Christopher Tolian
River Candles
A sad smile drifts to her eyes. “The world ain’t so bright as it used
to
be. All blazing and blue and so big. Everything so bright and big.”
Her
voice trails off. Lips tremble once, face raised up.
“Then the sun broke. It just broke. Light faded out. Like it didn’t
want
to be here anymore. Like it wasn’t worth it to shine anymore.”
She fixes me with brown eyes gone liquid gold with tears. “You see?”
“It ain’t so bad if you let the whiskey steal a little breath -- a
little at
a time til you feel like you’re drowning in novocain.” She sips from
her
cracked bottle. One hand lies on her knee, palm up. She always sits
like
that. Like she’s waiting, begging someone to notice and slit her wrist
along the tattooed dotted line. The words Cut Here in shaky black ink.
The
lines squirm, organic and shifting. Flash over into obscene graffiti.
Cunt. Fuck the world. No hope.
I shake my head. Hallucinatory advertising stops.
“So.” Bruised eyes catch mine. Daring me to pay attention. Warning.
“You
gonna play the white knight?” She laughs into the whiskey. “Gonna
fuckin
rescue me?”
Her laugh is off. Broken and harsh. It never reaches her eyes. Her
entire
being remains unfocused. Her name is Hope. Ironic.
“Why are you so sad?”
Her laugh cracks and she considers. “Cuz life is full of shit.”
“No.” I sip my own whiskey. “No, it’s not.”
Unconvinced. She shoots me a look leaking incredulity. I reach for
her
hand. She hisses, pulling back. Crosses her arms. Hide the evidence.
“There is hope.” Hell, I don’t know what else I have to offer but
words and
promises. The river almost drowns them, pulling the syllables into the
current eddying just the other side of the railing. Am I lying?
“Hope, faith. It’s all bullshit.” She keeps her head turned away.
Sulking.
I light a cigarette, inhale the acrid smoke. Bitter layered on bitter
whiskey. I want to tell her she’s a fucked up little girl. Not
because
it’s true, much anyway, but because that’s how she comes across. How
she
sees herself. It’s this mask she wears, spitting and cussing at the
world
as loud as she can. Burning up with anger. Angst and nihilistic
righteousness. But that’s not who she really is. Can’t be, right?
Why the fuck do I bother? A rage tries to build, but is stillborn.
Because
I have to. If no one else sees the potential...if those most desperate
for
hope can’t reach out and grab it, maybe it’s not really there. I can’t
accept that. It obliterates any justification for life.
Potential. Everyone has this potential to touch divinity. To be
sacred.
Not in a religious sense, but in a human way. As a species we have the
potential for greatness. For fucking divinity if we can stop
destroying
ourselves long enough to see it. That’s all it really takes; enough
people
with their eyes open for the idea to take hold. There’d be no stopping
us.
But, there’s the flipside too. The potential to destroy everything and
bring it all to an end.
I slam back the rest of my drink and the thoughts quiet. I look at
her.
Really look at the woman sitting across from me. Pop goth fairy with
blue
streaked hair. Heavy eyes and dark lip liner.
Her lips move, silhouetted against pale skin. A silent chant.
“What are you saying?”
“Counting.”
Laugh. “Counting what?”
“River candles.”
I look out over the water. Thousands of tiny flames shimmer across the
surface. Stars and lights reflected, refracted. Swallowed up by the
water
to parade downstream.
“The river’s kept some of the light. Just a little bit.” Hushed
whisper,
like a little girl’s.
I watch her for a minute. Lips stop moving.
“Want to walk?”
She nods, still watching the river.
“Sometimes I feel like Peter Pan.” She still hugs herself, words a
quiet
rush. Her voice blends with the river’s persistent whisper. The bridge
groans under us. That little sway; the bridge wanting to break free of
its
pylons and tumble downstream toward the rapids spilling through the
broken
dam.
“Peter Pan?” I grin in the dark. “Like a teenage boy?”
A giggle. Shadowed sidelong glare. “Sarcastic fuck.” But she laughs.
Looks back at the river.
“Like I never really grew up.” She pauses. “I can’t picture myself
old.
