Only Ones Who Know
The Only
It starts with the dead.
It was wintertime in 1990 and there was Petra, staring aimlessly ahead. She was really beautiful, the way her hair slept like a cloud in the wind, her aquiline perfection of a profile. Her eyes always shut with a dancing grace, each blink a poised and controlled leap. She was just really, really beautiful.
I loved the way her lips wrapped around cigarette, sucking the shit out of it. I loved the way her nipples stuck out in the cold when she didn’t wear a bra, that there was something so inherently sexy about it. The way her wild mane cradled her face was really beautiful too.
I hated the silence – she was never that silent. She’d always run off about parties, or clothes, or make sexual references to everything I say. Today, she was quiet and I hated it. At least it gave me an excuse to stare at her longer than she would normally let me.
“What do you think happens after people die?” Petra’s words shot like bullets, cutting the air like thin slices. I tried to think of the most impressive and deep answer that I could to impress her. But nothing, so I suppose I had to settle for honesty. Honesty is so boring.
“I don’t know.” I swallowed a lump of cold air. “I really don’t know.”
She threw the corpse of her cigarette onto the ground, where its flame shriveled against the ice. “Do you think they go to heaven or something, or do they just rot and end up like worm food? Do you think they’re happy?” Her eyes still locked on nothing, her lips spoke out of instinct. She looked beautiful even when she was high.
“I guess rotting has some part of it.” I said, my voice cracking. I felt the need to impress her with some deep philosophical meaning of life, but I had nothing. I disappointed myself more than I disappointed her.
Silence flooded around us again, heaving through my limbs, cement-like. It was hard to breathe – whether it was because it was cold, or because the silence was so unbearable, I wish I could just say anything to stop it. I tried to break the silence by taking out a cigarette, and lighting it, then smoking it. It didn’t break the silence, but it calmed my lungs, which felt frozen. The smoke caressed my insides, and it felt good to feel warm again.
“Do you think he’s happy now? Do you think any people feel anything after they die?” Petra said again. I felt relieved that she finally started talking again.
“I think if he died happy, he’s happy now.” I shrugged off any inclination to impress her anymore. I just wanted the solace of smoke in me.
For the first time in awhile, she turned her body away from nothing, and faced her thin, frail face towards me, embodying the smoke from my cigarette. I noticed her eyes were pink and began to water a little. I wanted to envelope her with an embrace, as if protecting her from the open heavens, so nothing could ever hurt her again.
But I was too scared.
She stared at me, as if scavenging in my eyes from some honest, reassuring answer that her dad would somehow still be here with her. Her body fell limp with disappointment, as if from a dissatisfying search and stared back into the open again. Suddenly, I felt very aware of my hands, and my arms and even the tip of my nose. I felt every morsel of my body, and I too, was searching for some honest, real answer that would make her feel better again.
--
I never saw Petra again after that day. She never replied to my Facebook messages, or answered any of my phone calls. Her friends never heard from her. It made me feel like I had lost something so great and humble – something that I couldn’t go on living without feeling remorse or emptiness. It felt like I had made friends with her and shared memories with her for nothing, like everything we did was useless, and ended on a sour, piercing note. It made me regret ever meeting her in the first place.
After she dabbed her red eyes away, we went behind a tree and fired it up. We smoked until we could feel our insides melt and our eyeballs wiggle in their sockets. We went back to my place until and had pizza and fucked. She never would’ve done it if it hadn’t been the 10 ounces of weed we had in our body. We shot up, we snorted – we did everything that day. Everything we touched was holy and everything we said was bullshit – so obviously she’d be willing to fuck me.
She told me about her father being the only thing she had left, her pupils absent from any sane soul in her body, buzzed and fuzzed in the rage of euphoria. She talked about the most depressing things I have ever heard, but she loved it. I loved it. We were so high, I could do anything to her, and it would be such a thrill.
“Why do you think he killed himself?”
Another silence snuck into our conversation.
“He had nothing going from him. He lost everything. There was only me, and he doesn’t give a shit about me.” Her eyelids were heavy and smashed together every time she blinked.
It was then when I felt like everything we had said was worthy, every part of our conversation would’ve contributed to something bigger. I wish we could save our conversation, so I could tuck it away for later, and read it, and analyse it, and think about all the wonderful things she had to say cause they were truly wonderful. But I was too wired. She was too wired. Anything we had to say was obviously the most important thing at the time.
Her head rested against the back of the couch, and she looked up at the dimmed ceiling.
“I don’t have anything going for me anymore. Can’t stay at home, and can’t stay at school.” Her voice was even raspier, and it made me want to clasp her face in between my hands and kiss her until we couldn’t feel a thing.
If I could rewind, or if I could replay everything she said in my mind, I would be the happiest fellow on earth. I couldn’t remember a thing. Any detail she mentioned, or the clothes she wore, even before or after she stripped them off for me. I wish I could empty my brain of everything so I could make room for any other information that she could’ve mentioned. Everything got into my brain and erased anything worthwhile that she did.
It felt like the biggest mistake alive, letting her go the way I did. I wish I could see her again. I could barely the remember the tone of her voice, even when she talked about her dad, cause her voice grew loudest then.
