Wish you were here.
Yes, I wish you were here with me! I wish and pray that you were in this world, holding my hand, where beauty and sadness run parallel with each other, where content and madness co-exist.
From this balcony, this raised platform of smooth, varnished flooring that has become my only escape and the optional exit being a plunge into the gelid waters of the stream below, it is from this balcony that I stand frozen with terror. And from this same mystical platform, nature is embracing me with Her serenity.
A cool, spring breeze whispers through the deadening limbs of the cherry oaks and I pray that this breeze reaches you. I beg that you feel its chilled touch against your soft, pale face and hear its gentle whistle; and in that same exasperated breath of Mother Earth, I desperately hope that you may hear my pleas of desperation.
Forget all that was said, Christopher. Forget those harsh words that ran over my lips in anger, in a rage becoming. Hear me, my love, and take into your ears my apology.
It was the pent-up monster of hate that possessed my body. I pray now for your forgiveness, love. Yes, love, I can still care for you through all the hurdles, after all the bullshit that came between us over the past two years. And just as the soft, sorrowful voices in apology that arose after each fight, disagreement, and immature argument, I speak those same words to you again as if they a wondrous poem that I have put to precious memory.
I love you so badly! I’m sorry, Christopher. Most of all, I need you here with me, my love. I need you as an infant needs the natural milk it suckles from a loving mother’s swollen breast, as a back alley junkie needs that next fix that lingers on the tip of a diseased needle.
I am so scared, so lost and trembling as if I had never known such fear in my life. It almost seems that all my depression and all my saxophone blues were another’s tune of rejoice.
I now know, my dearest, that I am in the presence of utter dread. I feel the shivers it provokes within me—the involuntary, spasmodic shaking the body performs when shrouded in fear. I know the quickening of the heart like the pianist who knows the time of the metronome to his beloved concerto. The jolts of adrenaline that course through my veins are that of an undying rhythm.
It was these things that I thought I knew before, Christopher. It was these horrors I thought I knew when you hurt me with words and choked me with hands of frustration. And would it be that I knew your mounted frustration; would it be that I had a keen understanding of your unchanneled anger; would it be that I’d known this would be my wish come true and my punishment as well. If would be these things, I would have never said those words. I would have clasped my hand over my mouth and muffled those unwanted words that have become my own undoing, my present darkness. I would.
Dear Lord above, I call to you as well. I ask that you give me the courage to fight this battle; I ask that you give me the strength to transgress worlds with my calling to Christopher. Make him hear me Lord, that is all I ask. I love him; he is what I want. Please, Lord, oh please! I would sacrifice the loveliest of roses and irises at your feet and commemorate you with silver goblets of Merlot. Your blood, Lord! All this for him to hear my cries; for he is my essence, my muse, my soulmate.
Christopher, oh most needed love, where are you? I can almost see your ivory face and the strands of sandalwood hair that frame your innocent beauty. Christopher—like the passion Saint of travel, for many worshipped him. And I worship you, my Saint, and anticipate your hand of glory pulling me from this fall from grace.
Don’t be angry with me anymore, for I desperately need your help. Look past the bad times that plagued our love and observe all the good. Like the times we lounged on the living room couch and silence permeated the atmosphere as you twirled my flaxen locks of hair around your finger and kissed me so gently with your androgyne lips. And you ran your hand over my breasts, delicately teasing my nipples with your thumb, and caressing the nape of my neck with your free hand. How I can almost feel your sacred kiss, just a taste; how I can virtually sense your probing tongue between my legs where the hottest passion flowed in lustrous rhythm. I can imagine how my hand stroked your warm and hard organ and wanted it inside me, to fill me and thrust within me until our love blended into one and our bodies melted in each other’s arms.
Oh, these times I cherish. I cannot allow my mind to drift on those occasions, for I know I have not much time myself. I can hear the crazed man in the room that leads out to this balcony—his raspy breathing. Only a door separates us. Please don’t let him find me yet; please, Christopher, save me from this Hell disguised as bliss.
