Conscience vs Heart: A Short Story

I walk endlessly down the shore, the sea mocking my conscience. I hear the waves whispering their verdict that I am wrong, further crushing the guilt embedded in my soul. I cannot cry anymore. The sorrow I feel is too profound, too deep. I look up and see the scattered clouds partially dim the littered stars, tormenting the knowledge that I could never have again the love that I have lost. I see the crescent moon staring down at me with pity, reminding me of the warm, gentle smile on the face I know I could not find in anyone anymore. I turn my face away from the harsh reality, only to be greeted by a warm breeze that seems like a blow to my already bruised self. Shivering, I pull my jacket tighter around me, forming a barricade to protect me from the numbing agony creeping through me. In the battle between the conscience and the heart, I fear it was I who gave the victory to conscience. And now I must bear the guilt brought by my actions. I have come to accept that destiny, for I know it is what I deserve for hurting the one that matters to me most.

Hollow. Yes, this is what I'll be for the rest of my life, for I am void of the love that was once in the palm of my hand and now gone, because I let it slip from my fingers. I continue my pace with every step. I feel the sand sink beneath my feet, filling the spaces between my toes. I know I leave footprints behind, only to be washed away by the sea. I shall never look back.

I hear footsteps muffled by the shingles, slowly coming toward me. Even though I could not see him, I know he is there. His very presence emits an aura that reaches me and touches the fathomless cave within me, igniting warmth throughout this body. My steps falter to a stop. I slowly raise my eyes to focus on the figure standing a few yards away from me. My breath caught, I try to swallow the lump in my throat but it feels as though I am paralyzed. My heart quickens its pace against my will. The sandals dangling from my fingers slowly slip their way down to land beside my feet.

His white shirt is a stark contrast against the black velvety sky and, once more, his beauty astonishes me. And just looking at him only adds to the throbbing pain inside me.

My eyes cannot meet his face for I already know what I will find there - hatred, scorn and disgust - I am filled with shame. I stand there, my gaze riveted to the ground, not daring to look up because if I do, if I see into his eyes, it will shatter me to pieces. Then it all comes back to me. I can still remember that night, this beach. This beach was witness to our first confession of requited love that heeded our whispers as we declared our souls to each other. It was a night filled with promises of a lifetime together, our promise that sealed with a kiss of life and the cry of the ocean.

"Look at me," his mind tells me, "please, just look at me."

I take in shattered breaths, gathering all the strength I need and uttering a silent prayer to a god I don't believe in. I level my face toward his. His eyes find mine and for a moment, time seems to stop. There are no words, no actions, only the existence of two minds; two hearts.

I cannot find disdain or contempt in his beautiful face but only questions... and hope. He is hoping that I still remember the promise, hoping for my love, for a thousand lifetimes together. I search deep into his eyes and what I find there seizes my heart and batters my soul. All my restraint breaks and my knees give way. I collapse to a heap on the cool, glittering sand, his gaze never leaving mine. I break down, helpless tears learning their fate down my cheeks. I bury my face in my hands. The jacket is forgotten as insentience loosens my grip and I let it out of my grasp, granting it freedom as it flies with the wind.

A wrenched cry of tormented anguish tears from my chest as the realization strikes me. My hands itch to touch his face, to soothe him into a dull peace for both of us. To tell him that everything is alright, but I cannot. An invisible barrier stands between us, keeping me paralyzed and unable to cross the small distance to get to his welcoming arms and be with him.

"I need to know... please just tell me." He silently begs.

Right then and there, I know I cannot suffer enough to pay for the agony I have cast upon this man.

He is asking me, no pleading with me to know why.

I slowly shake my head, the tears from my eyes mingling with the salty air. A wave crashes mercilessly on the shore, taking with it my sandals as it retreats back to the ocean. I do not care anymore. I believe the world has already taken the most important thing from my heart. I have nothing left to lose.

He moves his head in a curt nod as if to accept my decision and it is all I can do to not throw up when I see the disappointment written in his face.

He softens his eyes. A small, nervous smile plays across his lips. I race my palms to the sand, my stomach turning over as I realize what he is asking of me. It has been a long time since I heard him speak and his deep, strained voice plays like music through my ears.

