Suicide Diving

 

00001111 - Verses of Angel: Angel of Babylon’s Song 

○٭۝٭○

      It was that click that brought her back to life. Reminiscent of high heels hitting generic tiles, his dark crocodile boots tapped cold white and black marble. So she rolled over, hiding underneath the draped piano. And as her hair fell over her face, she clutched the curtains around her with both hands.

      “Yes, Mansfield, I’m having a look at the place right now.” A pause. “No. I can’t quite say if I approve. They haven’t yet reconnected the electricity.” His tall figure could be seen pacing in the hallway just outside the modest library. “Yes, the crash was that terrible. No. They don’t know what caused it. It shouldn’t take too much work to patch up, however. Yes, I will be expecting a call from you.” A beep. And the glow of Dean Samson’s Blackberry faded.

▪◘▪

      “So who’s the gentleman trailing after you?” I asked, sitting behind my mahogany desk.

      “He’s just a kid.” She folded her arms, looking me in the eyes and pressing her back to the chair. “He fancies himself an artist.”

      I looked at her with disbelief, more for what she had said than how she had said it

      She continued, waving her hand lightly. “He’s just a kid. You know I like older men.” She smiled slightly, but I couldn’t tell if she was mocking me, humoring me, exalting me.

      It was just so familiar. I could have heard it yesterday, if yesterday were twelve years ago. We’d taken a stroll, tall dark trees with ornamental leaves of contrasting colors sheltering us, softening and decorating our walk. They stained our cobblestone path, leaving their mark after their descent and depart.

      “He’s just a kid.” She smiled so sweetly. A blonde curl hung at the side of her rosy face, dotted with freckles. She squeezed my hand, eyes unwavering as we walked through the cold autumn day. Flowers adorning her lovely blouse, she smiled so lovingly. 
 

      “I know, but still.” I looked around at the red leaves, jagged and pointed, nearly serrated.

      Then that frail and serious voice chimed, striking like the grandfather clock you could never get used to, awakening you from your dreams. “Do you want me to take care of him?” Her smile had faded.

       “Do as you like.” Closing my eyes and gently exhaling, I adjusted and put down my glasses.

      When I looked up, her smile had returned. The smile that had caused shipwrecks and noblemen to abandon their virtues, the smile that never lost and made despairing lies seem like sweet consoles, the smile that perplexes even myself and tames even my restless and barbarian spirit. The smile that made everything seem alright. It’s been three short years since I stumbled upon that girl and her smile. She was like a shell of a thing, hard and hollow. But when even the slightest force was applied, she would sense it. With the force akin to a volcano or tsunami, she would rebel. Sometimes I wonder how that young girl came into my possession.

      She was mine, completely and eternally, a rose still and escaped from time. Somehow she allowed me to rein her in, though perhaps not from any amazing power of my own. The way she sometimes looked at me, it was clear she desperately had to restrain herself from leaving me, from retaliating too abruptly or too strongly. It was unclear to me what was maintaining our bond, but I knew it existed for us both. I could only hope the bonds lasted long enough for her to become accustomed to my ways.

      I’d never known her to sneeze or cough.  She was never sick. She had no allergies, ate her fruit and vegetables without cleaning them. She said it kept her immune system in check. She didn’t care about the weather—she wore her clothes sparingly year round. She said she just didn’t care to adorn ridiculous garments; she hated to be restricted or smothered. She lived within that ancient mansion with me, though she’d once told me she hated how open the rooms were. The expanse left shadows; shadows could be distorted into figures of malcontent and misanthropy. So she slept within my quarters and held onto me throughout the darkness. If it weren’t for such an arrangement, I would have never believed it. However, she was still there, writhing and rolling about in bed, just before falling into a fitful sleep. 
 

▫◙▫

      Eros…I kept my eyes shut. Hiding within the folds of the striped sheets and over encompassing blankets of fluffy, fluffy white. Refusing to think about it. Refusing to think of my most recent betrayal. But I knew there was no use, for our faults always find us.

      “Non. I cannot today. My stomach is angry with me.” Smoothing and clutching the hair at the front of my head, I closed my eyes and breathed out heavily. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.” And I slumped back into the pillow, holding the phone close to my face. “Sorry.” I looked to the side and out the window to the white balcony. “Will your project be late?” Sighing, I blinked each time my eyes refocused.

      “Miss.” The generic butler figure’s voice infiltrated the room, just as I was getting to sleep.