“It’s human to want to leave everything behind.”
It was wintertime in 1990 and there was Petra, staring aimlessly ahead. She was really beautiful, the way her hair slept like a cloud in the wind, her aquiline perfection of a profile. Her eyes always shut with a dancing grace, each blink a poised and controlled leap. She was just really, really beautiful.
I loved the way her lips wrapped around cigarette, sucking the shit out of it. I loved the way her nipples stuck out in the cold when she didn’t wear a bra, that there was something so inherently sexy about it. The way her wild mane cradled her face was really beautiful too.
I hated the silence – she was never that silent. She’d always run off about parties, or clothes, or make sexual references to everything I say. Today, she was quiet and I hated it. At least it gave me an excuse to stare at her longer than she would normally let me.
“What do you think happens after people die?” Petra’s words shot like bullets, cutting the air like thin slices. I tried to think of the most impressive and deep answer that I could to impress her. But nothing, so I suppose I had to settle for honesty. Honesty is so boring.
“I don’t know.” I swallowed a lump of cold air. “I really don’t know.”
She threw the corpse of her cigarette onto the ground, where its flame shriveled against the ice. “Do you think they go to heaven or something, or do they just rot and end up like worm food? Do you think they’re happy?” Her eyes still locked on nothing, her lips spoke out of instinct. She looked beautiful even when she was high.
“I guess rotting has some part of it.” I said, my voice cracking. I felt the need to impress her with some deep philosophical meaning of life, but I had nothing. I disappointed myself more than I disappointed her.
Silence flooded around us again, heaving through my limbs, cement-like. It was hard to breathe – whether it was because it was cold, or because the silence was so unbearable, I wish I could just say anything to stop it. I tried to break the silence by taking out a cigarette, and lighting it, then smoking it. It didn’t break the silence, but it calmed my lungs, which felt frozen. The smoke caressed my insides, and it felt good to feel warm again.
“Do you think he’s happy now? Do you think any people feel anything after they die?” Petra said again. I felt relieved that she finally started talking again.
“I think if he died happy, he’s happy now.” I shrugged off any inclination to impress her anymore. I just wanted the solace of smoke in me.
For the first time in awhile, she turned her body away from nothing, and faced her thin, frail face towards me, embodying the smoke from my cigarette. I noticed her eyes were pink and began to water a little. I wanted to envelope her with an embrace, as if protecting her from the open heavens, so nothing could ever hurt her again.
But I was too scared.
She stared at me, as if scavenging in my eyes from some honest, reassuring answer that her dad would somehow still be here with her. Her body fell limp with disappointment, as if from a dissatisfying search and stared back into the open again. Suddenly, I felt very aware of my hands, and my arms and even the tip of my nose. I felt every morsel of my body, and I too, was searching for some honest, real answer that would make her feel better again.
--
I never saw Petra again after that day. She never replied to my Facebook messages, or answered any of my phone calls. Her friends never heard from her. It made me feel like I had lost something so great and humble – something that I couldn’t go on living without feeling remorse or emptiness. It felt like I had made friends with her and shared memories with her for nothing, like everything we did was useless, and ended on a sour, piercing note. It made me regret ever meeting her in the first place.
After she dabbed her red eyes away, we went behind a tree and fired it up. We smoked until we could feel our insides melt and our eyeballs wiggle in their sockets. We went back to my place until and had pizza and fucked. She never would’ve done it if it hadn’t been the 10 ounces of weed we had in our body. We shot up, we snorted – we did everything that day. Everything we touched was holy and everything we said was bullshit – so obviously she’d be willing to fuck me.
She told me about her father being the only thing she had left, her pupils absent from any sane soul in her body, buzzed and fuzzed in the rage of euphoria. She talked about the most depressing things I have ever heard, but she loved it. I loved it. We were so high, I could do anything to her, and it would be such a thrill.
“Why do you think he killed himself?”
Another silence snuck into our conversation.
“He had nothing going from him. He lost everything. There was only me, and he doesn’t give a shit about me.” Her eyelids were heavy and smashed together every time she blinked.
It was then when I felt like everything we had said was worthy, every part of our conversation would’ve contributed to something bigger. I wish we could save our conversation, so I could tuck it away for later, and read it, and analyse it, and think about all the wonderful things she had to say cause they were truly wonderful. But I was too wired. She was too wired. Anything we had to say was obviously the most important thing at the time.
Her head rested against the back of the couch, and she looked up at the dimmed ceiling.
“I don’t have anything going for me anymore. Can’t stay at home, and can’t stay at school.” Her voice was even raspier, and it made me want to clasp her face in between my hands and kiss her until we couldn’t feel a thing.
If I could rewind, or if I could replay everything she said in my mind, I would be the happiest fellow on earth. I couldn’t remember a thing. Any detail she mentioned, or the clothes she wore, even before or after she stripped them off for me. I wish I could empty my brain of everything so I could make room for any other information that she could’ve mentioned. Everything got into my brain and erased anything worthwhile that she did.
It felt like the biggest mistake alive, letting her go the way I did. I wish I could see her again. I could barely the remember the tone of her voice, even when she talked about her dad, cause her voice grew loudest then.
“It’s human to want to leave everything behind.”