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Aramis went to the bar looking for a sympathetic ear. |
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And in a place such as this, there are many willing to listen to his story with a sort of passive light-heartedness, their shoulders heavy with their own burdens and their speech slurred from one too many drinks. But this is where he felt most comortable, hidden away in the thick, acrid smoke of cigarettes and cigars. Here, the loyal bar patrons do little more than share their own tales of woe while diluting the pain of the memories in their favorite vices, whether they be drink or smoke or women. Here, Aramis' face is only a barely recognizeable blur among the other worn, dirt-laden visages of the usual winos and drunkards.
And that's just how he liked it.
He enjoyed being a stranger, a nameless, unrecognizeable face. He liked to be remembered as only coincidence or deja vu. He didn't really want to stay in anyone's memory too long.
"I've got no business feeling the way I do," he murmers in a tone barely audible to dogs, let alone the human ear. Bartenders, however, seem to catch everything. A large glass of Teehsian ale is practically slammed down on the bar counter before him as Aramis settles uncomfortably into his seat, lifting his eyes to the man. He was about 40, balding, with the sharp, hawkish features of a typical Shaudrese man. His eyes were a rich chocolate brown and his thin lips smiled almost knowingly. "Boy, if I had a gold coin for every time I heard that line, I wouldn't need to run this place," the bartender said with a hearty laugh. "So, tell me what's on your mind."
"I'm insanely jealous," Aramis confessed, tracing his finger around the rim of his glass. "I know I have no business to be, but... I just lose my mind whenever he mentions someone else..."
The bartender, who has just turned around to stack the newly polished glasses in their place suddenly fell silent and turned around to look at Aramis again, slowly. He seemed to be scrutinizing Aramis' features, scanning his brain for what he could gather. "...You must be Xorian," he said lowly, a frown trying to claw through the calm expression on the bartender's face. "But a Xorian with blonde hair and a blue eye...?"
"Half-Xorian," Aramis corrected, lifting the glass to his lips and drinking deeply. "My mother was Xorian. My father was a Meenonite."
"Bull," he bartender sneered. "Meenonites don't marry outside of their race."
"Well, my father did," Aramis replied, returning the sneer. "And I never asked you for your opinion on my genetic history. Besides, if my money isn't accepted here, I'll just leave. But, looking at the condition of this place, I thought you'd need all the gold you can get..."
As Aramis rose from his seat, the bartender's hand shot out and rested on the young patron's shoulder. "My apologies," he said with an obviously false smile. "I'm sorry, just... Just stress, you know? Have this business to run and... Anyway. What were you saying before?" Aramis narrowed his eyes at the bartender, slowly taking his seat once more. "You need for gold makes you a far more hospitable host," he half-whispered, his words dripping with venom. "In any case... As I said before... I'm insanely jealous over a man whom I have no business being jealous for."
"Do tell," the bartender says, pouring a drink for another patron.
Aramis sighs deeply and scratches at a small cigarette burn on the bar counter with his index finger. "The thing is, this guy... I'm in love with him. I really am. I mean... I was pretty much dead inside, you know? My heart had shriveled up and withered away like a rainforest flower planted in the desert. I was so empty inside, so barren... There was black hole growing inside of me, an endless chasm of depression and self-loathing that just utterly destroyed any small glimer of happiness or joy or even peace that dared exist around me... I was a zombie. The walking dead. I was in a stupor, stumbling around like a blind man, my vision obsucred by the swirling darkness around me... Everything, everything was going wrong for me at the time... I was surrounded by death. Everywhere I turned, another friend or family member was dying. I was riddled with survivor's guilt every time I looked at them... and then the voices started again... Everything was going wrong..."
Aramis lifted the glass and placed it as his lips, taking a long, deep drink of the ale as if it were merely water.
"But then, I met him. Someone who, finally, understood how I felt and what I was thinking... someone who could truly sympathize with me on a level no one has ever been able to even comprehend before. I must admit... I've fallen desperately in love with him."
"So where's the problem here?" the bartender asked, leaning on the counter with one elbow. "It seems you've found your match."
"The problem is," Aramis explained, finishing his ale, "that we know we're absolutely hopeless. We're a lost cause. We're too different, and yet, almost the same. We have different wants, but we need the same thing. We'd drive each other crazy if we both weren't already out of our minds. But that doesn't mean I don't absolutely love him to death."
The bartender stood up and took Aramis' glass, filling it again up to the very brim with the ale, sliding back in front of the half-breed before him. "Love him to death, you say?" he inquired, genuinely curious. "You'd die for this guy?"
Aramis stared at the glass before him for a while, watching the tiny blubbles rise and settle into the thick foam at the top of the glass. He thought about it a moment, then spoke: "No. I wouldn't die for him. Dying is easy. In dying, I would end every pain and trial I'd ever have to deal with. In dying, I'd be free of regret and responsibility and having to worry about him or anyone else. In dying, I'd be completely liberated and at peace from the growing pains of existence. No... I wouldn't die for him. I would live for him instead. I would hold my head up high, even as I'm drowning in the absolute sorrow of my own waking breath if it means he'd get to shore safely. I would give him my arms, to lift the weight he had to carry on his shoulders if it would mean he would find some comfort in it. I would suffer upon his cross if it would mean he'd get to breathe a little easier, live a little longer, grow a little wiser in the mean time. I would wake up every morning and face life, in all its cruelty and hatred, if it would make his existence easier. Like I said... dying for someone is easy... Living for them is hard."
With that, Aramis placed a couple of gold coins on top of the counter, thanked the bartender for his company, and stuffed his hands into his pockets, leaving the establishment in the same hopeless obscurity from which he came.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Thu Apr 28, 2005 @ 05:39pm · 1 Comments |
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