I suppose if you’re hearing any of this (and, in my soul, I know you are), it doesn’t make much sense to you. I know your mindset is within the realms of reality and it is hard for you to cope with the unnatural, let alone the supernatural. You are the one who needs proof with every theory, the one who will not believe until the ghost is holding a conversation with you. This I realize; hence, I will begin the story of my condemnation from the world in which you are hearing me. I must start from the beginning as most of the greatest storytellers of our time always say. I must begin with how I came to be in this place, not that I am absolutely sure of what forces placed me here. On that note, dearest Christopher, take every word I say into careful consideration so that you may find a way here and save me from this horror that I stumbled upon.
It was the mural, Christopher! Do you remember the mural? It was the mural that lay behind the wrinkled and tattered wallpaper in the apartment, our apartment. Do you remember when we tore down that awful cornflower wallpaper and the mural that it covered, the mural that was kept in darkness for an unknown number of years? I will explain its beauty to you once again for I know not if some force erased it from your mind and I now believe that anything is possible. Especially now, now more than any other time in my twenty-five years of life. I believe in powers within the world that are beyond comprehension, beyond scientific explaining. No, no test tubes or atomic theory can explain these powers. These are powers that, in my past and childhood, I dreamt of knowing.
I was the one who always fantasized about falling victim to a thirsting vampire. Yes, I wanted the undead man’s intriguing form about me, lusting for the timelessly romantic gestures and quivering for that charming, porcelain touch. To hear the sweet whispering of words that would flow over his lips as he had through the centuries and give invitation, with my throbbing veins, to his delectable mouth of lust and power and ultimate terror. And it was also I who once wished upon a spectral form from the other side as a lover for but a night. In my mind, he would have come to me and lay his translucent body upon mine. I would have felt his invisible being with my roving hands. From his soft kisses, I would have experienced the ectoplasm swirl in my mouth and from his organ I would have had him thrust his ghostly juices within me. And, if only for a night, that unhappy spirit that roamed the earth in loneliness would have felt loved.
Christopher, these were thoughts of mine from the past, naïve fantasies of which I have confessed to you before. Fantasies; yes fantasies. Make believe, not real, illusion. It’s fiction; it’s all in your head, one might say. But if this is all in my mind, my mind I once felt logical, then I have lost it and this is my swan song to you. If only this to be true, then send me far away, my love. Let the monstrous men in white take me away to an asylum far from all of this where my only refuge be padded walls of uncolor and scheduled medications. However, my claim is that I am not crazy, not insane as I might wish. This, you must first understand, my beloved.
Now, I must continue. I know you can hear me, Christopher; I can sense as if you are watching me with those deep brown irises. As if you can see me hostage on this balcony, the wind blowing through my long, blonde hair, the way you always loved to see my hair lift from gentle breezes. As I stated before, I will tell you what happened with the same gentleness that is carried through this atmosphere, for I know it may be hard for you to grasp.
I said it already and I’ll say it again with all my will. I will say it louder than all the other words that form this prayer to you. It was the mural! In our apartment, behind the burgundy-colored plush sofa. You remember the sofa, right? That couch was the first piece of furniture we bought together, Christopher. I remember I had to save two weeks worth of graveyard shift tips from Harold’s to help pay for it. That’s the couch that we would sit upon even after the rest of the apartment was furnished. That couch we lazily sat upon, sipping cocoa and having intellectual conversations surrounding the philosophies of Hegal and Jung. It was on that couch that we made out to the sounds of Ravel and Dead Can Dance. And, when we rearranged the living room and moved the sofa to the center, as if it were a wondrous icon of our love to be worshipped, that is when you noticed the horrible wallpaper that was tattered and bubbled up in the lower corner of the wall. Little did you remember that the sofa was placed there to conceal that portion of the wallpaper in the first place.
Perhaps it was an omen; perhaps you were the smart one, the one in tune with the haunt of foreboding, because you just had to rip it away. And it was you that would have pasted the flower-printed paper back if you could or paint over what lay behind it. My god, you were trying to save me then my love! You were trying to save me and I was so uncaring, so selfish, so mesmerized. Damn me for that, if you must. Ban me from the rational world to a place of utter isolation, a place of solitary tears and guilty sobs. Anywhere else, Christopher, if that is your bidding, anywhere but here; the man in this place scares me. He wants to hurt me; I know he wants to hurt me. Please, take me away from this place.
