InsaneJournal

14 November 2001

Ding.

He looks up at the sound of the wind chimes just beyond the screen door. A slight breeze must have stirred up. He’d dragged his desk from the study to the foyer and installed a headlight for this reason alone. The tinkling music played by the wind has always soothed his nerves better than an early morning cigarette.

Shrugging the knots out of his shoulders and upper back, he straightens slightly. If he’s going to continue with this novel-writing pursuit, he had better buy a taller chair. All these hours at the desk are starting to take a toll on his back, which in turn conjures up frightening images of a visit to the chiropractor’s.

Ding.

With a flourish, he bubbles in a prominent period after the last word he’d written. Murmuring, he reads, “The crowd pressed and pressed against him, threatening to devour and consume, and he could not –” Period, splotchy and lumpy. It isn’t much of a sentence, not quite finished even. But he likes to have a conclusion to things, no matter how hastily it has been constructed or sloppily it turns out.

The chair scrapes the floor as he stands, but he’s never worried too much about marks on the wooden floorboards. Everything ages with time, and everyone carries their scars.

Ding.

Lights off, desk and chair pushed haphazardly to the side of the entrance hall, he finally has the liberty to head out. Fading afternoon light bathes the round hills beyond his doorstep, and he smiles, knowing he made a good decision, moving out here last year. The rolling English countryside gets chilly during the winter months, but it isn’t any worse than the cold nights in New York. It is ideal for drowning in nostalgia and reliving memories more treasured than anyone can understand.

His smile lingers for a while. He steps off the porch and turns towards the setting sun. Some days, the sight of the falling star is more than he can bear, and it takes all his will not to dash into the darkest corner of the house to cower for days. Other days, it is a strengthening dose of medicine to turn his face to the sun’s warmth and rest for a few moments. Today, however, is neither of those days. Before he can plant his feet on the dirt path winding from the house, he hears a shrill voice behind him.

“But it’ll be fun! Come on, Mommy, just for five minutes? I haven’t played tag in sooo long!”

The childish excitement injects a squeamish feel into his stomach. He watches in apprehension as a dark-haired girl bounds around his house and leaps like an Olympic medalist onto his porch. He has no natural skills when it comes to kids. He finds it difficult to connect with anyone so innocent and untouched by life. A hassled-looking woman appears behind the bouncing girl, and he feels a moment of sympathy.

“Sweetie, come down that porch. We haven’t been invited yet.”

Yet. He frowns, wondering what the mother expects from him. He does not relish the prospect of sharing his home with a squealing ball of energy. But then he sees the girl’s face, and his mind blanks. His sharp intake of breath punctuates the air.

Ding.

She looks like him, whispers a tendril of his remaining consciousness, and he grabs onto it. The familiarity in her face numbs him, and he cannot even get his mouth open to gasp or his legs to stumble back.

Her nose is proud and straight, the very same nose everyone had adoringly called “classical,” but he couldn’t have cared less. It was his nose and it faced the world with the innate confidence brimming in his nature. Her jaw, though layered with baby fat, resembles the strong yet fluid set of his, firm but ever ready with a smile. His eyes stare out from her girlish, grinning face, and he is caught in their depths yet again, drowning.

>>FLASHBACK<<

17 October 1988

He was born Nico Lombardi but lost the name when he took to the streets. Instead, he was called Inky because of his jet-black hair. It might’ve had to do with his personality too, but he wouldn’t know. He was a wild animal back then, living life from day-to-day and blind to whatever didn’t suit his purpose. He wanted food; he got food. He wanted sex; he got sex. He wanted drugs; he got drugs. Life was a haze of pleasure, of ostensible fulfillment. He was young and living the life right in New York City, the metropolis of all metropolises, the center of the goddamn world.

He was busted by the police a few times. Just for being at the wrong place at the wrong time of course. He earned his first warning for underage drinking at the age of twelve, was sent to juvenile detention after a drug bust at the age of fourteen, and was earning time in prison for bar fights by fifteen. By seventeen, he’d learned to be careful and survive the scrapes relatively unscathed. He knew all the grungy hideouts, the shelters, the other street walkers, and the sordid alleys. He was smart enough to never land himself in the hospital or to get too attached to anything.

Ephemeral pleasures suited him fine, and life was good.

October 17, 1988, was a beautiful, clear night. All the stars were out. One of his one-week girlfriends had taken astronomy before she’d dropped out of college and they’d spent a good portion of their week together under the stars, fucking, while she introduced him to some of the finer points of the heavens. He was thinking of maybe catching sight of Venus on the horizon that morning if he didn’t get too drunk. And if he didn’t have the sobriety to appreciate it, he’d enjoy the stupor anyway.

Dirk’s Bar was as simple as its name. A couple years ago, Dirk had come strolling through the Bronx, set his sights on this exact corner of the street, and decided to put down roots. A practical businessman who for some reason had thrown his lot in with the seedier variety of New York culture, Dirk did not bother decorating his property or putting up any facades. While the rest of the street gleamed and glittered with gaudy colors and bizarre names, Dirk’s Bar was plain and straightforward. There were no windows fitted into the solid brown walls, and the heavy door was as undeceiving a contraption as one could imagine. If you stepped foot inside Dirk’s Bar, you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into.