      “Oui, monsieur?” I hid my face in the pillow, with only my mouth slightly free. Merely for breath.

      “You have a visitor at the main gate. A Mister Hanoi.”

      At this, I looked up at him. He was just standing at the door, his hand still on the knob. His nose was so overtly pointed and his head so shiny from the receding hairline he had well inherited. I remember one day I’d given him sunscreen, almost as if it were a present. It didn’t seem that he’d been using it.

      “Should I let him in?” he interrupted. His eyebrow didn’t rise, though it seemed as though it wanted to. He just blinked. Uncommon, as head raised high in prestige and back most adequately straight, he kept his eyes closed as long and often as he could afford. Like he’d kept his eyes agape for too long. And the covering of his eyelids gave him comfort and relief.

      “Yeah. Go ahead.” I watched Alfred’s fleeting form departing, the only color in a room filled with whites and blacks and greys. Not even any off whites, tainted with the warmth of yellows or pinks.

      He brought me soup and a beverage. He brought me ice cream. Butter Pecan. At the very least, he was able to follow instructions. Wishing for spontaneous affection was too much. We just lay in Dean’s bed, a bright white seized by stripes of infinite black. Just under the surface. And I just asked him.

      “What’s wrong with you?” 
 

      He just wanted to sleep. Why was he so tired? I desperately wanted to throw him out, saying, “Fuck off. Go spend time with your paintings and disgusting charcoal doodles. We can’t spend every waking moment together and just dismiss it as a close friendship. I refuse. I can’t. And I won’t.” But I guess I wasn’t mad enough for that. I don’t know what it was about him that kept a hold of me. Frankly, he was a bum. He seldom went to class. He said he was busy with his paintings. They were hardly good. They held a beauty with no real feeling. But somehow, I became so very attached to him and his paintings. And so across the way, within my seldom used room, I hung a portrait of myself. Naked and on all fours, casually stalking, watching some unknown prey. As if I were a tiger or an amazon.

      He didn’t answer me. He was really asleep. He was really just asleep.

      We’d first met in Boston, when Dean was on a business trip. Then after my twenty-third birthday, I was at the front of the zoo, greeting. And there he was. Hello, Welcome to Bubbletown’s Happy Zoo, Instant Show! He must have thought I was insane. But he remembered me. And I remembered him. So I gave him a tour of the park. We read facts about the elephants. We examined tiny amphibians. We looked for the otters, who hid their little brown bodies. We ignored the aquarium but took a ride on the sky rail. And I remember my hair got caught on the metal bolts, smoothed to a small, silver, convex protrusion.

 It wasn’t until that day that I opened my heart. But giving me his glasses, he just took a nap. Leaning on my shoulder. While I observed the lions.

▪◘▪

      “I heard you entertained a visitor, my dearest angel.”

      “I did.” She closed her eyes slowly, like some deep sea fish, irritable and anxious for rest.

      As her eyes opened, I asked, “Were you feeling better?”

      “Mildly so, yes.” She looked down at her plate, nostrils flared, carefully cutting the baby carrots into tiny pieces. I couldn’t see why she hadn’t just cut them smaller in the first place.

      “Are you well enough to work tonight?” I was honestly asking out of concern. 
 

      Swirling her mashed potatoes into what she must have thought was a snail’s shell, she put her fork down and looked at me with that smile. “For you? Always.”

      I wanted the painting. Back at Boston, I’d taken her to an art gallery. There hung a recreation she could not tear herself away from. She was so enamored and invested, so fixed and persistent. The only thing was it already had a devoted owner. Quite unfortunate for him, I can’t say there’s been a time when I was denied. I went to the best schools and earned the best grades. I brought my father’s company back from the dark ages. I was able to reclaim my beloved castle, gaining a maid along with it. No, she wasn’t a maid, perhaps a partner, an ally or companion—one who never faltered in her persuasion.

      I almost couldn’t see her when she walked in, my glasses presumably sleeping upon our nightstand. But as she drew closer, she came into focus. I saw her journey to the waiting bath I’d drawn just for her. A little unraveled, she didn’t slump but walked with an ease of motion, free of urgency. Like an angel who’d flown just a bit too close to the tower of Babel—and nearly crashed with a tumbling halt, but couldn’t say she really cared. There were even scratches upon her arms and legs.

      Standing against the glowing aquarium, I asked her, “What did she say?”

