No Regrets

I felt your final, involuntary shudder as we drew together, and the surprise of penetration overtook you. That bitter, wet and bloody kiss that was to be our parting snapshot, the culmination of a series of incidents of disagreement, disruption and disharmony. I heard the air as it was forced from your body, the breath of life evicted as the knife cut, slicing its way through clothing and skin, finding its true home in the warm, sticky glow of the abdomen.

It feels strange. You hold the blade and gently excise the life of one you love. For today the blade is a token of love; the ultimate expression of my devotion. You become omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent as your universe shrinks to the size of a small crescent-shaped opening. You focus on the wound, on the smooth yet granular blood which covers both of you, a pinprick of warmth which spreads slowly outwards and gently, heating the skin like a lover’s tongue. This blood, the true elixir of life, takes on personality, its embarrassment at its sudden appearance soon turning into delight as it soaks through fabric, forming a sodden, bulging knot of fluid before it begins to drip, and soon it is running, cheerfully and mischievously, down your legs and towards the floor. At this point the wound is shared. There is no-one but you, joined in bloody union as you leak out, forming a thick, steaming pool at your feet. There are ripples forming around your shoes as you shuffle backwards and forwards, attempting to keep the balance between you, trying to stop your intertwined limbs from hitting the floor. A casual observer, catching sight of you through the kitchen window in an idle moment, bored of the myriad mundane tasks confronting the housebound, or walking idly by, would think you were dancing, and would probably breathe a sigh, remembering those times when they, too would dance in the kitchen for no reason. They would not see the pool on which you danced, they would  perhaps mention it in passing to an acquaintance or partner. They'd never connect it with the story that will appear in the local rag.

It would be commonplace to state that time, at a time like this, stands still. Nothing could be further from the truth. From the moment we kissed, and the moment that the blade, held steady in my hand, entered the flesh, gently probing, pushing aside the life in its path, I could see it slip away. I could see it in your face, the horror within those cold, blue eyes, the pain wheeling into focus as it reached the seat of your consciousness, the despair as the truth followed, snapping at its heels. Time did not stop, it did no such thing. It didn’t even have the good grace to slow down. Time sped up, accelerated for both of us, as our lives, in differing ways, leaked out onto the kitchen floor. They say that at the moment before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Whether this is true or not I cannot say. All that we saw was each other. If you were truly my life, and I were truly yours, then maybe it does happen that way. You won’t ask me now, even if you could.

You spoke, I think, though I can’t clearly remember, it’s all so long ago, so distant and hazy, that though barely a minute has passed since our embrace, the pain is already beginning to dull, the memory fade. As it will. And what use do I have for memories now? If you spoke, you spoke to yourself, not to me. I was merely within earshot, a coincidental audience. Sorry, were you awake?

Still, I see you standing there, above me, staring down at me with an expression that could only be a mixture of horror and pity, though neither is what I want from you. Neither is what I ever wanted from you. It was not meant to be like this. Not horror, not pity, but love. That's all I ask of you.                                                                                                                              But now all I can see is the wide, dull stain of livid crimson which is forming on you. It spreads like a cancer; slow, inexorable and malevolent. Strange how the harbinger of life is the same thing which denotes its removal. Blood exerts a strange pull, invites an almost morbid fascination. Many can't stand the sight of it. But for me, for us, context is everything. I notice how it appears different in hue through your white T-shirt and your black jeans. It brightens the light, signalling its appearance like a beacon, a flame of coughing life, that simply says; I am here. In the dark it grows thick and shadowy, attempting to melt into the background while making its purpose painfully apparent. It changes as it crawls from the light to the dark, the high to the low, from life to death as it seeks the lowest denominator it can. After all, its future lies in the earth, not the body. That was merely its temporary resting place. What are we, after all? Merely a place where all the molecules that make us are resting until they decide it is time to move on. Death is merely when our molecular structure becomes bored. Our atoms initiate inertia, and the change begins. It is all the same, of course, but to you, to me, to you, it changes. The longer it is active, the less time it has left.

