Absolution

I remember that there was this one time, in 1997, or 1996, when I was desperately trying to get this girl to sleep with me (it may have been a few times actually) in order to prove myself to somebody – prove myself to myself probably; so I ended up taking them to the cinema to see Romeo + Juliet, perhaps it was due to DiCaprio-fever that that was what I kept seeing, or maybe it was my underlying desire to educate myself in the wonders of Shakespeare that I didn’t want to admit to; but I thought it was an ingenious idea to get them so tearful and emotional that they needed me to comfort them – it was a flawless plan, except for the fact that I myself was teary eyed every time, but that was beside the point, it showed that I wasn’t afraid to show my emotions, which women respected, I think.

It’s at the end of the film where Romeo enters the Capulet mausoleum, (or it might have just been the chapel in the film), all suicidal and prepared for his death, holding the tiny vial of poison, because fucking Balthasar couldn’t keep his mouth shut, and there, at the end of the candle and neon-lit pathway, is his ethereal love, surrounded by angelic figures, tea lights, lilies and overlooked by Christ on the cross. Romeo then falls to his knees with a silent sob, cradles Juliet’s hands, and then her face, and looks to the heavens with questions unanswerable.

I don’t think I’d ever admit out loud how much I enjoyed that film. If anybody did ever find out, it was because Tybalt was a badass.

But I dreamt of this churchlike building. It probably was a church. It was raining, fat and heavy drops, but they dried on the skin almost instantaneously. There was a sticky feel to the air, like the feel of drying blood, but after you’ve washed it off and you can still feel it clinging to your body, you can still feel it lingering, even though you know for certain that there is no blood, that there’s nothing on you other than the metaphorical veil of shame and paranoia that comes with being coated in blood, or sweat, depending on the circumstances.

I was approaching this church for what seemed like forever, it was as if I was dragging my feet. My body felt heavy and my shoulders were tense and hunched, which made the rest of me hurt. It also felt like I was experiencing some sort of guilt or loss – I felt detached, but I had no idea why. I also felt confusion, but I put that to my waking self rather than dream me.

Standing at the door, smoking a cigarette and wearing disturbingly dark colours for him, was the kid, next to my brother – they were similar in height and both shared an almost innocent look, with their floppy haircuts and big doe eyes. They both looked intensely towards me, my brother with mournful eyes and his lips parted as if he wasn’t sure what to say; he handed me one of those goddamned roses, the sickly sweet smell hitting me and the thorns tearing into the pads of my fingers. I transferred the greying flower from my right hand to my left and pushed on the heavy wooden door. I found myself pushing with both hands, the rose cutting into my palm, the blood running down and pooling into the lines of my hand, creating bloody roads – the red mixing with the sweat, making my palms sticky, with a sinister, drying coat on them. The door creaked open, agonizingly slowly and I exhaled loudly, walking into the church and feeling the door close with a crash behind me.

The aisle of the church, leading to the altar, was lit by dripping vanilla candles, acting as guiding lights to where the singer lay on her deathbed, a lace and cotton covered bed, surrounded by angels, white roses and warm candles, which flickered like dancing fairies. Above her was Christ with an uncomfortably pained look upon his tortured face. I knelt on the linen rug underneath her flowery bed when my knees buckled and I began to weep, grasping one of the singer’s tiny, icy hands.

She was cold to touch, shockingly so, but what made me open my watery eyes was when the body began to warm up, slowly, menacingly so. As the body climbed in temperature, to scorching levels, underneath her left hand, which was positioned so it looked as if she was holding a bouquet of flowers, blood had begun to spread across the white of her dress. I breathed deeply through my nose and pulled my hand back, horrified. I shuffled closer to her corpse and felt the blood on the dress – it burned my hand. The scent of vanilla was slowly fading and a new scent aired, a terrible mixture of the salty smell of blood and the putrid smell of sulphur.

I swallowed and gently ran my nails up her thigh, lifting her dress carefully up to her ribcage. I flinched. From the left side of her, from her ribs to her hip, the skin was torn, as if she’d been ripped into, or mauled by a great hound. Where the tear was, jagged teeth or claw marks were visible and her insides, the ones that were on show, were mangled. She wore a flowery crown and a smile upon her lips.

I looked down at my hands, burnt, bloody and cut and looked back at her face. It looked soft, despite the blue tinge, and there were no creases on her forehead, no marks of confusion, just peace and acceptance. She looked content. And then I moved my focus to her eyes. They were open. Blacker and inkier than the night – the whole eye was painted black. She moved her hands to her sides, throwing the bouquet to the side, and pushed herself up. She grinned with blood stained teeth.

The flames flickered erratically, a gust of wind blew in, Christ fell and the candles went out.