"Will there still be a place in your heart for me? Even the smallest will do."

It is such a heartbreaking statement, his way of asking me if I still love him. There is no denying that I do, and this is what he wants to hear. I can feel the tension in the air touch my skin and I shiver. The silence seems to stretch on forever and I am dying to tell him the truth, to finally hold him close and have him eternally. Yet I hold back. It is my conscience holding me back and I face him as I breathe a garroted sob:

"I'm sorry... I can't."

The hurt look on his face is the final blow, but still his mind is communicating with mine, telling me:

"You know you're the only one. I gave you my love and it's yours forever."

Although we don't touch, I feel his love pour through me like heat from the sun. I cannot bear the sea of torture we are flowing through. He throws me one last, long stare and there I see gleaming tears on his face and hear his barely audible whisper, then he is gone, leaving me desolate and as barren as the desert.

Soulmate

Soulmate
ˈsəʊlmeɪt/
noun
1. a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

"People think a soulmate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soulmate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life." - Elizabeth Gilbert, "Eat, Pray, Love"

There has only ever been one person who comes to my mind when I think of the word "soulmate" and that is my brother Gabriel. When I tell people this, sometimes they will look at me with a confused expression. Often people will laugh and say something along the lines of, "so you're going to marry your brother? Weird." It never bothers me because I don't perceive the role of a soulmate the same way most people do. Read the aforementioned quote and remove the idea that only a spousal equivalent can assume the title of a soulmate and that is how I feel about my brother.

Gabriel and I are three weeks shy of two years apart and we have always shared a remarkable bond. Apparently I ignored him until he was about two years old, but I do not remember that as I do not have a very clear memory of my younger years. One of my earliest memories, and one of the clearest examples of Gabriel's unfaltering loyalty to those he loves is a little story that goes like this:

I was four or five years old, playing with some other kids at the school park when someone picked fun at me and hurt my feelings. Gabriel walked right up to him and put him in his place, saying, "don't make fun of my sister or I will beat you up!". Despite being several years younger, he didn't care. Someone hurt my feelings and he wasn't going to stand for it.

When I was young I had a lot of anxiety. I also had difficulty sleeping because of this. My mom would try different techniques to help me fall asleep; warm milk, story-telling, meditation, etc. Some of them would work, some wouldn't, but one that always did was if Gabriel slept beside me. I began this technique where I would count backward from twenty until I fell asleep, and of course, he would count with me. Anything I have ever needed, Gabriel is willing to do for me, or at least help me any way he can. There is no one who loves me more than he does.

These examples are a tiny splattering of the lengths Gabriel has gone to show his dedication, but these few examples aren't the reason why I know he is my soulmate. Gabriel's vibrancy in life and his allegiance to the people around him are qualities that I fully admire and strive to bring out in myself. He always puts other people's feelings ahead of his own and he will give anybody a chance without judgment. His integrity and his authenticity astound me and he is the example of those qualities that I try to match up to. There is nobody in this world who is a better person than he is, and I say that with the purest conviction. The bond Gabriel and I have is unconditional in the most pellucid sense of the word. I don't have a stronger, more fulfilling relationship with anyone than I have with Gabriel. He is the one person I know I can be completely vulnerable with, the one person who will always be on my side, even if I am wrong, just because he believes in me so wholeheartedly. I am truly a better person because of him, because he brings out the pieces of me that I can't pull out by myself. That kind of love is something most people never find in their life and I will forever be thankful that I have found it in someone as exceptional as my little brother, my best friend.

I love you, Gabriel Gaia Hamilton-Twiss!

Condemned

The bricks were still red and the mortar held fast. Window panes resisted both wind and rain while the fireplace heated the entire home. The floorboards made no noise and knew not the wear of feet. There were no aromas of past meals, nor pets, nor accidents, only that of new paint and sawdust. And there, out past the white gossamer curtains laid fields of magnificent green grass, which continued as far as the eye could see. A harsh sign on a stake penetrated the soil at the end of the drive, "FOR RENT".