Can you?”
That catches me up hard. Expectations, reassurances. I feel her
looking at
me, but I keep staring through the silence to the river. Like a
flickering
movie between the boards. Glint shadow glint shadow. Click crick
creak.
The river whispers hush. I don’t want to answer. I can’t even bring
myself
to try.
Solid ground. Gravel and mud. We turn onto a brick pathway. Her lips
move
again. I follow the bouncing arc of her cigarette’s cherry. A dim red
comet as it climbs up over the water and hisses out.
Dark. “You’re not gonna answer that, are you.” Not a question.
“I can’t picture anyone old.” I reach for words, anything. “I guess I
don’t accept that people age. Our bodies do, but not us. You know?”
She’s quiet. Takes my hand and leads me off the walkway. “Boy, you’re
so
full of bullshit.” Turns my face toward her. Her hands are warm.
“Quit
lying to me. I just want to talk. Alright? None of this
philosophical
bullshit.” She reaches into my pocket and grabs my pack of Winston’s.
“Never answered anything anyway.”
“Disassociation.”
Her eyes raise to mine, questioning through the lighter’s flame.
“Philosophy. Disconnects the mind from the body. Rationalization,
logic
and reason.” I light a cigarette before she let’s the flame die.
“Like...”
She shoots me a withering look. I hold up my hands in surrender.
Nods. “Alright then.”
She takes off her shoes and sits on a limestone overhang. Luminescent
wake
trails out, making the river candles jump in the current. Somewhere
across
the river a window is opened. Blues slinks out into the night, all
cool
grind and hot wails. Howling 'bout women and sex and the devil’s own
kind of
luck.
She stands in water up to her knees and rocks back and forth, finding
the
rhythm.
“I hear every decision, every second of our existence, is a choice
between
life and suicide.”
She runs her hands up her body, waving them in front of her face. The
tattoos flash against her pale skin. She smiles. “Know what I mean?”
I lay back, watch her move. You can see the mood change. It’s like
the
music flipped a switch and she can breathe again. Her head is cleared
as
her body is subdued by the backbeat.
I laugh. “And you call me philosophical?”
A little spin. “Seriously.” Eyes back on me. Her face flushed. She
makes
the music a physical thing. Lets it into her. Intimacy with the
ethereal.
“I mean not just offing yourself. But emotional and spiritual suicide
too.
Closing yourself off. Denying life.”
The words blend with guitar gone all plaintive and sorrowful. Mourning
some
lost sense of self. She kicks a cold wave my way. Cigarette dies a
wet
sloppy mess on my face.
“You listening?” She wraps a red bandana on, looking for all the world
like
a gypsy princess with her long long hair whipping around her in the
moonlight.
“Then what’s your choice?”
She looks at me, suddenly still. She rubs her wrists. “What d’you
mean?”
“Suicide or life?”
She turns back to the river. Takes a step toward the dam. Quiet.
“Depends
on the day.”
She spins, pulling me up and over til we both tumble into the water.
I come up sputtering. “Damn, that’s cold.”
She just laughs.
We catch our breath. She looks away again, the water cold swirling
around
us, soaking in. I start to shiver.
“Twenty thousand three hundred seventeen,” she says.
I do a double take. “Huh?”
That laugh again. Clear and bright and beautiful and ironic. “The
river
candles. That’s how many there are tonight.”
“You counted all of them? That’s a big number for --.” The water
rushes up
to catch me. Fuckin' cold. Her laugh rings through me.
“Heh. Sarcastic fuck.” She pulls me up. “Let’s get dried off.”
Water splashes against the tiles. Candles seep greasy black smoke into
the
heavy air.
Her body speaks a history. Silent eloquence. Tattoos and scars.
Bruises
faded to a dull yellow. How do you fix someone that broken? As broken
as
her sun. Little rivulets outline her breasts, falling across a white
ridge
of old hurt on her flat stomach. Navel ring glints a silver hoop. I
trace
all this with my hands, the slickness accentuating the trembles, the
tightening muscles. A hesitation. A paused breath. Hand suspended
just
off her skin. Anticipation of the touch. Muscles tense. My hands
start
kneading her shoulders, working along her spine. Finally she relaxes.