I remember watching you as you tore down the wallpaper. I studied as you ripped it away piece by piece with your strong, clawing hands and observed the artistic muscular shift of your bulged forearms. And when frayed strips and shreds of the wallpaper lay strewn about the carpet, minced beyond recognition, a wondrous mural adorned the wall. The mural bedazzled me; it enraptured me with the same beauty you beguiled me with the first time I saw you when I glanced across that café on that crisp winter day.
It was I who sat in front of the coffee house window, sipping my House Vanilla Roast coffee and using the overcast light of day to review my notes for the next day’s mid-term. The steam from the cup of coffee fogged my thin-framed glasses and that is when I peered up and saw you, Christopher. You were the one with the face of a Roman, a strong face framed by cinnamon hair. You gazed over at the same moment as I, as if the Fates were bringing together two destined lovers of a Shakespearian play. You caught my glance and held it; you reveled in it, appreciating it as if a fine wine. Then, you stood and ambled toward me ever so gracefully, moving like a sly wolf with mystery enshrouding your every move. You asked me if you could sit with me and, before I gave you any affirmation, you took your place in the seat beside me and placed your Double Mocha upon the polished, round table. We talked; I closed my notebook and we conversed with each other for what seemed to be hours. All the time our eyes remained locked upon one another as I was won over by yours that were the color of your coffee and could only taste as invigorating.
That night, when we left the café, you took me back to your studio and made love to me. And that love was one that I would never get from any other man but you; no fantasy or illusion could compare. Your tongue and the way it lapped at my firm breasts. Your every thrust in perfect time with my hips and your organ blazing within me as I had never experienced before. Pulsing, coming, rhythm, orgasm. Bliss.
Afterward, two bodies lay naked on the stone-gray plush carpet, your leg propped over mine in a possessive embrace, your strong hand grazing my smooth stomach, cupping and massaging my breasts, and gracefully crawling up the side of my face.
The same hypnotizing quality you possess, my love, is the same that the mural bedazzled me with. It was picture perfect and a love to any city person to look on as it projected beauty and peace.
How wondrous it was! The blossoming cherry oaks were grand in their spring bloom—so bulky and towering like the mountains in the scene. The creek that ran through the land appeared to be so clear and invigorating. A small, ancient bridge arched over the creek and, on the other side, a dirt walkway led to the house. Miniature boulders lay on either side of the path, outlining the nature walk that led to the seemingly secluded building. How peaceful—a two-story house in the middle of Mother Nature! Although it had few windows, a balcony ejected from the second floor and overlooked the entire scene. The exterior of the square-looking residence appeared to have a well-maintained look of varnish—that smooth, light brown color that would reflect the rays of sunshine that pierced down from the sky above. And where the sun would have been, had the mural been bigger, the skies were blue like the Aegean Sea and billowing clouds were frozen in an artist’s fine conception.
It was a scene far from the turmoil of the city. You wouldn’t find bass-blaring low riders or five o’clock traffic jams on congested freeways or corporate towers in competition with one another. Not in this place...for this was another world, another time where only serenity could rule the land. This was a home to look forward to; this was a family home. And that was what went through my mind as the mural trapped me in its embrace.
It happened that same night; the night you left me with tears stinging my eyes and my heart lamenting in sonataesque cadence. Before you left the apartment in anger, before the arguing began, you informed me that you were going out that evening with friends. I thought in my mind, jealously wondering, why it was that it would be the third night in a row for this becoming habit. Had you lost love for me? Was I becoming the same, boring routine?
I’m sorry; I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that you were planning an anniversary party for us. I did not know that the time you spent out with your friends was nothing but a few bottles of beer and a planning session. And there I was, thinking the worst, imagining a woman with better curves and a lustful smile.
When I brought the idea up in conversation that night, you laughed as if it were all a joke. I saw you laughing and everything else disappeared and went out of focus. In my mind, you laughed at me, at our relationship, and I became so flustered with anxiety that you could treat me that way. I remember insisting, driving the idea deeper into your innocence; yes, I knew you had to be with somebody else.
Finally, you broke down, tired of my incessant questioning, and approached the door to leave. “I’ll be back later,” I recall you saying.
“No.” And I ran to the door shutting it closed and pushing you away from it. “You’re not leaving until you tell me the truth,” I yelled.
“Get out of my way and let me leave,” you hollered. “What the hell has gotten into you?”