Fresh-faced and full of hope, the house became theirs. The smell of paint faded and the warm scent of baked potatoes and clean laundry took over. Tables and chairs, beds and carpets laid their claim to the once bare floor. Long days she spent rocking in a chair near the window, slowly wearing the finish from the floor. Long days he spent at a factory, but he always returned smelling of the bar. His dirty shoes abraded the floor, wearing them white near the door.

Red cheeks and a wail to rival a siren became the norm. The rocking chair became her place of refuge, soothing her wailing child. From the chair, past yellowed curtains she could see the unkempt yard. The old smells from the kitchen only tortured their bellies, a constant reminder of days before child. More often than not he returned late, stumbling and paychecks few and far between. She always wakes when he returns; the floorboards no longer keep secrets.

There are no more paychecks, only excuses and false promises. False promises do not feed a hungry child, nor do they keep the landlord happy. Walls bear witness to the frustration of fists, while carpets absorb the tears. The only reminder of tables and chairs, beds and carpets, is where the wood has been forgotten by sunlight, and still remains black. Left behind are dirty drapes, a black sooty chimney, and water stains.

Today the house remains empty, once colorful and new. Now the bricks have grayed and the mortar is cracking. The floorboards creak and are whitened from wear. The only smell is one of rot and decay. Past the yellow curtains, littered with moth holes is a rough patch of grass, so vile that no plague of locusts would devour it. A harsh sign on a stake penetrates the soil at the end off the drive, "CONDEMNED".

Bold Summer

The rhythmic slap of bare feet on pavement is only interrupted by the occasionally displaced pebble, burrowing its way into feet that are new to a summer world in which shoes are merely a nuisance. The warm air boasts happiness and our awkward voices feverishly press against it with the saddest songs that come to mind; it is an obscene combination.

While our voices remain coherent our minds are anything but, they are rambling and running across foreign thoughts, thoughts that were dangerous to our well being only a sunset ago. The pavement is still hot on our feet, cautiously reminding us that we were not so bold several hours ago, and in another few hours, we will return to the world of the meek. We haphazardly spill our ninth and tenth drinks down our grass-stained summer clothes and onto our bare legs creating watermarks of dust and vodka. The vodka moves our hearts to our sleeves and that is just the way we like it, entirely vulnerable in the embrace of the summer we love.

Our Views Of The Past Change As We Mature

I grew up on the corner of 8th and Aspen, which really is a silly name for a street that obviously grew only Birch trees. I'd like to think that it was named as such to evoke an idea of mountain resorts, which too would be ironic; a street with brass cages fencing in vile lawns, each spanning the length of a car. My house grew straight up; almost all of its area was stairs, my room being at the top of them. The advantage of the climb up to my own room was the view it gave of the road. I liked to pretend that I was a spy, that I could watch persons go about their day without their ever knowing. Back then I was young and naïve, interested only in the man who was clearly up to no good, dog napping the black standard poodle that strained on its lead.

Jackie Thomas was my best friend. Jackie Thomas was the same age as me, with matted red hair and a drawn on smile. When I was two I tried to feed her cherries and her mouth is still curiously stained purple. Jackie Thomas was a rag doll.

I didn't understand it then, what my mother did between the hours of 6pm and 2am. All I knew was that she wasn't home, and when she did return, she was tired, no longer hungry and could afford new toys. Sometimes Momma would stay home, but I had to be locked up in my room until she said so. I always thought it was a game, pretending that I was Cinderella, locked away from Prince Charming. The men that left the house just before Momma would come get me never resembled Prince Charming. They were old and graying, confused and excited.

I never had social difficulties, I hadn't attended school. I'd once walked past with Jackie Thomas and someone had yelled,

"It's no wonder you don't have a Dad, he could be anyone in the city!"

I never felt the need to return there. The paint was chipping, the doors no longer hung properly and the playground was only a basketball court without intact hoops.

Of course I was ashamed, of course I cried, soaking Jackie Thomas' red hair. But I never questioned my mother.

I no longer live on the corner of 8th and Aspen. I live on much more honest streets, 240th and 10th. My yard is modest, and without any metal. This house seems to be content to grow outward and there is no spy tower. Momma phoned once, I scolded her for the cost. Somewhere during the shallow conversation, I realized that my mother was the most brave, selfless person I had ever known. Tears cut my cheeks, but I said nothing to her and she'd never asked for acknowledgment.

