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I was awake for a few hours afterwards, listening to the soft hums of the summer night. It felt like I was a child again, on days when Maman would sing to me, or when the air was particularly cool and my blanket warm. I couldn’t help but curl in on myself in that childish way, and smile to myself. I was giddy with that joy, of indifference. It filled me with a burning arousal, similar to Marie. My mind drifted in that state, of what I would do tomorrow- assuming that day came- the intoxicating smell of salt water and sand, mixing into a putrid taste. I laughed, as I heard the chirping of the cicadas, of their uncaring and unwavering song. I couldn’t stop as I giggled, as I imagined them dancing against themselves in spite of ever-certainty in their own indifference.
And, for the first time in quite a long time, I allowed my mind to wander, to a place far from this cell. I imagined those days, the far too hot summer days spent along the ocean, the burning of my bare feet across sand. Of playing the game Marie had taught me. And, if my mind permitted me so, I imagined more. I thought of those days, in where I would go alone, and I would practice spitting the water from my mouth, until I could perform it with certainty. Of the day after, in where I would play with Marie, and how she would admire me as I swam in the way I so beautifully did. And I would impress her, as I performed every action with such ease and grace. And after I would hug her, and I would kiss her, and I would admire her as only I could ever do.
Then we would eat, I would walk with her to Céleste, and he would greet me with a warm smile. He would walk towards me, with a look, as if to say, “you and a woman?”, and he would usher me and Marie, as if we were the center of a romance novella. I would protest in my mind, annoyed at his mood, as if he was being unreasonable to treat me so differently, yet I would look at Marie, and I would see her smile, and I would aqueous to Céleste’s notions of romance. I would eat, and I would talk with Marie about the mundane, of the little observations that held so little weight yet I could not forget. I would mention the smooth shells we found along the beach, of their mocha stripes that ran across their ridged surface, and Marie would mention the birds that flew over head, and their uneven tufts of white and black. Then we would leave, and I would bring Marie home, to that apartment too big for one, and I would be happy that it was filled to the correct capacity. I would push the table from my room, as I complained how irritating living in an apartment of incorrect size was, and she would mention how we could so easily fix that.
We would talk and read, the world so slowly dimming, as the bright blue of the sky turned orange, then purple, then black. I would yawn then, I would muse to myself at where the time had gone, and Marie would respond it had gone with her, and I would laugh at the ridiculous notion. And we would sleep together, as she pleasured in my body, and as I stared at her, the beauty of her figure, I would think myself lucky to be allowed to observe something beautiful. And we would rest. I would wake before her, and I would stare at her for a few minutes, as her body raised and lowered in rhythmic motions. And again I would think myself lucky.
I would walk to Raymond’s apartment, and I would knock on his door, the creaking of old wood against my knuckles. And he would greet me, with his crooked smile, and arms outstretched, as if it had not been a mere month I was gone. And he would invite me inside, to which I would say I had no interest, and that we should see a movie. Raymond would pout, in the way he so characteristically did, and I would smirk at the comical nature of it. And he would point at me, with a grin wider than when he opened the door, and he would comment on how he had made me smile, and his comical features would make my smirk broader. And we would walk to the theater, and Raymond’s eyes would shift around as if he was scared the sky itself would fall. And I would simply remind him that the man who was after him was dead, and that I had killed him. And he would stop for a moment, as if shocked by information which he clearly already knew. He would mumble something, maybe an apology of some sort or another. At one point I believe I would have been irritated at such a reaction, as if I hadn’t just stated the reality of the situation. Yet now, I believe, I may laugh, as if watching a play or reading a book, at the comical way in which he reacted. And I would continue to walk, the moment had passed and so had its value. Raymond would quickly catch up with me, and slowly he would return to normal, and he would speak again.
We would watch the movie, I would pick a drama or horror, I had already had my fill of pleasure and comedy, and I would indulge in those scenes, the same way as I indulged in reality. Of course, the movie, as did the moments with Marie, and the moments with Céleste or Raymond, meant nothing. The conviction and certainty, their hopes or wants or hates were meaningless. But I understood Maman now, as to why she would choose to live with such frivolity, as if she wasn’t so close to death, and I would cherish the indifference. At some point I had drifted to sleep, and at some point I had awoken. I felt no need to wake so early, I had nothing to look forward to in this cell. I was still tired after-all, and the smell of the ocean was palpable in the room. And the salty taste of the air would tempt me. And I would yawn, and I would sleep.
I would dream of myself in my apartment. And I would talk to the person in my room, as if it had always been there, as if I had woken up every morning to speak with it. And it would speak to me, with a horrendous voice, like a cacophony of screams drowned out by the screaming voice of another. And I would sit patiently, a school-boy again, and I would listen to it, as it spoke to me. I would smile and gesture along with it, as it spoke of my life, as if it had known me since I had been born. And it would lean down towards me, and I could feel that it wasn’t human- that if it was it had long since lost what constituted it so- and it would ask me, in a singular voice so quiet I would strain to hear, what it is I wanted. For the moments afterwards I would be silent, intimate with it, as I felt the beating of something inside it. And the words would stick in my throat, having the claw themselves out, and I would respond in a hushed voice, as if I raised my voice any louder it would break the illusion.
Though it does not matter- and even if it did it would not- I would wish to do it all again. I would wish to get another day where I could observe the faces of others, and where I could see the hatred and love they shared. And I would wish that every day I would wake again, that I could redo all of this, to observe the beauty of it all one final time. And the thing would smile, and it would ask me what I would give for such a thing. And I would tell it that I would give anything- that of course, like all men, I did not wish for it to end, but neither did I have any particular connection to how it was before. I did not hate Marie, nor Raymond, nor Céleste, nor the robot woman, nor the man from the funeral home, but I was disinterested. My story had long since played out, and I had no interest in continuing something so uneventful anymore, as joyful as it may be.
And when I would awake, I would find myself against the concrete of a street. And I would hear the low humming of a bus. And I would be greeted by a woman I did not recognize, and I would laugh at the absurdity of the situation, and I would thank the woman. I would sit easy in the vehicle, as I observed the things around me, and I would muse at how the others interacted with each-other and myself. It was a day I would describe as joyful- though of course, imperfect. It seemed excruciatingly hot that day, as it seemed it had been so many days that summer, and I would find myself wiping the sweat from my eyes, and find myself in that nauseous haze. And I would remind myself of the day I buried Maman, or when I had shot the man, and I would find that those days paled in the heat of today.