I did not know. I only knew that you had to be with somebody else and my mind raced with that only concept. What brought it to that point, I do not know. What projected it this far, I have no clue. It was a wrong move, a bad instinct; too much of society’s thinking and none of my own.
I continued my accusations and you became enraged with me. Poor you who had done nothing wrong and, out of complete aggravation you loosely place your hands around my neck. You gave me a taste of choking. Although, at the time, my hurt feelings made it more than it actually was. I was in awe and shocked beyond my imagination. Never had you raised a hand to me and this, the first time, frightened me so much that I smothered you with vicious words.
“I wish you were out of my life, you bastard! I wish we were never here and that I had never met you!”
You calmly turned toward the door. Calm, perhaps, because you were amazed at my destructive words that pierced your heart. The last image I saw of you was the back of your head as you traipsed out of the apartment and slammed the door shut. The brisk, immediate thud sent a mighty convulsion through my being.
All that was left were my tears, tears for my lost Christopher. Surely you would not return. Where would you go as you left me there crying in our special place? I gazed at the mural that dominated the room. To be there, yes! Without my Christopher, there was nothing left for me there. I crawled on hands and knees, my face wet with infinite sobs, and I placed my hands on the texture of the mural. I pressed a cheek against the scene and I placed all my faith in the peaceful land, craving nothing else but to be in such a place. Be there, so that the tears may subside and the worries fly away, for my life was nothing without your love. I didn’t realize that until it was too late, until you left and my world caved in.
I leaned against the mural, trying to become one with the scene. My stomach slowly eased from its upset state, my mind became less fuzzy and hurting, and my arms stopped trembling from my vast loss. I closed my eyes. I wish we were never here and we would have never met!
It felt like a sleep, a very undisturbed sleep. Resting, relaxing, nothing in the world to bother me. No memories of you for now; no guilt to drain my body. My being was at ease.
The chirping of an audience of birds awoke me. When my eyes fluttered open, I was in a strange land. Strange, I say, but only because the last thing I remember was falling to sleep against the mural. It was serenity woven into my world and, at first, I thought I was still sleeping. The sweet smell of the Cherry Oak trees was all around and the fresh green leaves wavered in the slight breeze. Where was I? But then I knew as I craned my neck toward the sound of water running. I could see the stream, its bluish waters trickling like a fountain, running between the crevices of small boulders. And there! There was the tiny wooden bridge that crossed the stream and, beyond that, the house stood like a monument to this beautiful realm. I was in the mural or, at least I was in the place that the mural resembled. I had stepped foot into a world an artist painted with distinct brush strokes and a steady hand. And this beautiful place temporarily alleviated my thoughts of you. It was as if this world barred my mind from thoughts of any other place or time.
Now that the house was more than a picture, now that it was something live and in the flesh, I had to see the inside. I had to know what it would be like to live there within those walls encased by such a superb atmosphere.
My stroll to the mysterious foundation was like a moment of time trapped in an elongated second. I approached the miniature bridge, heard the sounds of running water pulse through my being as if they were in rhythm with my own flow of bodily fluids, and crossed without doubting the strength of the wooden planks. My pace was slow and steady, as if I were observing animals at a zoo. On the other side of the bridge, a dirt pathway that wound in an endless S-curve welcomed me. Miniature boulders lined the path that led to the front porch of the house. I cautiously made way toward the isolated building, taking in all the serenity—the chirping birds, the monarchs that glided upon the invisible waves of a breeze, the sounds of nature, and the shining sun that tickled me with a warmth I remembered from my childhood, before there were careers and costs of living and relationships. All was lost. All was forgotten, save for this perfect moment of tranquility. Oh, how I wish you could have experienced it, Christopher!
I continued walking until the house was a giant landmark before me, until it blocked the sun from gracing my flesh with its wondrous rays…until there was nothing but the house itself—a gigantic monstrosity in the middle of a world that I wasn’t sure existed. I eagerly climbed the stairs, took quick notice of the wrap-around patio and the wooden banisters that crept beyond the sides in secrecy, and was surprised when I placed my hand upon the door and it gradually swung open. There was no haunted creaking, as I would have expected. I could still hear the birds chirping and the water running in the distance.
