I fell slowly to the floor and pulled myself into a fetal position.
A few hours later, I sensed her standing above me. I could smell her perfume lingering in the air. She knelt down and ran her fingers over my scalp, kissing me on my temple.
"We'll work through this together," she whispered.
That night we just held each other fiercely in the dark. I never wanted to let her go.
The next morning we were sitting on the bed facing each other. "You need to be honest with me, Oliver. How long has this been going on?"
I told her everything, going all the way back to my first obsession with the picture of Norma Jean and moving up to the story of Megan. It felt almost climactic to finally be able to tell my story to someone.
"Have you ever thought about why you can only be attracted to the dead?" she asked.
"Yes, sometimes. I've never been able to find any good answers. At first it scared the hell out of me, but I have long since come to terms with it."
We decided to try something that, in hindsight, I should have known would be a disaster. But I was so afraid I would lose her I was willing to try anything.
"I'm only doing this because I love you, Oliver," Audrey said, removing her clothing as I watched uncomfortably.
"You don't have to, Audrey," I whispered as she lay back on the bed and became still. "I don't want you to lose your dignity for me. It's not worth it."
Her eyes still closed, she said, "Dignity has nothing to do with it. If this will help us somehow, it will be worth it."
Audrey decided to portray her "corpse" while I ran my hands over her nude body. As I moved my fingers gently over her still breasts, I watched her face for a reaction. She looked so much like she did in the painting, so exquisite and peaceful.
She was very careful not to react to my touch, and thus, break the illusion of what we were doing. I then traced her skin down to her thigh and delicately brushed her soft flesh.
I really did not think it was going to work. I thought it would be a failure. However, as I touched her, exploring her body with the edges of my fingertips, I gradually became aroused.
It was the first time I had become stimulated by a physical person and the feeling was absolutely joyous. She opened up her legs and I entered her carefully, her warmth devouring me. It was the most exhilarating feeling I had ever experienced.
Then she kissed me, wrapping her soft arms around my neck.
I pulled back like I had been struck.
She had destroyed the illusion that allowed me to bring myself this far. I quickly pulled out and rolled off the bed. I felt repulsed and unpleasant. It was as if the corpse had suddenly sprung to life like some bad horror movie.
"You should not have done that, Audrey," I whispered, my back to her.
I could hear her sobbing behind me and although I wanted to console her, I knew that I could not. To do so would be unfair to her. I let her go in my mind, though the pain was unbearable. Every part of my body was screaming to embrace her.
I simply stared at the wooden floor as she got dressed, my hands shaking at my sides.
I flinched as I felt her touch on my arm. "I truly hope someday you will get help, Oliver," she whispered into my ear.
That was the last time I ever saw Audrey, although I think about her every day.
My experience with her, although having a profoundly negative impact on my psyche, helped me come to understand myself in many ways. The pain of losing Audrey has disconnected me from society in a way I fear I shall never recover.
It's not too much of a curse, really, to only love the dead.
Unlike many, I see the beauty in the darkness. I see God's touch everywhere—even beyond the grave. To call it a curse is an injustice to that splendor which resides in death. The nearly overwhelming tranquility that exists is for my eyes to see, and to portray, so the rest of the world can see as well.
Perhaps it is the price I pay for loving the dead.
I also understand I can only love that which is unattainable. I suppose it's sad in some way that I can never truly love a woman unless it is impossible for her to return that love. I guess some would say in the dark world I have created for myself, I never have to face rejection, or deal with all the negative things that come with a truly rich relationship.
So here I stand in the shadows amongst my paintings, surrounded by a beauty only I can seem to understand. I love them all in my own way, and although others would not be able to see the bonds, they are there.
I often pleasure myself to my painting of Audrey. It's all I have to show that, on some level, I am capable of loving the living.
It's a reminder that, for an instant—one heartbreaking instant—I stepped into the real world and felt for a moment, however brief, that I can be touched emotionally by a breathing soul.
I've come to the conclusion that I don't exist in the same sort of reality the rest of the world does. It's not so bad existing a little left of center. There are far worse ways to love.
Forgive and forget.
It was a saying to live by.
A saying that many people had based their entire existence upon.
What happens, however, if you can't forgive?
What happens if you cannot forget?
Angela pondered these questions and more as she awaited the coming of The
Rememory
Man. For seven decades she had been a forgiving person, a person who placed friendships and the helping of others above her own needs. She had forged her demeanor in the crucible of
Samaritanship
and was known within the community as a good person.
Turn the other cheek.
Forgive and forget.
All's well that ends well.