And our time is almost up. You are holding the butt of the knife yourself now, gripping it tight in both hands at the height at which it entered. Waist height. The parallels are too obvious, even for me. The knife. You wrested it from my grasp. With the strength of desperation, I suppose, though I’ll never know. I’m also not sure whether your action was to remove it; and if so, why? whether it was to separate us; and if so, why? or whether it was to keep us together for those final moments. Our relationship, our long partnership, has ended with as final a mark of punctuation as can be imagined. And still I’m not sure. Indecisive to the end. Our life together. Over. No more parties, no more journeys, no more holidays, no more arguments, no future, no past, no present. No children. Our child. Our child, as yet unborn, sees its future. It sees its future as it turns its back and walks slowly away.

No regrets, no recriminations. No tears, no explanations. No guilt, no blame. That is what we promised each other when we first met, in those giddy days of love and lust and expectation. We would be forever honest with each other. Drunk on new love and old wine, we talked, laughed, argued, laughed, discussed, laughed, pontificated, laughed, made love and laughed. This was where we truly came together. Without honesty there could be no relationship. How long have we agreed on that now? How long is it? Do you remember? Do you remember the time that we first met? I do. Do you remember the weather? I do. Do you remember the way we laughed, the way we were? I do. I remember it all too well. It’s a pity that you seem to have forgotten it all. Don’t you think?

There was, as far as I could see, no greater honesty than in my action. As we made our final embrace, I took my leave of us. No regrets, no recriminations. No explanations, no guilt, no blame. Only the one, solitary, tear. I could see it even now, as your fingers relaxed their grip on the knife and it gently fell. I could hear it scrape its path slowly down your cheek as the knife hit the floor, rattling briefly at my feet before settling in the pool of its creation.

One single, solitary, tear. Was that all I was to you? That’s honesty, I suppose. I could see (or, at least, I could imagine I could see) your life drain from you when I looked into your eyes as the knife entered. Could they truly register surprise at my method? Had you not realised that this was to happen, that this had to happen? I knew no other way. But what left your eyes was not your life. I was mistaken, I can see that now. What left your eyes was us. The concept of us. The concept of us as a partnership was what died in you. My action had ended not one life, but two. But it had not ended yet, not quite yet.

No regrets, no recriminations. No explanations, no guilt, no blame. One tear. But anger. Oh, there is anger. Anger as I see you, stained with the blood of our failed union, standing impassively over me as I lie, writhing on the floor, wet and sticky as the fluid drains ever more slowly from my body, and that which manages to escape fresh and warm coagulates ever more quickly. The pain, so long a stranger, has returned, and the cold realisation sets in just as the blood cools, no longer steaming, no longer the messenger of life. Now the information it carries is very different. The life which leaves is mine. Doubtless you could see it in my eyes, if only you cared to look, but you never did, did you? Each pulse, each beat of my still living heart is weaker now, but my anger is growing. Too late. I realise far too late what it is I’ve done. I realise far too late just how futile my action is.

Too late to change my mind. By depriving you of me, I looked to deprive you of life itself. Certainly, without you I would have none. And for months now I have been without you. What’s made it unbearable is that you’ve always been there. Those eyes have always been there, staring back at me, empty, silent, accusing. Something missing. The light. That light which made my life worthwhile had gone. Given to another without so much as a by your leave. I don’t know what it was that I did. You never cared to share it with me. All I know is that it couldn’t carry on. Not like that.

I have, with my final act, not so much deprived you of your reason to live, as made it easy for you to carry on. That tear was not meant for me, nor even for you, but for that far distant us that died long ago. It was good, wasn’t it?

No regrets, no recriminations. No tears, no explanations. No guilt, no blame. Too late for that now. Unconditional love. That’s what you wanted. Or so you said. Do you still say that now?