      Diving under the water in a tiny flip, she came to the edge of her miniature pool. “She said no.”

      “So tomorrow night, then?”

      “Oui, mon cher.” She scrubbed her skin, slowly regaining her color.

      I got her that grand bathtub, enclosed by a radiant aquarium, as she was so enamored by mermaids. The rocky edges and her thick hair, like waves of kelp, were nearly convincing. But I didn’t favor her hair blonde, skin paled, appearance blanched. Her long black hair, swirling like vast ocean swells, may have fooled me for that of a goddess’s. The way her tan skin, like wet sand, glowed was phenomenal. However, when I would send her on a mission she would return distorted—her hair, her skin, even her height. The only thing that would never, could never, falter was that smile. She just could not be rid of that attitude—my dearest Delilah. 
 

      She would laugh and smile freely, joyful and exuberant. Her light and bright colors taking center stage as she twirled and ran about, taking part in her own dance, blonde curls aflutter. She had so much spirit, the way Delilah did years ago, but Dinah’s was limitless and unwavering. She always seemed to have energy to spare, despite her love for all activities physical or artistic. She was always moving and wandering—exploring, watching and distorting—creating. I don’t think I showed enough interest. I don’t think I supported her enough. I don’t think she appreciated it, though she never let on.

      Delilah always seemed distracted, perhaps misaligned or warped from age, though significantly younger than me. Even so, she hadn’t failed to capture my heart. I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. I just couldn’t allow myself. I wanted to open my heart to her.

      “I want to move out.” She stood at the frame of the door, her hair still damp, dripping slightly. She held onto the frame as if it were keeping her together.

      “Excuse me?” Readjusting my glasses, I laughed slightly. “You’re bound to me.”

      Her nostrils flared and she stood away from the anchor of the door. “You don’t own me.”

      “I beg to differ. Do you think no one knows the things you’ve done? Do you really think you are that discreet?” I couldn’t believe this. When I found her here she was nothing. She would have starved or been forced into prostitution if I hadn’t taken her in. She has no education. She has no papers. She has no identity. “Even without evidence, I could have you thrown in jail indefinitely.”

      “And I could kill you at any moment. How long do you think they could even keep me?” Her eyes were fixed upon mine, tightened and slightly misty. Her arms were right against her body, clenched.

      “Why did you stay with me to begin with, then? Why didn’t you run away?”

      She inhaled a large mass of air through her nostrils, which seemed to sit in her chest and push her torso forward. “I stayed here on impulse. It’s a nice house. The marble floors are so comfortingly cold.”

      “You said you hated the rooms. You said you hated to be cold.”

      “I’m moving out.” She walked away. Just like that. 
 

▫◙▫

      I moved into a small apartment downtown, close to everything. I brought Sammy, my beloved Tortoiseshell cat, along with a melanistic caracal kitten called Obsidian. Obsidian had to be watched at all times. But he was such a darling. His eyes were still quite blue. Though in his blue, I saw the blue Dean’s European ancestry harbored. Like a poison arrow dart frog. No, not quite like poison arrow dart frogs. It isn’t the sort of blue you see within the stones of the ground or in the sky or in the ocean. A blue unlike that which bounces from sharks or rays. A blue not as pale as the blue swimming crab or the blue button hydrozoa or even the blue sponge. Nor is the blue as dark as the sea lily’s arms or the juvenile emperor fish’s scales or the parrotfish’s fins or the man-of-war fish’s spots.

      I never liked blue eyes. I was constantly surrounded by so many shades of blue that the color seemed almost bland. The ever accepting blue. Was just too boring. Jim had eyes of a decisive brown. Burnt. Just around the edges of his pupil. His hair was black. Miraculously so. It was almost relieving to see against all the pale, faded, dull and shallow shades of the world. I always liked a man in black. Dean’s hair was a blond that seemed as if it weren’t really trying. But there were sparks after he showered, hair still wet. Eyes unobstructed. Tiny sparks of light and sheen, blazing subtly then disappearing like a firefly.

       “No, I can’t go! He’s only just past seven weeks.” I blinked, sitting up on the small bed—round and right in the middle of the bedroom. “Well. I guess so.” My eyes widened. “The apartment? But it’s a mess!” I held onto my toes with one hand and outstretched the other. “Mmm. I guess so.” Pursing my lips, I went back to playing with my toes. “Okay. See you.”

