The Beautiful Love

© 2002 Kevin Anderson
All rights reserved.

It was late. As I ingested the mushrooms, the bitter, earthy taste infesting my mood, that was paramount in my mind. I didn't particularly care about why, or how, it'd happened—I knew I'd sat motionless, in the rickety chair as the sun had passed across the heavens, the clouds in time-lapse—I knew I'd done that. But how had it gotten so late, already?

Drawing upon a half bottle of Scotch, I watched disinterestedly as a moth repeatedly ran into the naked bulb I'd never gotten around to covering. My cheeks were getting hot and the walls had turned a pale shade of blue in the harsh light. I was suddenly terribly afraid, as if I couldn't believe I was alive, that this great gift had been given to me and there I was, indulging in these peculiar rituals like a child.

I believe it's known as Universal Paranoia.

I knew I wasn't thinking clearly, but already the drugs were starting to take hold, and although I thought I was lucid, my vision had become distorted. Looking around the room, I could suddenly see patterns in the lines of furniture and the floor, where none had existed previously.

Standing up, I took another sip of whiskey, but for some reason the taste was no longer pleasurable to me, becoming bitter and utterly alien—it was the same with nicotine—I no longer enjoyed either.

Marveling at this abrupt change of my taste buds, I remembered the angel.

Down; wings; gossamer; light.

Burning.

By now, the wooden chairs and the bare wooden boards had all become entwined within each other, forming a complex entanglement of trees and nature inside the comforting environment of my flat.

"I'm wasted," I said, the words sounding hollow and utterly devoid of any semblance of life. Holding my hand out, I could see trace marks, an ultra-real paradigm of a Queen video.

I looked at my hand for several minutes, the lines and indentations drawing me into some other, half-seen world, where I could travel at the speed of sound. The feeling eventually passed and I stood up, only to walk in circles, thinking of nothing.

By now, I was ready to see the angel, and so I went into the kitchen, the harsh glare of the overhead strips unbalancing me a little. Fumbling with one of the drawers, I pulled out a short kitchen knife. It would do.

I didn't stagger as I walked, but I did bump into the doorframe, the wood appearing eldritch and distorted, as if out of a Tim Burton animation. I fought the urge to stand and stare at the grain by closing my eyes and drawing the knife across my skin. Amazingly, it didn't hurt at all. Opening my eyes I looked at the blood in mute amazement.

It reminded me of pasta, for some reason.

Heading into the living room, I sat down, with my arm still bleeding. Images of fast-traveling, kaleidoscopic, colored shapes and stained glass windows filled my mind as I reclined, restlessly, in the dark—the light was still on, but it was still black—and waited for the angel.

I had taken the hallucinogenic mushrooms in an effort to better understand what I'd seen. I felt that if I was more on its level, had more of an open mind, I could better understand what it wanted. Like the Native American shaman, I took drugs as an aid to speak to the spirits. When I said angel before, I wasn't being literal. She was an angel, but only in my eyes.

She'd appeared at first, bending over my face, waking me in the early hours of yesterday morning. I had opened my eyes to find her standing beside my bed, her arms crossed . I didn't—I still don't—know who she is, or was. I don't really want to know. All I want is to join with her. Do you believe in love at first sight, even if it's with a ghost? I do.

After I'd woken and rubbed my eyes, we just watched each other. Neither of us said anything, and I knew instantly that I loved this pale shade. I wasn't scared, I wasn't anything. I was calm. Finally, as the sun speared through my curtains, she disappeared, and I felt my heart burn with shame as I let her go. But I vowed to talk this woman on some level, to interact with her, to travel with her, the next day. I got the mushrooms easily from a student friend of mine who'd recently come back from England. He let me have two hundred for free, but advised me to only to take around fifty the first time, as they were extremely strong.

I took them all.

Then I waited.

And now it's time. I've got no idea if I imagined her or not, but she touched me so deeply, on some conscious level, that I can't focus on anything else.

At last, I'll see my Angel.

