Undream the Echoes
Happiness in itself is a tragedy
Liam
11.09.2004
Isn’t it sad? Every girl just wants the chance to be loved by someone. Like really, truly loved. They want to feel the feeling that people would bleed for, would kill for, would die for. Every girl just wants a happy ending. And isn’t that sad? The hope for happiness in itself is a tragedy.
Even Elle has that hope. My Elle, the girl with the soul of steel, the girl that is so fiercely independent that it drives me insane, the girl I love to no end. Elle is not the sort of girl who is into fairytales. She never cries, save for two or three times in her life. She’s a huge bitch and she knows it and she doesn’t give a damn. Nothing can faze her; she hardly has any emotions, or at least she doesn’t show any of them. And yet she, like every other girl, wants nothing more than to be loved.
She’s got her wish – she has me and she knows that I have beat the shit out of everything and everyone in my way to win her over (though I still can’t believe she chose me) – but what she doesn’t know yet is that this does not have a happily ever after. This has more of an I-m-leaving-you-too-soon-and-I’m-sorry sort of ending. Right now she’s blissfully happy, swimming in her ignorance, thinking that the rest of our lives together are full of mystery and surprises. But I know how our story is going to finish; the only mystery left is how long I have left. But I am afraid to tell her. I am too cowardly to shatter her hope. I’m just here to give her anything and everything she wants just so that she’ll keep loving me. If I tell her the truth, then what? Would she love a dying man? Could she? Or will she leave? I don’t think I could blame her if she did.
“Elle.” The sound of my voice causes her eyes to meet mine. I don’t really have anything to say; I had just wanted to taste her name on my lips. I smile at her across the kitchen table and she smiles back, still chewing on her eggs. The skin around the corner of her blue eyes crinkle, folding her young, beautiful face into the same smile I had fallen head over heels for nearly six years ago. She has so much fire left within her, so much life. I stare at her for a long minute and I want to say I’m leaving you but instead all that comes out is, “Can you pass the salt?”
We finish our breakfast in silence, save for the occasional hiccup from Elle. She has a thing with hiccups and gets them every morning at around eight for whatever reason, I don’t know. I think it’s adorable but when I tell her that she hits me and says that if I ever call her adorable again she’ll strangle me in my sleep. I tell her everyday anyway. And I have yet to be strangled. So I think she likes being called adorable, even though she’s too damn stubborn and dignified to admit it.
Our morning routine continues the same way it does every morning. I go for a run, and since it’s her turn to make the bed she does so and then takes a shower. Then I come back and take over the shower and she gets dressed. By the time she’s done doing her hair and makeup, I’m fully clothed and we’re both ready for work; it’s always the same perfect timing. The two of us are ready leave but we have a good five minutes before we really need to walk out the door. Dawdling in the doorway and shuffling her feet, Elle looks up at me shyly. I grin back at her, trying not to laugh at how she can still be so bashful even after three years of being married. I know what she wants. But I’m going to make her ask for it.
“Well. I’m off then,” she says and then takes a step closer to me, putting a small hand on my chest and lifting her face up for a kiss. I lean down and give her one, soft and swift. “See you at dinner,” she says and then twists the doorknob – oh hell, she’s such a fucking tease.
I give in first. “Come here,” I say and swoop her away from the door. I pin her against the wall and crash my lips against hers, initiating a kiss that is much longer and much less softer than the first one. When I pull away we are both out of breath, and then a look passes between us that is very similar to the way we looked at each other in our first year of dating.
“Can you be late for work?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
When we’re done it really is time for work. She’s cursing about how I made her late again and how her damn sex drive is going to get her sorry self fired one of these days, but then I pinch her ass and she squeals and we both laugh. I give her a short kiss again before we get into our separate cars and take off. I linger behind just to watch her zoom off ahead of me. What would it be like if I was in her place? What if I had to be the one left behind, if I had to watch her go on without me to a place where I cannot be by her side? Would I be able to survive it? No. Of course not. I wonder how she’ll be able to manage. She’s a strong girl, she’ll find a way to keep pushing forward, or at least that’s what I tell myself to feel at least a little bit less guilty. This isn’t going to be one of those things she can give up on; she can’t turn around and say, Oh, this is too hard, let’s go back to the way things were before all of this happened and you and I can be happy again. Because the truth is that’s impossible and I won’t be there to be happy with her. She’s going to have to endure the pain that is to come because it is inevitable, because I am dying and there is nothing to stop this from happening.