When I entered the house, although silence and beauty pervaded the atmosphere, I found that I could not bring myself to close the door behind me. I had to keep it open; I had to keep hearing those birds chirp, in wondrous unison—a song of safety. Hardwood floors reflected sunlight that spilled through the windows. A staircase that led to a second floor lay directly before me. To the left, there was a large dining area or kitchen and I observed, from a distance, the antique gas stove. On my right side, there was an adjoining family room outfitted with a massive brick fireplace and a cement mantle adorned with picture frames.
I decided to walk toward the fireplace and observe the pictures as I realized that the house might not be abandoned. I may have walked into somebody’s home, a family who still resided there. I gracefully strolled over a large throw rug that covered the better part of the room and studied the furniture. Everything appeared antique—from the sofa and chair with their peg legs to the towering grandfather clock that no longer kept time and had stopped at 11:36. The curtains hanging over the windows were a thin fabric, a fine lace, and I couldn’t find any lamps or light bulb fixtures in the room. There were no electrical outlets, no televisions. All that lit the room was the natural light from the sun that peered through the sheer curtains.
I grasped at the first picture on the mantle and immediately wiped the dust from its glass frame. A black and white still of a beautiful lady stared back at me with enrapturing eyes and strict, pursed lips. Her hair may have been brown or a shade of sandy blonde. It was curled and styled like something out of a movie from the silver screen era.
The next picture I observed was that of the same refined woman standing with her arm around a handsome gentleman. He was at least a foot taller than she and his shoulders were broad, though he appeared lanky. His short hair was parted to the left side in a tight pull and his face was androgynous, like an angel. The lady in the photograph rested her head beside the towering man’s chest.
I glanced at the next picture and then the next as I put together the lives of these mysterious people whom I had never seen or met. A picture with the gentleman in a tuxedo and the woman in an elegant wedding gown, a few prints of the couple in front of this house, and a batch of other framed delights containing the visuals of two babies at birth decorated the mantle. The final picture was that of the man, who had now grown a beard, standing near his wife and two children who appeared the age of seven. The two children were identical twin boys and there was a gleam or a glowing in their eyes.
My mind raced with so many questions that I didn’t know where to begin. Did they live here anymore and, if so, where are they now? In fact, where exactly was I?
I decided that if I searched the remainder of the house, I might find the people who inhabited it. With that thought in mind, I heard a loud thud emit from the ceiling above me. I jumped from the sudden sound and my heart burst into an adrenaline-induced cadence.
I made my way back toward the staircase and began warily climbing the small wooden steps. I had to prepare myself should somebody come from the corner at the top and scare the hell out of us both. As I reached the top of the flight of stairs, I noticed a pungent smell. Something gave off a rotten odor.
There were three doors at the top floor and all were closed. The acrid odor penetrated my breathing; I wanted to vomit from the fumes. I instantly pondered leaving the house and then realized that I had no clue where to go. I didn’t even remember getting here. The only building that grazed this netherworld was this house.
I cracked open the first door and whispered, “Hello?” There was no response as I pushed the door open wide enough to peer inside. There was a grand four-poster bed and another door that must have led to a balcony, I gathered. To both my dismay and relief, there was nobody in the room. The aroma in this room was musty and didn’t contain that awful smell that made me nauseous.
I left that door open and proceeded to the door beside it. There was also another door behind me and I briskly glanced back to confirm that it remained unopened. When I gently pushed the next door open, I discovered the room that was the source of that terrible stench. The whiff of rot rolled out of the room and caused me to gag. I began trembling, Christopher. I don’t want to go any further, but you have to hear this. You have to come save me from this place.
“Hello?” my voice quavered. When I shoved the door open, I was aghast and frozen in shock. My body would not move; I was paralyzed with fear. There was blood strewn about the walls of the room—red rivers and specks of crimson that acted as gory wallpaper. There were two beds in this room. I immediately concluded that this was the twins’ bedroom, the twins from the pictures on the mantle. I quickly studied everything in the room and made the horrid discovery of three bodies. Two of them were small and one appeared petite with long hair. The woman! My god, the three members of the family had been murdered in this room. Their bodies were practically unrecognizable and their faces were a bloody, pulpy gore. The heads of the victims were bashed in and seeped gray chunks of brain from the gouges. Their chests and stomachs were torn open as if a wild animal had viciously attacked them and a bluish, wormy tube appeared to climb from one of the boys’ stomachs.
