To my Dearest Friend

please be mad at me

Yves montague

We are walking through the mystical streets of this unbelievably beautiful city of my lost love, my lost heart, my lost fear. It's beginning to get darker. The streetlights, know as arc lamps according to Émile, come on. Casting a beautiful serene light unto the streets. Warming my heart and making me fall more in love with this city I am so desperate to hate.

I feel so strange, like a dream, or perhaps like a novel, a play, a wish, something seperated from reality. I feel like I am not supposed to be here at all, like I am colleteral damage that will be getting broken again. It is strange to be her with two dear friends, I have known seperately for quite a long time while I have been replaced by the other one. It's so strange to know these people so well and have this big scandalous shared secret no one dares to talk about. Because it could break the broken glass we are walking over, it could break everything.

All I want is to run from all of this, but I don't dare to move, afraid to break the glass again, I want to run from my love, run from my life, run from family and run from religion. I want to run. Run from this nightmare I engineered for myself, simply because I had too much hope. Hope is something numbing, something dangerous, like a guard dog that looks kind.

I feel my shoulders tense more and more as Émile tells me about all the wonderful things he has done with Cyril. He tells everything with such imagination, such poise. He annoys me, I am supposed to be the one who would show him things like that. I was....I was for such a long. My jaw does it's best to not to crush my teeth, in an effort to remain dignified. But he is prying between the shards of my heart I have glued back together. I dig my nails in my scar, drawing both blood, pain and tears, when I suddenly feel a tender hand brushing mine. I look up, It is Cyril.

I swiftly pull my hand away, afraid of everything he could make me feel. Afraid of his unforgiving love and desire. Frightened of the beauty of love, frightened of the pain of love. Frightened of myself and what I want to do. Everything about me is tense right now.

I take a deep breath and quicken my pace so I am walking with Émile. Everything to keep my heart beating, everything not to ressurect my hope, everything not tto break  my already shattered heart.

We arrive at Cyrils Apartement. I knew what to expect, Cyril has always been very good in describing things. It's exactely how I imagined it, how he described it. He shows us around and we sit down in the sitting room.

I look at the conversing people, it's like I am not here, only my body is, as if all of this is not real. A fanatsy conjured up by my agony. I need to work hard not to cry. To release this ocean of unsaid secrets. I light my cigarette. The strong smell of the tabacco make me naseous. Well, I am blaming it on the tabocco but I am rather certain that it is not the thing causing it.

I need to go, I need to go. I can't sit here listening to these paralysing conversation. ask Cyril where the restroom is and excuse myself. I feel a tear on my face as I walk to the restroom.

The room is extremely clean and white and it echoes when you talk. It feels a bit like the emptiness in my head. I grab the bottle of laudanum when the door opens. I immediately put it back in my pocket. I turn around swiftly. It's Cyril. My breathing stops. I didn't want to be alone with him. I don't want to be alone with him.

Cyril Courtenay

a bit earlier, back at the station

'I see you have a new ring.' Yves says. But I know deep down he doesn't mean my ring, he means that I am involved with Emile. But he is right, I swapped my rings just like I swapped lover. And no I am not proud of it. 'Indeed, I have a new signet ring. What do you think?' I ask while  showing it to him. It's a gold one with a black stone. His face suddenly looks sickly and bitter. It's like I violently ripped off his mask for just a second before he composes himself again.

As always, it angers me. Scream and cry to me, curse me, hit me, kiss me, fucking kiss me again, love me. Do not pretend like you don't hate me for what I have done. I cannot look into his eyes without wishing I never made the mistakes I have made and still with every time I meet his perfect eyes. I love him. I hate myself for it. We both put on our masks again, like civilized people. That has always been Yves normal, never speak, do not say anything that could be seen as vulnerable. He always broke the rule when he was with me I do not think he is still willing to break this rule after what I have done.

'Magnificent' He exclaims as we arrive at the arc de triopmphe. I smile, proud of the city I live in, 'It is indeed very impressive.' I say as if I built it myself Yves looks genuinely happy.

Since when is he so hard to read? I feel a tear in my eye why is my very own Yves so familiar and so strange to me. Why can't I understand what he must be thinking right now. I am desperate for his touch again, I am desperate for his love, I am desperate fo him to tell me the truth. I want to know how much I hurt him. I want him to curse me for it, I want him to be mad at me. I must admit it is for selfish reasons, I want to have hurt him so much that he does not even want me anymore, I want him to be repulsed by me. Just so I do not have to feel guilty anymore.

How selfish I am. I think as I look at Émile. How selfish I am, like a child not wanting to decide which old dusty memory he wants to throw out. Perhaps the right decision would be to throw both of them out. But than you will be lert in the frightening cold and dark emptiness of your mind and in my case lonliness. How could I ever believe in something called hope or love when I seem to do everything wrong. I am a sin of a human. I cannot think clearly as Émile walks up to me.

'I think you should know,' He thinks. 'I should know what?' I ask 'I think your friend is using opium.' I frown 'Yves? he would never ever.' I say 'Look at his eyes.' I don't believe him, well I don't want to believe him and than Yves eyes meet mine and I notice his pupils. My tears appear like clouds before the storm. Why did Emile need to be right?