Strangers

© 2004 Matthew Amundsen
All rights reserved.

Let my voice soothe your suffering and keep you here, with me, just a little bit longer. So many things I want to say to you, so little time. Such little strength. Watching you, your face, is all that keeps me from fading completely. Everything's changed so much in the last few hours that I don't even know where to begin.

I should have listened to you. How many times have I said that? And yet, no matter how many lessons I'd learned, no matter how many times I'd proved myself wrong, I still never listened to your advice. God knows I wish I had. Look at us now. Pathetic, really, that we would be incapacitated this way. Why us? We've done nothing wrong. Or at least you haven't. Wrong, it seems, is all I can ever do.

It had been my idea to get out of town for a little while, to cleanse the hurt I'd caused you with my indiscretion. I'd wanted to leave right after work Thursday night, over-anxious as usual, and you'd tried to convince me that there was no point arriving in New Orleans in the middle of the night. But Atlanta had been driving me mad since the day we'd moved there, all that traffic and empty consumerism, and I was dying to leave, if only for a few days. True, we'd gotten better jobs than Minneapolis could ever offer, but something about the stark, idolatrous skyline and the lashings of the Bible Belt unnerved me and so I pouted, as usual, until I'd gotten my way. We'd compromised, leaving instead at midnight, leaving enough time for us to be together. Neither of us had known it would be the last time for us in our Highlands apartment, where you'd taught me so many things about being a lover, about being a decent human being.

Alabama had been scary, all those frighteningly gory religious billboards, those gun-toting rednecks riding our ass in rusted, one-eyed trucks, in defiance of that little rainbow sticker on our car. Or so you'd told me later. Predictably, I'd slept most of the way. But I was awake when we pulled into that truck stop in the middle of nowhere, and that experience alone confirmed everything you'd said. Just walking through the door had been enough to silence our conversation. Dark, evil looks from scruffy customers, as if we were enemies in a Second Civil War. We couldn't tell if it was our relationship or our urban airs that bothered them, but at least the waitress was kind enough to warn us against staying. Ten miles away, we were able to laugh about it with the detritus of our meals in our laps.

Are you still there? Your eyes are open, your lids fluttering like lethargic butterflies. Perspiration curls the tips of your hair into adorable ringlets. I wish I could reach you, stroke your hair, kiss your forehead. Make things better. But I'm just grateful I can see you at all. It helps, seeing you. It makes me not want to leave.

I remember waking up halfway through Mississippi, even though it seems like years ago, now. There was pain inherent in the geography—the way the branches of tired, old trees swayed in the breeze, dark forests where lonely, frightened souls had not so long ago tried to escape a reality you and I can never fully understand, a deep hurt that only a wide river could drown. Ours had been the only car on the road and we'd rolled down the windows to let that clean air wash over us that hot, August night, silent but for the hum of the motor, and I remember looking at you, looking at the way the moon erased our flaws, and thinking that life is beautiful if people can go on living in a place as scarred as this, if you and I can drive on in a timeless, perfect moment and feel like happiness can last forever. We held hands then, saying nothing but sharing glances, sharing a wish that this would never end.

Later came our first glimpse of New Orleans as the sun started to rise, as we crossed that long bridge and saw its buildings in the distance with lights still twinkling like pre-dawn stars offering forgiveness. It was enough to make me forget that I hated bridges, hated hovering over that much water for so long. Once we'd hit the outskirts of the city, merging with morning traffic as we aimed for the heart, we were both elated. As exhausted as you had been, I could still see the joy in your eyes as we returned to your favorite city. Getting off on the Vieux Carre exit was like stepping into Mother's arms.

It hadn't hit me until we'd parked the car and started touring the Quarter why you hadn't wanted to arrive at that hour. Only the coffee shops had been open and caffeine, though necessary, could only prolong a weariness only sleep could abate. Even our room on Esplanade wouldn't be available until early afternoon. And you didn't even bring it up, acting like our plan had been perfect despite the dark circles under your eyes. You really are an angel sometimes.

And later that afternoon, after we'd spent the morning trying hard not to look like the tourists we were and avoiding the gutter-stench of garbage and who-knew-what-else, after we'd at last checked into the purple-fronted bed and breakfast, we'd made love despite our tired limbs. When we'd woken and showered and stepped out into the night, it was like we had been reborn. Something about this city's magical, something I don't always understand. That Thai restaurant down the street, the one with the red velvet walls, it had been a perfect way to start the first evening of our vacation. It had been the first time I'd seen a smile on your face in so long, as we'd toasted each other over the house iced tea. If only the rest of the evening had been so immaculate.