And she still doesn’t know. Isn’t it sad?
11.09.2004
Isn’t it sad? Every girl just wants the chance to be loved by someone. Like really, truly loved. They want to feel the feeling that people would bleed for, would kill for, would die for. Every girl just wants a happy ending. And isn’t that sad? The hope for happiness in itself is a tragedy.
Even Elle has that hope. My Elle, the girl with the soul of steel, the girl that is so fiercely independent that it drives me insane, the girl I love to no end. Elle is not the sort of girl who is into fairytales. She never cries, save for two or three times in her life. She’s a huge bitch and she knows it and she doesn’t give a damn. Nothing can faze her; she hardly has any emotions, or at least she doesn’t show any of them. And yet she, like every other girl, wants nothing more than to be loved.
She’s got her wish – she has me and she knows that I have beat the shit out of everything and everyone in my way to win her over (though I still can’t believe she chose me) – but what she doesn’t know yet is that this does not have a happily ever after. This has more of an I-m-leaving-you-too-soon-and-I’m-sorry sort of ending. Right now she’s blissfully happy, swimming in her ignorance, thinking that the rest of our lives together are full of mystery and surprises. But I know how our story is going to finish; the only mystery left is how long I have left. But I am afraid to tell her. I am too cowardly to shatter her hope. I’m just here to give her anything and everything she wants just so that she’ll keep loving me. If I tell her the truth, then what? Would she love a dying man? Could she? Or will she leave? I don’t think I could blame her if she did.
“Elle.” The sound of my voice causes her eyes to meet mine. I don’t really have anything to say; I had just wanted to taste her name on my lips. I smile at her across the kitchen table and she smiles back, still chewing on her eggs. The skin around the corner of her blue eyes crinkle, folding her young, beautiful face into the same smile I had fallen head over heels for nearly six years ago. She has so much fire left within her, so much life. I stare at her for a long minute and I want to say I’m leaving you but instead all that comes out is, “Can you pass the salt?”
We finish our breakfast in silence, save for the occasional hiccup from Elle. She has a thing with hiccups and gets them every morning at around eight for whatever reason, I don’t know. I think it’s adorable but when I tell her that she hits me and says that if I ever call her adorable again she’ll strangle me in my sleep. I tell her everyday anyway. And I have yet to be strangled. So I think she likes being called adorable, even though she’s too damn stubborn and dignified to admit it.
Our morning routine continues the same way it does every morning. I go for a run, and since it’s her turn to make the bed she does so and then takes a shower. Then I come back and take over the shower and she gets dressed. By the time she’s done doing her hair and makeup, I’m fully clothed and we’re both ready for work; it’s always the same perfect timing. The two of us are ready leave but we have a good five minutes before we really need to walk out the door. Dawdling in the doorway and shuffling her feet, Elle looks up at me shyly. I grin back at her, trying not to laugh at how she can still be so bashful even after three years of being married. I know what she wants. But I’m going to make her ask for it.
“Well. I’m off then,” she says and then takes a step closer to me, putting a small hand on my chest and lifting her face up for a kiss. I lean down and give her one, soft and swift. “See you at dinner,” she says and then twists the doorknob – oh hell, she’s such a fucking tease.
I give in first. “Come here,” I say and swoop her away from the door. I pin her against the wall and crash my lips against hers, initiating a kiss that is much longer and much less softer than the first one. When I pull away we are both out of breath, and then a look passes between us that is very similar to the way we looked at each other in our first year of dating.
“Can you be late for work?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
When we’re done it really is time for work. She’s cursing about how I made her late again and how her damn sex drive is going to get her sorry self fired one of these days, but then I pinch her ass and she squeals and we both laugh. I give her a short kiss again before we get into our separate cars and take off. I linger behind just to watch her zoom off ahead of me. What would it be like if I was in her place? What if I had to be the one left behind, if I had to watch her go on without me to a place where I cannot be by her side? Would I be able to survive it? No. Of course not. I wonder how she’ll be able to manage. She’s a strong girl, she’ll find a way to keep pushing forward, or at least that’s what I tell myself to feel at least a little bit less guilty. This isn’t going to be one of those things she can give up on; she can’t turn around and say, Oh, this is too hard, let’s go back to the way things were before all of this happened and you and I can be happy again. Because the truth is that’s impossible and I won’t be there to be happy with her. She’s going to have to endure the pain that is to come because it is inevitable, because I am dying and there is nothing to stop this from happening.
And she still doesn’t know. Isn’t it sad?