      I let the pillow engulf the side of my face, looking at the painting with only my right eye. It was the edge of the deep green sea. Fringed with delicate sand, a forest slept just out of sight. I peered over at him. He who was painting the kitchen sink from atop the table. His gaze went past the sink and out the window. A small square of light reflected in his eyes. Glasses in his hair. And when I had looked back, Obsidian was pawing at the ocean, stripping the forest from the canvas. And dropping it to the fading sea. 
 

      “How could you let him do this?!” He paced quickly, hand on his forehead. Eyes bulged slightly.

      “I didn’t just let him!” I clutched Obsidian close, as if he were in mortal danger. The whole room looked darker, shadows drastically cast and cutting into the white. Jim’s face took much of the damage.

      “You completely fawn over that thing! He can get away with anything.” Glaring, he sat on the bed before dropping his head in his hands. “Do you have any idea how long…?” He sighed, looking into my eyes, then down at the pale blue carpet. Pushed his glasses up. And said, unconvincingly, “I suppose I wanted to change the forest, anyway.”

      We sat in the living room. Eating pasta with too much cumin and bread with cheese. Sitting on oversized pillows of sandy beige. Faded blue carpet. High windows outlined in a green obstructed by blue.

      “Did your project turn out alright?” Stretching to reach the sun and resting my head on the pillows, I looked up. Sheepish and feigning slight distraction.

      “There weren’t enough grey tones. Too much contrast.”

      “Sorry.” I looked down, fiddling with the pillow. Ignoring the bread crumbs falling into my hair.

      “Don’t worry about it. Without you there wouldn’t have been any grey.” He took a bite of cheese, having finished all the pasta. Before I had a chance to eat.

      I remembered my figure in the luminescent doorway. Back against the frame. Not quite a silhouette. Unnatural white walls merge with the carpet. And my hazy shadow cast upon the floor.

      “What are you doing?” I closed my eyes tighter, rolling to the side of the bed. To avoid his kiss.

      “I can’t help it.” He lay next to me, stomach down and elbows supporting his upper body. His arms outstretched and hugged my waist, falling slightly.

      “Well help it. We’ve been over this.” I remembered all the times he’d told me he needed to focus on school, on his art, on finding a job—anything but me. Him saying I traveled too often.

      “Then stop being so irresistibly beautiful.”

      I blinked. “If I’m so irresistible. Why do you refuse to go out with me.” 
 

      He paused for awhile. And removed his glasses, telling me I was too stubborn.

      So he finally gave up. We walked along the bay, leaving Obsidian to fend for himself. I jumped down from the concrete barrier, aligned with the guard rail fencing. There stood a tall door of black bars, a heading like a white tombstone dotted with orange red rust and outlined with green. Bearing the letter E. And as we walked further down, we passed by more letters of the English alphabet.

      Passing a small European sandwich shop, we hit a restaurant with bay views and table lit candles. We shared a meal. Though he misunderstood what I meant by “share.” And our table lacked the glow of a candle. We walked home, admiring the great bay, and he spent the night alongside me. But unlike usual, Obsidian slept above my head. Neglected. But not forgotten.

      “You can stay and finish your painting. I have to go to work.” I filled Sammy’s bowl. She used to sneak up on me at night. Pouncing. Since Obsidian, she’s been absent. But her food would still vanish. As long as I didn’t stay in the kitchen. I looked over at Jim. He was just sleeping, hand flopped over the side. Grazing the dull, shallow blue carpet.

      I picked him up and took him out to the car. Obsidian was crawling and walking and climbing everywhere. Scratching the beige leather interior. I winced. My beloved SAAB…

      “Obsidian, stop that!” I glared and hissed at him, turning my face to his and baring my teeth.

      His ears lowered. Flat against his head. And he hissed back.

▪◘▪

      I couldn’t sleep. That day she was sick, she called “arnedaki,” because her mind was causing her stomach’s discomfort. I think it was contagious. Though I longed to see her, even if just in a dream, they were far and few between, and what they lacked in quantity was compensated with quality. Unfortunately for me, they were exceptional nightmares. I could no longer trust my mind to shield me from the images

of loss and abandonment, uprooting and displacement. I felt as though even when I didn’t have dreams, I must have. The unease and discomfort I awoke with had grown since the night before. 
 

