She
became, as all people that matter are wont to do, a person who
didn't like things. I worried often whether others found this of
her. I worried if it was only of that which I asked her opinion
that met with such negativity. I worry, with greater strength and
frequency, that I wish her dead to free me of my sense of
responsibility towards her life; I have no rights, or immoral
holds over the manner of her being. All sorts of fears are
suppressed by closing my eyes and, in some way, failing to
visualise her face: I can't remember, it doesn't matter, I'm
ambivalent. (Statements of ambivalence are lies with the
transparency of a special kind of glass that only stupid people
can't see through). I saved her life and she wasted it.
She
drew, as all people that matter are wont to do, towards the holes
on paper. She closed her eyes, she shut her door, she stopped
thinking. I saved a sweet, helpless, innocent, dying girl, who
could have been anything she chose to be, and she chose to be her
paper hole of negativity. If I'd taken a moment out of my hectic
schedule of allowing my chaotic fingers to wrest bread and rabbit
from her dying throat, and thought about my actions... The world
is full of people who could have been anything; if she'd died she
would have become a positive 'could have'. Instead she is
negative, and doesn't like things. What did you think of that?
Oh, I didn't like it. What, perhaps, hurts most is that I am
rapidly becoming one of the things she doesn't like. I might hope
that as her physical saviour at least, she might see me as a
symbol of her life, and with her increasing rejection of me, she
may conclude that she is rejecting herself. I would be free of my
unliveable responsibility, but it's not going to happen.
She
wrote to me, as all people that matter are wont to do, saying
that "...the most fulfilling moments in a life of
reminiscences, on lonely reflection are hollowed to levels
unimaginable to your poets and your artists." Neither I, nor
my poets and artists (whoever she thinks they might be) had an
answer. Our imagined quintet (at least) stayed silent, playing
another game.. playing her game. I saved a life once; I only did
what anyone else in the same situation would have done. I wrote
(before she did), as was my wont, and said to her "...if I
could have placed some condition upon your life, it would be
this: it would have mattered."
She
doesn't speak, as all people that matter are wont to do, to me.
She makes her choices, I make mine. We live.
She
quoted, as means of an explanation: "What we do in dreams we
also do when we are awake: we invent and fabricate the person
with whom we associate - and immediately forget we have done
so."