Imagery

Two twin-sized mattresses share a king size frame. The first, slightly higher than the other, has one rusty spring exposed; luckily at the foot of the bed. The second shows its age through an inescapable indentation from years of the same person sleeping in the same spot night after night. Two pillows have been violently pushed against the headboard. The sheets lay at the foot of the bed in an almost unrecognizable ball. The off-white comforter lays on the ground, covering a mess of clothes.

The blinds are drawn tightly in a futile attempt to keep out light, and perhaps prying eyes. However, the result is a noticeable lack of fresh air and shadows large enough to disguise reality.

On a scarred nightstand is a fluorescent light that burns to touch, illuminating only the table. Next to the lamp lays an upended picture frame and a standard alarm clock, obscenely claiming that it is nine-thirty. The first drawer is open and the light shines off a torn box of Trojans. The box lays in juxtaposition to a Bible, an older version that still has crisp edges and a price label.

The carpet is a late seventies style shag. From the store it was bright orange with a pile of one inch in length. Now it is a dull orange and much shorter. In some places, the carpet has turned brown from the constant abuse of feet. In one spot near the door a floorboard shows through.

The most interesting parts of the room are the two options in which one can leave it. The first, farthest from the bed, is open into a cool, dark hallway. The second, closest to the bed, drips with moisture. A dim light breaks the continuance of door to floor. The shower is running.

A simple glass door shower has become opaque. A single shadow moves inside, writhing and shaking. The sound of the shower almost drowns out the soft sobs of a woman. The fan whirs and sticks, threatening to stop. It is an overused threat that has become empty.

The water is hot, too hot, making the floors and ceiling impossible to see. Attempts to wash away the mixed scents of sex and self doubt result only in angry red flesh. The shower stops but the figure remains within its prison. The fog clears.

A small bowl sink is now visible beneath a still fogged up mirror. The handles are faux silver and rusty. The bowl shows years of water wear and the paint is chipping off. The drain stains a ring of rust at the bottom. Partway down the drain something sparkles. The gold band is inscribed, "Joy & Steven, love and loyalty forever", in a delicate cursive.

You're Imperfect In Your Flaws

You're begging for someone to fix you; you're imperfect in your flaws.

I've forgotten how to look at you with objectivity; I've spent too many wasted nights saving you from yourself. I've forgotten how to look at your life as a whole; I've spent so much time trying to fade that disheartening line between then and now in your own thoughts that it's become a permanent fixture in mine.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when you were young, when you had awkward rookie legs - all length and no coordination, all excitement and no deliberation.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when you were happy, when you had a crooked, mischievous smile - all contradictory teeth and invisible dimples.

I haven't forgotten how you looked when the world was yours, when you had a promise that you wore on your sleeve - all determination and certainty.

I desperately want to forget how you look now that you've barely started your life, when you're callous - all hip bones and scars, all melancholy and marijuana cigarettes.

I desperately want to forget how you look when you're happy, when you have a crooked scheming smile, when you're happy due to pain, when you're happy due to your own massacre.

I desperately want to forget how you look when you fall, when your eyes can't hold my own, when the only promises you hold are the vodka in your veins and the disappointment in your heart.

I've forgotten how to fix you; you're imperfect in your flaws.

The Girl

(For Alyssa)

The wind itself seems in agreeance with this, her most important decision, pushing her frail body toward destruction. She clenches her toes, an unconscious movement; her body's vain attempt to save itself from a mind set on committing treason. Ruby rivers fan from her hands as she grates them along the metal rope - the small twines finding their way into her palms and fingertips. She welcomes the warmth. Her hair is plastered to her face, perhaps if it were not for this she would have retreated  -- a raging river is far more disconcerting when you can watch it, white diamonds skating across the surface. But as it is she cannot see the world and she prefers it that way. She leans over the river, allowing all thoughts to be drowned out. When she leans too far, one of her wet, white feet slips and she finds herself closer than ever to her fate. She is hardly surprised when she does not feel the heat of fear rise in her stomach. She is not afraid, she is prepared.