Open and vulnerable and accepting of that.
If only I could have met her sooner.
“What?” Her eyes are clear, looking up through wet tangled hair.
Smirk.
“Think you could have saved me from all this?” Arms outstretched, she
does
a slow spin, exposing everything I never could have stopped.
“I just...” I raise my face into the spray. Eyes closed, I feel her
fingers
run up my back, rest on my shoulder.
Voice soft, cool across my ear. “I know. It’s alright.
She turns me around and pulls me to her. So damn tiny. Barely there.
Like
she’s tucked into herself until only a sketch is left.
“I’m alright.” Lips move against mine.
“For now? What about --?”
“Does it matter past now?” The hot water makes her eyes bright.
Droplets
sparkle in the lashes. “Can you love me for a little while?”
So many questions. Too many words getting in the way of what I want to
say.
I answer, my mouth seeking hers.
She looks up at me and starts, lips part like she wants to say
something.
But stops. Just holds my eyes. Her hand finds mine, fingers weaving
together. And we don’t need words anymore. We are here, really
here.
Touching beyond bodies. That connection when you see the real person.
When
you let them see you. When conscience and thought get out of the
fucking
way and we are both human. And real. And scared. But not alone.
“What happened to make you like this?”
We lay on the old red couch. TV flickers over in the corner, volume
turned
low. Blanket soft and warm and dry; cocoon against the dark.
“Like what?” Feel her stiffen against me. She pulls away without
moving.
Distance doesn’t have to be physical.
She is quiet for a minute. “Ah. The tattoos.” She hugs herself and I
squeeze her. “Yeah. I’ve met a lot of bad people...devils and vampires
and
dark dark men who stole the light. Chased it so far away it ain’t
never
coming back.” She turns into me, buries her head in my chest. “They
broke
the sun. Showed me I ain’t worth a shit and sent me on my way.”
I kiss the top of her head. “You know that isn’t true. You’re worth so
much
more than you realize.”
A sob. A laugh. “Yeah? You sure?” Reaches to stroke my face. “So
where’d the light go? Why can’t I see it?”
I pull her closer. “The sun shines on you. Don’t see how it could
ignore
you.”
Silence. Warm breath and soft lips on my shoulder. “Thank you.” A
whisper
blowing across my skin. “You gonna send me on my way?”
“No. I want you to stay.”
I feel her hesitation. Feel the but -- She won’t. Too much trust for
her
right now. I wonder what her choice is. I wonder what it really is.
She
stands.
“I gotta go.” She won’t look at me.
“Why?” Not a fair question. But I want her to think on it at least.
“I just...” She puts on her jeans, grabs my shirt. “I gotta think this
one
through.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.” Gonna believe me? Can you?
She turns to me. “I know. It’s not you I’m worried about.”
I’m quiet.
“I’ll be by tomorrow.”
I sit up. Light a cigarette and toss her the rest of the pack.
“Okay.”
She smiles. “I just want to do it right this time. Ya know?”
I nod. “Be careful.”
“I’ll be fine.” Laugh, looking out the window. “Sun’s almost up.”
“Not broken anymore?”
She tilts her head. Pause. “I don’t know.”
Kiss her hand. It’s warm. “Goodnight.”
“Night.” She sighs. “I’ll see you later.”
I grin. I can almost picture her old. “You’ll look good with gray
hair.”
She laughs as she walks out the door.
Cigarette hisses as it lands in an old cup of coffee. Slip into sleep
as
the sun warms the room.
©2005 by Christopher Tolian
Chris Tolian is one of those people constantly searching for things
that he
doesn't yet understand. Finding muses makes him blissfully happy. He is
intrigued by people, and forever trying to connect. He can be found
mostly
around Chicago, looking for that quiet place between the city and
serendipity
where the wild things dance and the sidewalk ends.
He has been published with Clean Sheets, Slow Trains,
and The Divine Animal. He is currently spewing various short stories and
attempting a novel or two. Mostly he works and raises beautiful little
gypsy girls.
