her room reading an anatomy book Ana glared at the door. Her father had been keeping her under strict lock down because of the murders. He was worried, but she couldn't take the boredom for much longer. And so Ana climbed out of her window and headed out for the night.

            Solomon walked slowly, listening for people talking trying to hear rumors. A City besieged by fear. All London was a roar with the news of the murders. Terror gripped everyone, and all Solomon wanted to do was kill this whacko and bring peace back to his home. He decided to hurry toward Marie's. "Intuition" he thought.

            And there Marie was, murdered, torn to pieces by this demon. A monster from hell, Solomon was sure as the tears were flowing he caught sight of a man leaving the sight, "Stop he yelled!" The man kept running so Solomon bolted after him. They ran through the night, finally the man stopped along a bridge.

            Solomon spoke, "Sir, I need you to come down to the station for some questioning. Marie Jeanette has been murdered, you were in the area!" The man remained silent, and Solomon's rage boiled, "Who are you? Do demons have no tongue?" And then the man took off his hat. Long black hair fell. It wasn't a man at all. Ana smiled.

            "Demon, why yes, I do suppose you can call me that, but I was just so interested to see what there insides looked like. And for that matter, I think I would like to see what makes you tic." Ana ran at him and slashed him once before he knew what hit him.

            Solomon leaped back. And Ana slashed again. She ran and jumped at him. He looked full of terror but knew he wanted to avenge his love. So he took another slash, but this time landing his hands around her neck. Ana drove her knife into him again and again, but his grip didn't loosen.

            As they got along the side of the bridge Solomon spoke, "I'm personally taking you back to hell demon, and he fell into the cold waters bleeding with Ana sinking unconscious. Solomon thought of Marie once more. He closed his eyes and drifted down, thinking of tea and warm dinner. As he slipped away he wondered why he had been fated to kill this young girl.