I couldn’t make sense or believe the horror that lay before me. The blood and gore from the violently attacked bodies turned my stomach upside down. I vomited, gasping for quick breath with each passing gag. I rushed out of the room and slammed the door behind me. My eyes watered as I focused on the staircase. That is when I noticed the other door beside it was open. The door to the room I had not entered.
I was too afraid to look inside the room, but the door was wide open and I had to pass the room to get down the stairs.
As I made my run past the open doorway, in attempt to get away from the terrible scene, I saw him. It was the guy from the picture, the tall man that was husband and father to the deceased in the other room. His beard was full and bushy; his hair disheveled, as if he had just gotten into a rumble. He loomed over an artist’s easel with a fine brush in one hand and a paint-splayed pallet in the other. The man casually painted upon the canvas as if he were oblivious to the horror that plagued the other room. His eyes made their way from the canvas to me and I eagerly approached him.
“My god, you’ve got to help me, please. Your wife. Your boys,” I exclaimed.
He glared at me with cold, hateful eyes. “What are you doing here?” he moaned with a hoarse inflection.
I didn’t have time to explain, for I hadn’t a rational explanation of how I had gotten to this place. “Sir,” I anticipated. “You don’t understand! There’s a murderer in this…”
My eyes caught a glimpse of the canvas the man painted upon and cut off my desperate plea. Everything suddenly came back to me like a rush of memories when I viewed the painted canvas. I recalled our argument, Christopher; I remembered the love we had. I remembered the mural. And that was what embellished the canvas in the same beautiful colors and texture that we found on the wall in our apartment. The man was painting an exact duplicate of the mural! The stream, the Cherry Oaks, the house...his house. The picture was his creation, I dreadfully realized. This was his world, his place, and his time.
Behind the giant of a man, a pickaxe rested against the wall with blood slowly dripping from both tips. He killed them! Oh my god!
The murderous painter threw his brush and pallet to the floor and reached for the pickaxe. That was his other tool, for he was not only an artist of oils and paints, he was also an artist of murder and madness. Before he got a chance to swing the weapon toward me, I jumped from its deadly path. I sped from the room and, thinking that the madman may get me from behind as I bolted down the stairs, I made my way into the master bedroom where I remembered another door that led outside.
“Get back here,” his haunting voice roared.
I shut the door but there was no lock. I hastily made my way to the other door that led me out to a balcony...this balcony, Christopher. I held on to the knob, pulling the door toward me, though I knew that I could not compare to the strength of that horrible man. I thought I eluded him; he didn’t know if I ran down the stairs and out the front door or into another room. I kept quiet. though my body could not stop quivering in terror.
I was wrong, Christopher. Wrong, because now, as I stand on this balcony mentally sending the mental picture of my experience to you, I can hear the man rummage through the bedroom. It will only be seconds before he opens this door to find me. There is no other escape, Christopher; no other exits from this place save for your rescue. Help me, please! I apologize for any wrongs I have done. I wish I hadn’t said those awful words to you. I wish I were there with you, holding you close.
I think he’s found me, oh my god! I can’t keep him from opening the door. I’m not strong enough!
HELP ME, CHRISTOPHER! OH GOD, HELP ME! GET HIM AWAY FROM ME! PLEASE, CHRISTOPHER. HELP ME…
*****
Christopher enters the apartment and realizes that the door is still unlocked. He harbors feelings of guilt about the fight they got into the night previous. Through the long night, he has had time to reflect, time to think and realize that this love is one he cannot deny. This is the love of his life—the beautiful woman that he has shared so much with.
He calls her name, but does not get a response.
Christopher gazes at the mural that covers the wall. As he steps closer, he observes the likeness of the comely woman that stands on the picture’s balcony. Her long golden locks are wavering in a still breeze. Her eyes are wide with terror. Her lips are curled back in fright. It looks just like her, Christopher recognizes.
Tears well in his eyes as he calls her name again and receives no reply.
The mural reminds him of an enlarged postcard. The caption that fills Christopher’s mind can only read: Wish you were here.
Copyright © 2008 by Andrew Wolter. All Rights Reserved.