      I couldn’t eat. Even the plates were mocking me, feigning praise with the tiny leaves and petals painted upon dark clay. Delilah was picky enough that she preferred to cook her own meals, more often than not. She always made too much, pretending she didn’t care what I ate. Though I remember she had kicked Alfred out of the kitchen, saying he was in her way. She hadn’t eaten that day either, that day she was sick. She hadn’t eaten in time, I should say—her organs had become demanding and moody. They gave her a window of intense hunger, making her nauseous and thoughtless, desperate and passive aggressive. When the window closed, she was too sick to eat and could do nothing but loaf—loaf and slump. She would stay held up in her room till it was time to sleep.

      I couldn’t hate her cats. I actually started to miss them. Obsidian was normally tolerable, maintaining some form of diplomacy and etiquette, despite being too young to know any better. But Sammy. Sammy was intolerable. Sammy’s presence resulted in my lack there of. Delilah would just forget about me. She would dote on her, paw and back paw. She just loved the damn thing to death and back. Sammy was seldom present, which made Delilah try even harder to win her over. She would bring her presents, toys, make her meals with instructions from the best cat and veterinary “cook books” she could find. There was not a single, solitary thing Delilah would not do for that cat.

      I couldn’t ask her to get back to work. Though she would only ask about Obsidian, since she couldn’t leave him alone. The office was empty without either of them, Delilah’s motherly voice soothing Obsidian, who was always causing her trouble. But as Winona Patricia, Delilah was more than just my part time secretary—she was a researcher at a nearby zoo. So, she’d become a mother to that caracal cub.

      “Not a cub! A kitten!” She carried the small furry thing in her arms, his paws reaching for her face. “He’s a small cat, not a great cat. That’s why you’re a little kitten, yes, little Obsidian!” She held him up and gave him Eskimo kisses, something he seemed to neither despise nor enjoy.

      “Does the zoo know you do things like that?” I raised my eyebrow and then caught a glimpse of all the baggage she’d brought with her. 
 

      “Look. I don’t care how anthropomorphic I am. What matters to me is that he gets the best life he can. I didn’t establish my own zoo for nothing.” She glared and flared her nostrils at me, clearly not at all happy to have to justify her actions to anyone.

      So I asked if she could abandon the zoo for the time being, since she’d taken on the bundle of supposed joy. But she just looked at me, no smile upon her bare face.

      Pale blue sky, dotted with clouds of assorted shapes but consistent sizes. The white of the clouds seemed to bleed into the sky, producing a decayed grey I could not accept. A saturated skin grey, rotting with the lethargy only coming from desertion and an ephemeral feeling. I sighed and looked back at the black. The interior of the Mercedes, where she used to sit, was cold. I couldn’t help thinking the drive from the gate to the house was far too long—I would always say that. She would always say, with a faint smile but weary stare, “It’s too short. Alfred’s garden is so amazing. It’s a shame we’re the only ones who see it.” She’d gaze out the window, lamenting the gorgeous world passing her by.

      I couldn’t even watch my life pass me by. All roads would inevitably lead to her. I filled the mansion with fish tanks and aquarium and ponds requiring care from simple cleaners to ichthyologists to marine biologists to limnologists. Various paintings of oceans and sandy shores dotted the hallways. The thermostat was stuck at a higher temperature than I generally cared for, since she became cold so easily. The unappealing windows to the garden, however, were blocked by the white curtains. The black velvet, more as adornment, were left tethered to the sides of the wall.

      Then she just walked right through, the last door which had not been opened, and stood there like an angel, tears streaming down her face and seeping into her mouth, firmly shut. Without a word, she fell into my arms and sobbed continuously. I barely made out a muffled and indistinct whisper. He’d left her. She didn’t say why, just that he did. So she continued to cry in my arms, like a child.  That was how I had allowed her to reside with me once again, despite any logic that should have jumped into my head, I couldn’t abandon her. 
 

▫◙▫

      Obsidian hissed and spat at me, showing those black ears even the rest of his species were famous for. I pleaded with him, begged and offered him everything but what he already had. And Sammy strolled by, sitting and gazing with her piercing blue eyes—powder blue, cornflower blue, dodger blue, azure all mixing together. Indescribable shades created and displayed there. And I realized. That Dean’s eyes were just a steel blue, not quite grey, that Obsidian’s eyes had wavered and fallen to an unnatural golden wheat. And Sammy’s eyes were the only ones who could captivate.

      Fallen to my knees, I merely said, “Look at me, I’m like a stray cat. As I wander. That dog is me.” Not quite resentful. But somewhat disappointed.