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She decided to go with a pseudo-name for the book.
For some reason, she couldn't bear the fact that she was there. In that closed off space with Roman Alaric, with only a table between them.
To tell the truth, it was not only a table. There were also their joined past, his pain, his sacrifice, 10 years worth of story that Tag needs to cram into a small 30-something chaptered book. Tag realizes that the more she knows about Roman Alaric, the less attainable she feels. She used to take comfort in being the one who interviewed him, but now that title feels a little too constricting.
She can't help wanting more.
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The book was a hit. It was sold off everywhere.
'Roman', it says on the cover, per his request. Blazing gold on top of black. Below was a pair of eyes looking straight to the camera. Tag remembered the day the picture was taken, the only day she brought something other than her usual voice recorder, pen, and block note. She had asked whether Roman Alaric held any interest in photography, and the man shook his head.
After spending some time trying to figure out what pose is best, Tag was left frustrated since nothing satisfy her. Roman Alaric had wittingly apologized to him for being underdressed for this impromptu photoshoot, and that he couldn't strike a lot of pose due to his predicament. That was when she realized she doesn't like the state Roman Alaric was in. He emanated power from his pores, but he was still chained. Like a tiger in a cage.
She decided to put her focus on those eyes, the only part of him that stays remotely honest even when his whole body says otherwise. The part that remains unchanged even after all these years.
The part that haunts her in her sleep, burning holes into her conscience.
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Call her crazy, but she almost burned the script once it's done and sent to the publisher, all since she realized that once this went out, Tag would be the same with everyone else. She would no longer be the only one who knew of his childhood, would no longer be the only one to hear his laugh on something not particularly funny—Roman Alaric was the talk of the town. People were crazy about his confession, the other side of Roman Alaric that the world was never allowed to see. They adored him, they claimed to never believe that he'd do such a thing, and that made Tag sick.
She remembered the disgusted look on their face, she remembered their relief once they knew that Roman Alaric was not so perfect after all. Bunch of hypocrites was going to swarm around him after this, the thought of it alone made her whole body shiver.
That man would be released next month as planned. His friends would be there, the media would be there. Tag would also be there, in the shadows, forgotten after telling their last goodbye, and they will part. Once Roman Alaric stepped out of those four walls, he left Tag's heart behind.
Roman Alaric would no longer be hers and hers alone. That pitiful dream had shattered itself on the floor.
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She's a bad liar, even to herself.
She tried so hard to open that door and walk out, to where Roman Alaric is, to where she'd see him for the very last time. But suddenly, her limbs got stuck, as if they lost their bones and stretched twice of their normal length, and now Tag is just a mess of intertwining hands and feet on the floor. She's such a hypocrite.
But thank God for small mercies such as television; there he stands, as immaculate as ever, even more with his crisp suit and slicked-back hair. He looks like a spitting image of his younger day, but with more charisma and mature aura surrounding him. On his right, a black-haired man with glasses, on his left, a hulking blonde with muscles so big it can't be concealed by his suit—Cameron Kingsleigh and Thomas Steidd, her mind provides. She doesn't know which one is which, but she can guess based on the stories Roman Alaric told her (and so does the whole Greek, her mind added).
She's listening to his speech, of how thankful he is, how happy he is. He told them his plans, a glimpse of his past, a glimpse of his yet to be seen success in the future. Camera flashes are raining down on him, blinding him and his entourage; yet the sound of shutters being clicked repeatedly doesn't deter him. He's meant for this, Amara Minerva Tag thinks, to be outside, to be in front of the public's eyes. He's meant to lead, to build, and to create. He's meant to soar through the sky, unchained, unbound—Tag gives herself a pat in the back for a job well done. She shouldn't be selfish, Roman Alaric belongs to the world, and if she's just one of the numerous steps that person needs to climb so he can reach the top, then so be it.
She moves to turn off the television, deciding that it's enough for her daily dose of Roman Alaric for today.
Completely missing the way Roman Alaric looks straight to the LIVE camera, brows furrowed and lips pulled thin in seriousness.
The man opened his sinfully perfect lips to utter some words or two, but the screen is already pitch black, reflecting only Tag's wrecked state.
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" And I would like to personally thank someone who pushed me out of my dark cell—quite literally and figuratively. If you had read their work, my biography that is, you would see how hard they worked, how beautiful they told the stories of my past, and the hope I have for the future. I couldn't see them in this crowd, but if they are listening—"
YOU ARE READING
Solitude
Short Story" And I would like to personally thank someone who pushed me out of my dark cell-quite literally and figuratively. If you had read their work, my biography that is, you would see how hard they worked, how beautiful they told the stories of my past...
