Prometheus (LGBT+) ✔

12. Βλάκες (Fools)

With my prescription, I settle into a new routine. Or well, my old routine. I return to school and one of my classes has bought me a 'get well'-basket with candles and artisanal honey and sweets. The gesture smoulders like an ember in the pit of my stomach and I light a candle that evening. I peer into the flickering flame, bright and warm. When I blow it out, the wax has melted into irregular bumps. It seems like a metaphor for my life. I was never alight, but now I'm burning and melting, changing shapes into something new and unpredictable. I wouldn't mind burning out. Maybe I need to live a life before I can die. A life where the days don't all blur together, where I feel more than emptiness, more than sinking guilt, where I can fear the abyss.

I feed every two days on strangers. They're still looming shapes in my dreams, faces and stories I load onto my shoulders. Bits and pieces of people that stick to my skin and drip down my fingers.

I think about the people that've been my neighbours, my parishioners. Were they my victims too? No, I've done good things. If my students can appreciate me for teaching them a dead language, why wouldn't all those others appreciate me for listening to their worries and confessions in the seclusion of my church, for my advice, for teaching them how to live? Or is that where I've gone wrong?

I remember a girl once, who didn't want to marry and I told her to respect the wishes of her parents. As a monster, did I have the right to tell others right from wrong? I only knew what I was taught; was it wrong to teach what I was taught? To not think? I fear the harm I have done. I have spoken about things I knew nothing about. I had the audacity to think my opinion carried any value. Does not my immortality make my life even more insignificant? There is no death to counterbalance. Nobody remembers me; I remember them. Maybe I am greedy when I wish for more while I can still remember myself. Remember the bits and pieces of people that I've shaped, that shaped me. Remembering is a curse, but I shouldn't forget it's also a blessing.

***

I visit Emile once a week, twice a week, thrice a week. Every time, something coils tighter and tighter. But every time, something also settles more and more, like sinking into a soft pillow and then sinking more. I start to feed before I go to Emile or on days I don't see him, so I can stay longer. Sometimes, we call.

"Happy IDAHOT!"

"Happy what?"

"The International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia."

"Is that a day? Why do you need a day?"

Emile laughs. "Shouldn't you know? You've lived through Stonewall and the first Pride Parades."
"I'm sorry. I just ... I never concerned myself with it."

"Don't worry. You grew up without any of this, so you're forgiven. I bet some LGBT people don't even know they have a day in May too, and not just Pride month."

"Pride month?"

"June." Emile chuckles. "You poor old fool. Maybe you should go with me tomorrow. I hope you are aware of Belgian Pride."

And so we go. The music is too loud for me, and the people too abundant, but I've never seen people celebrating who they are like this. I don't understand it. How can they be so happy when they are told they are sinners? But times have changed. Maybe they have never heard they are sinners. I see parents here, and young children. There are also lots of couples holding hands and teenagers with rainbows on their faces. I even recognise a few, but I don't greet them and they don't see me. Why would they? I don't even know what I'm doing here. I'm not one of them. I might be asexual, but I'm not young, and I'm not proud, or in love. I'm here for Emile. But he's not young either, or in love. And he doesn't look very proud. At least not with all the colours. But he's here, so does that mean he's proud?