I used to dream about trees when I was younger; not one particular species, but all their creed. I thought how lonely they must be, with their roots deep down in the ground, unable to move, unable to touch another of their kind for comfort, for affection. I felt terribly sad for them, and in a way related to their plight because I felt the same, until I had an epiphany one day when I suddenly realized they were never alone. They were at one with nature: they had birds nesting in their boughs; squirrels and other animals running along their branches. If the tree were in a wood or a forest, it could talk to its friends—we might not hear them as humans, but they would talk and rustle their leaves in the wind. In fact, far from being isolated and solitary, they were constantly surrounded by an array of insect, bird and animal life that existed in perfect harmony with one another. The day I realized this, I felt crushed. My only companion now had other friends, and I was still alone.

I suppose it was the drugs that made me feel this way, but I hadn't thought of the trees in a long while. It seemed quite funny that I should ever have thought of a tree in human terms. I guess I just wanted another friend like me. Someone who was alone.

Now I had one.

As the night drew in, I began to feel apprehensive about what was about to occur. I wasn't sure how to deal with the hallucinations I was still experiencing. I wanted to be lucid when she arrived, not a raving maniac. But I didn't know how to stop. I guessed I would just have to ride the visions out and hope for the best. I also wanted a cigarette, but my last experiment had warned me away from them—I still had a bitter, ashtray taste in my mouth from the last time—however, finally, I could not resist, and I lit up a Marlboro. The taste wasn't as bad as before, but the paper cylinder seemed less real than when I normally smoked; almost fragile. I finished one, immediately started another, and then another when I'd finished that one. Suddenly, what had been an abomination was now as addictive and persuasive as it had ever been. I was about to light up my fourth when I noticed my arm. I'd forgotten about the cut I'd made upon the skin with the knife. The blood had now clotted and hardened into a crust. I picked at the edges and was gratified to see a deep, ruby red droplet appear. Smearing it across the skin, I gazed in wonderment at its absolute purity. Imagine that my body was filled with this liquid, all coursing through my veins and arteries!

The rest of the night passed, mostly in a blur, as I continued to watch ordinary, everyday objects with a new eye. It was nearly dawn when my Angel appeared again. My eyes were sore and my body exhausted, but all discomfort passed when I gazed upon her serene features once more.

Again, neither of us spoke, but I felt the love pass between us. For some moments she watched me quizzically, then inclined her head, and I knew what to do. Picking the kitchen knife off of the bare floorboards, I drew the blade from the crook of my elbow down to my wrist, all the while marveling at the beauty standing, watching me. When I'd done both arms, I held them up, so she could see what I'd done for her. She seemed pleased with my work, and I felt glad.

Corposant; vatic; skin.

Empyreal.

As I fell from the chair, a small pool of blood forming beneath me, I looked up to witness my Angel. I could see the blood—solid, like coils—flowing into her half-open mouth from my wounds, as she drank me. The pain filled my mind, blocking everything else out, forcing me to comply to her wishes. I could see the tentacles ranging far and wide, burrowing into my body, ripping my skin, entering me, violating me; and I could only smile. For my life had not been blessed with happiness or joy, like the people on the street; only a terrible, aching loneliness, which had never been filled.

But now I wasn't alone anymore.

I had Her.

I saw nothing.

Hours later, I awoke to find I was lying, fully-clothed, on the living room floor, curled into a foetal position, the marks upon both arms nothing but scratches.

Without realising what I was doing, only knowing that I was still alive, I quickly stood up and threw myself at the wall; again and again; hurting my body, punishing it.

I tried to knock myself unconscious, but was unable. Staggering slightly, I sank to the floor, then wept for a while, sitting cross-legged, a broken cigarette hanging from my trembling lips. What I'd sought, what I'd found, in the Angel, had been denied. I'd been forsaken, brought back to life, because I'd been weak, because I hadn't faced my responsibilities. I'd looked for another reality, an easier way to talk on her level . . . when my own had been all I'd ever needed.

She'd thought me a coward and let me live.

The drugs had worn off and all that was left was the broken membrane of memory and a tangle of lies.

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