You moan softly now, as if you can hear me, and I know you haven't yet left. Whether or not you were trying to say something just then, I'll never know. Your lips are not strong enough to form words, your lungs can barely expel air. It hurts so much to see you this way. I only hope my words give you some comfort.

The rain had started just after dinner, warm and suffocating, and we'd decided not to leave Bourbon Street, just like any other visitors seeking inebriation. We'd gotten so drunk at that place flying our flag, where they had models stripping on the televisions behind the bar. And then you'd wanted to leave, to poke your head in at the blacksmith's tavern where that hokey but lovable piano man played, but I talked you into going across the street, to dance with Dorothy and Toto and the Scarecrow. You'd complied, if only because you knew what a baby I could become if I didn't get my way. You'd even been wearing that tie I'd given you for your birthday, the one I knew you hated, and I was being so selfish.

At least you'd had a good time once we were there. That comforts me a little now, remembering. After being so stifled in Atlanta, repressing ourselves and reduced to playing carefully veiled word games with our co-workers and contemporaries, it was a tremendous release to come here and be ourselves. Not in such a long time had we felt so free. You'd kissed me there, on the dance floor, so uncharacteristic of you. Then you'd whispered how you wanted to take me right then, outside in a dark alley, but I, for once, was priggish. Perhaps if I'd given in, the rest never would have happened.

Please hold on, dear, so I can confess the rest of our story. My mouth barely opens to deliver these words. It's not easy for me, especially in this condition, especially watching you slowly fade before my eyes, knowing it's my fault. Believe me when I say I wish it were only me lying here, suffering, that you had gotten away. It's not fair and I hope my heart doesn't crumble before I can share my guilt.

You'd gone to the bar to get us more drinks and I ducked into the restroom, that much you already know. But what happened there, I hadn't dare tell you until now, when it's much too late. A dark and rugged man had followed me inside, the devil to your angel. My misplaced libido had led me into a stall under his insistence, and it wasn't until my pants were down that I had regained my senses. This wasn't the person I was anymore, this was who I'd been before I had met you. I had pulled the stranger off of me and pushed him away, but he refused to let go. When I had shoved him against the stall, he growled and bit my thigh. Or so I had thought.

Getting out of there as quickly as I could, I had met you back on the dance floor and thankfully never saw the stranger again. After you and I had danced a little while longer, I sat when my leg grew sore. Finally the fatigue of travel caught up to us both and we'd left the club arm-in-arm.

The rain had stopped by the time we emerged. Small puddles covered the broken streets, steam misting into the humid air under dim streetlamps. You started undressing me, right there in the courtyard of our sleepy hotel, as I unlocked our door. My hands had been occupied and I was defenseless to your groping. It was so unlike you, so refreshing, that I wouldn't have stopped you had I been able. As we unpeeled each other's damp clothes, you began touching me and I heard something in the back of my mind, but I ignored it in favor of the pleasure you provided. Then that sharp pain on my inner thigh made me cry out. I'd thought it had been from you, some devilish new trick, but you were just as surprised. You got off me, turned on the light, and there it was, that awful, awful thing.

Amorphous and nearly translucent but for its thick purple veins, like a jellyfish without tentacles and taken to land, some little monster had clung to my leg and bitten me with its ring of tiny sharp teeth. You tried prying it off, but then it bit you, too. Its numbing poison spread quickly through my body and before I was altogether frozen, I'd turned my head from where I was sprawled on the bed, to watch you fight your own bout of paralysis.

It must have troubled you immensely to watch it devour me and then to know you were next. I could feel a faint tugging as it enveloped my cock, slowly peeling away my epidermis. So much pain, yet it seemed ethereal, as if its magnitude were so great that my mind rejected its presence altogether. And the beast didn't stop there, dissolving my skin with its acidic saliva, gouging a passage for my entrails' exit. My guts were glistening sausages; sad, dumb snakes slithering to the floor to greet you. The blood I lost was immense, soaking the bed, dripping from the sheets to where you lay on the floor, a pool of it almost touching your unmoving, open palm.

I can't bear to watch what it's doing to you, but I'm too weak to move my head. The tiny fiend strips away your skin now, feeding on the blood of your engorged cock, and I wish you were dead rather than see your anguish, your mutilation. Hopefully the trauma will make you pass out soon, because my time with you is almost over, and whatever comfort I give, if any, will vanish with me. But don't despair; we'll carry this love with us wherever we go next, into whichever realm our souls—

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