Come to think of it, it was just the place he needed tonight. Nothing fancy, nothing fake. He wanted something to drink, a fifteen minute lull, and then he was out. Getting smashed on such a beautiful night didn’t appeal to him. He slid through the no-nonsense door and headed straight for the bar, ignoring the few lonely customers who always huddled around their drinks here.

There was another man hunched over the counter, but he didn’t bother getting into his space as he would have another night. He just wasn’t in the mood to make friends.

“Dirk, the usual,” he said simply, dropping into a worn seat and flicking a two-fingered salute at the solemn heavy-set man behind the counter. Dirk nodded and wordlessly mixed him an After Twelve. The guy didn’t like to talk much, a strange trait for a bartender to be sure, but he’d admit that was what drew him to this bar on his off days.

As Dirk clanked and swirled the glass, he took a quick look around the place. He was glad to note it was as undecorated and dreary as ever. Not many places like this could stay in business this long, and he was pretty proud of Dirk for making it these many years. A thump before him returned his gaze to the counter, where Dirk had set the dark brown drink down for him. Flicking his fingers again in offhand thanks, he turned his attention to enjoying the drink for the next quarter hour.

He’d been indulging for a good five minutes when he felt a prickly sensation running along the nape of his neck, letting him know he was victim to a stare. He’d certainly had experience enough to recognize it, even to differentiate between one looking for a fight and one looking for a roll in the hay. He was a having difficulty pinning down this one, however. Grimacing, he dragged himself out of the haze of the drink and wearily returned the gaze.

He froze, a rush of adrenaline surging through his veins. The guy next to him had turned to regard him from beneath hooded eyes. The stranger wore nondescript gray clothing, and half his face was hidden in shadow, but there was something in that face that stole Inky’s breath. Though only partially visible, the stranger was strikingly attractive, with slanting lines and angled planes throwing contrasts all over his face, as though he were a study of chiaroscuro himself. His nose was straight and aristocratic, and his jaw looked about as hard as granite.

After his first glance, Inky could not tear his eyes away. In a word, the man was beautiful. Certain he would never again cross paths with another such portrait of beauty, Inky was overcome with an intense longing to capture it. He felt himself suddenly and inexplicably at the brink of a lifetime, having walked a reckless path up to the edge of a cliff and now facing the imminent decision to back off or to jump. Since he had taken to the streets after his parents’ deaths, he had survived on his instincts, and they seldom led him astray. He would be a fool to not reach for this moment. He took the plunge.

“Inky,” he offered, sticking his arm out, a stumbling attempt at courtesy. He tried to smile, but there was something too serious about the other man.

Silence stretched noticeably after his words, and Inky’s arm dropped back against his side, clenching briefly before relaxing again.

“What you got there?” he tried again, nodding a friendly head towards the glass the other man gripped.

Again, there was no answer. But the eyes continued to stare. Inky fidgeted slightly beneath the unwavering gaze, wishing Dirk would put a light someplace so that he could see the guy’s eyes. Not being able to discern their color, much less read any lurking intentions, made him feel inexplicably vulnerable.

Annoyed, he blurted the first words to come to mind. “Like what you see?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he cursed himself inwardly. What the hell did he think he was implying anyway? He checked the mysterious stranger for a reaction, derision perhaps, and was gratified to see the shadows had shifted at last. Frown lines had set in between the man’s brows, and he leaned forward towards Inky.

Inky caught his breath at the stormy blue-green eyes. He nearly missed the man’s response.

“No.” And then he was gone, walking out the door and leaving behind a severely affronted young man.

“Fuck,” Inky muttered, jerking to his feet. A brief glance to the counter informed him the stranger had been drinking the exact same concoction that sloshed in Inky’s own glass. With an ironic smile and a strange desperation he would never admit to, he bolted out the door.

Dirk removed the two glasses on the counter and dumped the remains. Idly, he mused, this was the first time the Italian boy had left without finishing his drink and without a goodbye.

Outside, Inky easily spotted the tall stranger in the sparse crowd. Few people walked the streets of Bronx so openly after six, but the man was clearly unconcerned about being mugged or shot or both. Inky ran up and fell into step beside him, launching immediately into an angry tirade.

“Hey, what the hell was that about? You don’t even know me and you have the balls to tell me I’m ugly? You’ve got some nerve, man. I’ll have you know, folks around these parts who do know me all think I’m gorgeous. Fact is, I’m the most gorgeous male specimen you’re likely to find on these streets.” The boast was accompanied with a cocky grin, which turned into an instant scowl when the man beside him let out a quiet but unmistakable snort.

“Tch,” Inky made a noise of disgust. “Just ‘cause you’re blind to it doesn’t mean it’s not there. And how do you get off being so rude back at the bar? Not one fucking word, just that creepy stare, and then boom! – ‘No!’ Not even a ‘no, pal, wrong guy to ask’ or ‘no, sorry, I’ve seen better.’ Just a loud and lonely ‘no.’ What gives?”

The man did not spare him a glance. “You asked a question. I gave an answer.”

