Willing Dead

There is only one rule for him who wants to break free from Hell: Not to glance behind him. But for me it was not possible, if only for a split second, not to glimce back just to take a squint of her face. I remain blameless, for it was her voltureus schemes that kept drawing me back. Her fragrance of sex and cum was the perfect recipe to distract me from my own burning flesh.

I was in the embrace of another when my mind tricked me into mentioning her. I was happy for a split second. I don’t know why! I still talk about her with the yearning of a poet.

She was my companion for the weekends. She was an aloof trickster, a shyster, a con. We met during weekends or in my trips to Tirana or when I wanted to run from home. She too had the same intentions as me.

She acted as if she were Natasha Rostova, so consequently I had to be Anatole. Even though I am more suited for the role of Vronsky. And just like the aristocrats of the story we only cared about money, sex and our own mortality. She was not particularly beautiful but her mesmerizing charm could compel anyone. She had a naive face that reminded me of angels and a stunning body that could make you bow to Lucifer himself. She was always lurking in my subconscious but I never said a word to her. Every time we met I acted arrogantly, and treated her as a mere insect, as if she was my obedient servant.

I acted inadequately so she wouldn’t recognize the lashing lust I got when I stared into her eyes. The sun caught up in her raven hair blazed me out of all control. She troubled and frightened me, but she also loved with a profound tenderness.

I was the man keeping her warm when her husband was away. In short, we were victims of unsynchronized passion. Such was Arta.

I used to wrap her in my embrace and imagine a flattering future with her, even though I knew that this was cause for disaster. Sometimes, I still do!

I dream of a late-night evening together. I’d invite her for a fulsome dinner and we would talk all night about various subjects. Sometimes, a staggering kind of nostalgia of “Hows” and “What ifs” kept me stirred and awake all night. I muse at the idea of growing old together. She is seated in her shaky chair planning to write her next hit. She has her notebook and her favorite pen and she is trying to put our youngest grandchild to sleep. An evil voice in her head is telling her to forget the lullabies and read her recent writing because to her everything she writes is exhaustingly boring and can put anyone to sleep.

She writes of me, of us and our lives in a dramatic postmodern way. She writes of every scummy detail, what a halfwit I have been and all the times fickleness ruined our relationship.

While she is thinking that writing itself is so demanding, mentally challenging and sometimes it feels like a chore, she forgets to rock the crib and it wakes our grandson. But its ok cause I’ll always be there to help her. First, I’ll put out grandson to sleep and then reassure her that her writing is eloquent, with wisdom and class. I write her a verse, recite a joke with wit and perfect timing, I’ll share my heart, confess my sins and do it all by rhyming, till I see the flashing of her hypnotic smile. I pour us a glass of milk and I take it to her, she than presides to show me her writing. It probably is a scary murder story, because you know, she is a little psychopath.

I stand there, drink my milk and pat myself in the back that I found the courage to hit on my younger literary student.

During our stay in Tirana City all her underwear and her skinny ripped jeans were scattered in my apartment. All my friends knew about her and they referred to her as my “Call-girl” since

I never mention to them the pristine and profound fondness that I felt for her. She was as beautiful and as crazy as Lady Godiva. This presumptuous young lady I meet while teaching poetry for undergrad students in my home city.

When our short time together came to an end, we decided to just be friends. Friends who comfort each other with our naked bodies and simply having fun. Apparently using our tongues for other purposes besides talk was much more pleasurable. Or maybe we were too tired to argue after all that humping and grinding.

From the moment I unhooked her bra I was under her summation. Every animalistic impulse dared me to strangle her, but I was a perfect gentleman. She would always mock my shyness and hesitation to take charge.

I barely resisted the outdated tricks and hacks of my naked lady. But only when she was butt naked. My cold touch covered her body in goosebumps. She giggled and moaned at my awkwardness. Apparently, that weirdo liked my awkwardness.

She used to throw all my books and papers on the ground because the bedroom was too far ahead the corridor. It’s fair to say that she was more experienced than I and we never climaxed at the same time.

We could have continued that routine for years, but she died. She is dead. Her death was abrupt. It happened so fast, she was diagnosed, heavily medicated for months and just when I thought it was going to be better, she passed away.

She was buried the next day but I didn’t have the heart to stay. After all I was nothing to her.

Only when everybody left did I visit her grave. For the first week I visited regularly. Last time I went I sat on the marbled grave stone of her neighbor and stared at the stone where her family had written some beautiful words for her. In that crowd I was only one that was breathing. I and the red-coated man that was maintaining the graves.

I continued to stare at the grave stones and at those blasphemous words that made you believe there lied one of the Jesus’s Apostles.

“Who cares what they think when you’re dead! This is preposterous!” said I with an agitated tone in my voice.

While I quietly sobbed, I felt something moving beneath me. The ten-year dead dude was waking up. It might have been the medicine I had taken but the dim darkness was calling out the dead to wake up. Not only he, but everyone was waking up. Is this the apocalypse. They weren’t bothered by me, they were fixing their preposterous grave stones. Each and every one found an iron stick and was removing those risible words like Jack Olivan had done before them. The dead don’t like deceiving and lying. I watched them as they examined the terrain; I wish I could tell you what was happening in their brain. they raised their heads to the sky as if they were asking for forgiveness and drew seven lines in their foreheads.

The most frightening thing is that I wasn’t struck by their malevolence, my presence didn’t even faze them.

“The dead don’t give a fuck about other people, I wish I was dead” I said with an inspired look in my eyes.

They were the scared ones. They hurried up to fix their grave stones and lie comfortably under them. So was my dead lady. She looked so young, but so proud and serene. Instead of the poem she wrote “I, Nemo”. she looked me dead in the eye and from her muddy lips I could read “I’m sorry”.

She then blew me a kiss and lied down under her cozy new home. I don’t remember anything after that. I blacked out completely. When I regained consciousness everything was the same as before. Nothing had changed. I went to the red-suited man and declared that the grave stones are all wrong. He then wondered what I was doing there and then ordered me not to bother the dead. I never went back there again. I don’t see the point of these visits. It is better to spend eternity in a deep sleep, cause life pales in comparison to dreaming, so In pace requiescat fellows!

As I was walking away a song ringed in my head like e clumsy church bell. This was the song she used to hum when she would leave my apartment:

I know it’s over

It never really began

But in my heart, it was so real

Then she spoke to me and said:

If you’re so funny

Then why are you on your own tonight?

And if you’re so clever

Then why are you on your own tonight?

If you’re so very entertaining,

Then why are you on your own tonight?

If you’re so very good-looking

Why do you sleep alone tonight?

Cause tonight is just like any other night

That’s why you’re one your own tonight!

With the triumphs and your charms

While they’re in each other’s arms.