The Heavy Weight of Eight Lonely Years

The Heavy Weight of Eight Lonely Years

I am like a tired man in the morning, feeding off soggy noodles and scrambled eggs. No bit of housekeeping. Even the wall paint is flaking off, while I can’t flake out on the sofa, not without the risk of meeting my beloved, uninvited, behind my eyelids. I’m getting on in years now, having reached my thirties — lately firing up my car on weekdays, driving in short bursts, and spending most of my hours in the studio. It’s a faux cheat sheet for escaping nightmares.

Early in the day, I went in for the photoshoot of a new client, and I discovered his eyes were the palest brown ever. He threw his head back and drew up his left leg so slightly that a flicker of memory from eight years ago stirred. He, like my beloved, gave off the vibe of a crybaby top (that kind of turns me on, but if it’s over the top, well, say, ‘weird and ruined’).

By the way, my beloved once talked about exploring the untamed tracts of woodlands stretching thick and deep into vast mountains. Our home country is hemmed in on all sides, sort of like islands and mainlands with vibrant jungles and white sandy beaches. On our last weekend together, he packed a lunch of barbecued meat, heavily spiced with onion, pepper, and olives.

We drove through a dale in the mountains, where nothing but a gas station stood. While my beloved roved around the grocer, a bloke in black leather approached me with a plummy accent, like a man who had lived half his life sunk into the plump cushions of his home. 

Never had a small talk about the weather when I was living in the savanna. But God! It worked in the south, where it rained most days. The fellow then claimed he had been mugged at knifepoint, while I felt he was closing in on me. I tried desperately to breathe and look over his bulky body. Thankfully, my beloved came out through the glass doors, saw us, gave the man a shove, and we slid into the car, holding hands way too long. The dude reached in, as if to grab something, and my beloved struck him in the face. We drove off deep into the woods to my grandpa’s old cabin. There, we made camp as the night closed in, because the cabin, still standing, needed work. 

In the heat of the summer, I peeled off my clothes in a neat pile. Then I noticed a movement, like someone in the bushes, before the crack of a rifle pierced the air.

Click. 

The camera shuttered. The glint of my client’s skin in the light snapped me back into reality. 

Why bother revisiting the past? Yes, I watched my beloved bleed to death. Some hoodlums launched the raid. The city council in the central district had offered justice. But my beloved is gone.