Love conquers all
.
She had lived by these idioms and truly felt that she was a forgiving soul...which was perhaps the crux of the problem. How could she continue living at this point in her life if she had no experience with hatred?
And God how she hated.
The hate consumed her, filling her insides with an acidic bile of condemnation that kept her from the very possibility of happiness from entering her life.
Her hatred kept her from socializing. After all, how could she trust people anymore? Her lifelong belief in people's goodness had evaporated because of one single, devastating event. How could she love someone who was capable of such incredible malevolence?
She was so involved in her own insolvable problem that the knocking at the door made her to jump. She lurched to her feet and stared at the two inches of wood that separated her from the ignorance she had summoned. Yet now, at the very moment her solution had arrived, she felt pause.
If her pastor ever found out she had called The
Rememory
Man, he might well ban her from the church. If her friends discovered what she had done, each one would wonder whether it was them she sought to sanction.
Her hand was poised halfway to the deadbolt. She stared at the slender fingers that had once played piano before arthritis had begun their twisting curse. Liver spots dotted the tanned surface. Quickly, she drew back her hand and covered it with her other to still its shaking.
Although her memories had always been her one true comfort, echoes of happiness that propelled her through life, she would ask the pagan priest to interrogate her past and excise a memory. She would trust a mythic stranger to help her become who she once was—someone who lived by the motto
Forget and Forgive
.
She opened the door and beheld the small twisted man, his age wound within the creases of his weathered skin.
Even her grandmother had spoken of The
Rememory
Man. At times he was called a savior. Other times he was a threat she would wield to control her children and her grand children.
Don't you make me call The
Rememory
Man now. I'll have him take away all the good things and make
yer
life as bad as you think it is.
Even as a child the possibilities had terrified her.
"Come in," she said, remembering that evil things needed to be invited in.
The
Rememory
Man entered, his tall gnarled staff propelling him into the room. She noticed his long white hair lying lank upon his brown cloak as he passed, twigs and leaves, and dried animal parts tangled as if they were ornaments painstakingly placed. As she closed the door, he turned, his eyes filled with a combination of youthful strength and the painful wisdom that could only come from a lifetime of too much knowledge...too much of other people's knowledge.
Angela gestured for The
Rememory
Man to take the low, green couch. Angela sat in her dead husband's leather chair, her hands gripping the armrests, squeezing, soaking up the courage to continue.
"Before we begin," he said, his voice a gravelly drawl, "I need to remind you of the seriousness of your choice. I'm a believer in a person's ability to solve their own problems. When I'm called, it's a result of some failure in this process. I will indeed remove the memory in question and you will never even know it existed." He paused. "Is that what you want?"
"That's what I want," she said softly.
"You understand what I've said? You will never even realize it existed. Never."
She didn't care. She just wanted to be done with it. She wanted to get on with the process of living. Hatred had never been a part of her and when she died, she wanted only to remember love.
"Yes," she repeated, her anger slipping slightly.
"Then we shall begin."
He moved to her side and without hesitation, placed a hand upon her head. It was warm to the touch and she could smell his earthiness. The aroma of honeysuckle and loamy earth of the mountain forest that hung on him like a second garment embraced her and she swooned. She could smell pine and the crispness of autumn leaves. She remembered as a young girl kicking up great piles of the red and orange castoffs in her treks among the trees. She had been so young then, full of hope and faith. The memory solidified her determination. She wanted to be as pure as that young girl again. She wanted to be happy.
She felt the tendrils of his magic insinuate itself into her mind and flash through a lifetime of events until it found that single one that had changed it all. She chanted with The
Rememory
Man, their words filling the house:
Forget and Forgive.
Forget and Forgive.
Forget and Forgive
.
It was when Angela closed the door and The
Rememory
Man moved on to his next client, that she wondered if it really had been a good idea. It was doubt really, because she would never again remember the reason she had called him in the first place. After all, he'd taken it with him.
She could feel the replacement, a blank space filled with someone else's memory. The
Rememory
Man had told her to leave it alone. That it was part of the price. When he took one, he replaced one. She was just keeping it safe in case the other client wanted it back—like someone would do with her memory very soon.
Angela had always liked her memories. At her age, it was really all she had. She limped away from the door, silently cursing calcium deficiency and an old bone's tendency to break. It had been so silly. She had only fallen off a chair. Just the same, her doctor told her she had broken her hip. Even though that was last year, it still pained her terribly. In the mornings, she had to
make
herself get out of bed. She used to take the stairs in the department stores, huffing and puffing for the exercise. Now, it was the elevator all the way.