“Yeah, a damn rude answer,” Inky muttered. “And you didn’t answer my first question either, about your drink.”

“Stupid questions are not worth answering,” responded the man, ignoring Inky’s glare.

“That wasn’t a stupid question! It’s called making conversation.”

The man gave a long-suffering sigh. “Look, kid. I’ve had a rough day. Think you can leave me alone and find some other guy to pick on?”

Sudden, sharp fear lanced through him at the thought of leaving this man, although he could not for the life of him explain why. All he knew was the magnetic pull of the man and an irresistible compulsion to grab hold of him and never let go. Not to mention, the man was walking art.

“Say,” Inky said hesitantly. “Could we meet again? I uh – I want to paint your portrait.” He resisted the urge to smack himself.

The man stopped walking and turned to really look at him since walking out of the bar. In a dubious tone, he asked, “You’re an artist?”

“Yeah,” he said, lying through his teeth and hoping with bated breath.

After a moment of silence, the man said, “I suppose I have nothing better to do tomorrow afternoon.” He started walking again.

Inky did not follow this time but felt a sweeping elation and relief, which he struggled to hide as he called out, “Want to meet at Dirk’s place again then? Tomorrow? Two o’clock?”

“Fine,” came the answer, floating back, and Inky allowed himself a tiny grin. Despite what he told himself, he still watched the man walk off down the street into the darkness. It was only later in the night, as he gazed up at the stars and pulled his coat tighter around him against the chill night, that he realized, “He called me a kid. Damn it.”

>>END FLASHBACK<<

He’s been staring into her eyes too long, and a tug on his sleeve brings him back. Blinking, he refocuses his vision, telling himself to get a grip. This is the rolling English countryside, not the cluttered metropolis of New York, and the girl facing him, regardless of her appearance, is not the man he wishes with every fiber of his being was here.

“Are you awake?” pipes up a small voice at his side, accompanied with another tug, and he looks down with a startled gaze.

He smiles at the curious girl, opening his mouth to answer, but her mother interrupts. . .

“Nicky, what have I told you about talking to strangers?”

Nicky. His breath grows shallow again, and his mind races, fitting puzzle piece to puzzle piece to make sense of the sudden muddle. No.

The young girl frowns, her hand still gripping his sleeve. “But he’s not a stranger, mama.”

It can’t be. His eyes are wide, watching the girl, but he does not see her. He sees the man inside her, behind her features. He sees the man who gave her the aristocratic nose and firm jaw. He sees the man he knew a lifetime ago and has never let go of. He said if he ever had a daughter, he would name her Nicky.

The girl’s mother has reached the porch and climbed up but does not go any further toward her daughter or the strange man whose sleeve she clutches. “He’s not,” she agrees with her daughter and falls into enigmatic silence, brown eyes studying the man, who neither her nor her daughter have ever met and yet both know so well.

His thoughts are plastered all over his face, he knows, because he has never been very good at hiding them. But he cannot bring himself to care. His feet take him forward, his mind dimly aware of the girl following at his side. Face to face with the mother, his throat dries, and he can’t find his voice. This is the woman he chose, whispers his mind, but he clamps down on the thought, filing it away for later study. If she is here, then – that means – is he – Weakness courses through his body, and he stiffens his legs. To see him again, to face that man who epitomized art by his very existence, was a notion he has not dared cradle for nine years. Seized with a sudden urgency he cannot control, he clears his throat frantically and rasps out, “Where is he?”

The woman’s eyes close abruptly on the spark of hurt that had ignited with his words. Her hand reaches for the girl’s, and Nicky gladly offers her free hand, looking strangely like a sprite as she offers what six-year-old comfort she can.

Watching this display puts him ill at ease, and he demands again, “Where is he? Please,” he adds, hearing his own voice beginning to break in desperation.

“He is dead,” she whispers finally, eyes open and honest. “He was buried two months ago.”

For a confused moment, he thinks she jokes, so nonsensical do the words sound to his ears. He is dead. Empty words with no meaning to them. They are only words after all. There can be no power in mere words, he tells himself, holding onto his hard-won peace as a lifeline. But the pain leaking from her eyes does not look like a joke, and realization trickles gently into his consciousness.

He is dead.

Horror tears through him, and he jerks himself to the side to escape the pitying eyes of mother and daughter. He steadies himself against a railing, straightening himself while his insides crumble.

The sun is slipping in earnest now, crashing towards the earth and leaving orange and purple smears in its wake, colors that will soon be swept away in the coming dark. As its light fades, shadows creep over the hills and reach the quiet porch.

He hears the girl walk up to him and fights against the urge to run, but she only says, “Daddy’s gone to visit the heavens is all.”

Tears burning at the back of his eyes, dying light falling all around him, Inky wonders if he believes in soul mates.

He remembers the mornings they had woken to the dawn together, rare moments of calm when they would watch the sun ascend, spreading its glorious rays. He dares to tell himself he does not lose anything by this revelation, that the man has been lost to him for nearly a decade anyways, but he knows it is only a flimsy barricade against the wave of grief threatening to topple him.

This isn’t the first time you’ve done this to me…