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Aramis took a long draw on his cigarette. |
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         He'd taken a short break from his work at the Elbow Room to step outside and enjoy the weather for a while. A heat wave had sloughed its way over the area and brought a swampy sort of humidity with it. It was as if the entire world had morphed into a cauldron of stew, the trees, the grass, the birds and other small animals--hell, even himself--were all naught but ingredients to be stirred for hours on end, until thoroughly cooked. The moisture in the air, combined with his own perspiration, formed tiny beads of water on his skin that rolled down every gentle slope his body had to offer and clung to his clothes like infants to their mothers' breast. It was, in a word, hot.
        The night before, Punishment had, once again, gone back on his promise and left him for another. Aramis wasn't surprised. Hurt, yes, heartbroken, yes, indignant, yes... but not surprised. After all, it was the risk he took for taking Punishment's hand again, in their... what was it, fifth? Sixth? Seventh attempt at a relationship? The first couple of times he was sure there was something wrong with him that caused Punishment to stray, some fatal flaw in his character, some expectation he couldn't fulfil, some goal he couldn't accomplish. But as things progressed, he came to realize that it wasn't his fault at all. Not at all. For every single time he and Punishment had parted ways, it was always because of a third party involved. b***h was what he usually refered to that person as. The petty, whining, lying little b***h. The one who made up stories to gain pity, the one who lied to gain trust, the one who threatened to gain company. For tactics so bloody ridiculous, they worked magnificently well on Punishment. He fell for them every single time. Whenever things seemed to be going unusually well for Aramis and Punishment, b***h came back out of the blue, a lightning bolt from the skies, riding down in a chariot made of his own personal skeletons with wheels of flame sputtering excuses. And Punishment, well he ran back every single time like the faithful little lap dog he was. It wasn't his fault at all. He wasn't weak or cruel or stupid. Punishment was the weak one. Sometimes, Aramis wondered if Punishment was as smart as he put himself out to be.
        "Either that, or he's an emotional massochist," he said to himself aloud. He took the cigarette from his lips and blew the smoke away from him rather than let it curl around his lips like an ashen lover coming to steal his breath away. After all, he'd done everything he concievably could for Punishment. He was a rational, practical, and wholly realistic sort. He wasn't the type to promise an eternal paradise in some long-lost Eden, where they'd stay young forevermore with nary a care in the world. No, he acknowledged that there'd be a few bumps in the road to a good life. He knew he'd have to work hard at it, to make sure he and Punishment had a home to call their own, a stable future, a life worth living in the solace of each other's company. Apparently, however, Punishment didn't want that kind of life. Time after time, he'd proven that he'd much rather wallow in the tepid septic tank of the b***h's self-made inventions and hasty lies and proclaim his grief to any ear who would hear... but when the opportunity came to get out of that situation, Punishment always stepped out of it just long enough to clean up, take a few breaths of air, then dive right back into it and dirty himself again. Well. If that's the life he chose, there wasn't anything more Aramis could do for him. His bones will soak in the filth and splinter away, consumed by creatures too tiny to be seen with the naked eye. And who would mourn him? Surely not the b***h. More than likely, the b***h would wander off again for another set amonunt of time, leaving Punishment to wait for him like a war widow, aching for a letter from the General regarding his whereabouts. And he'll cry and ache and quite possibly grow ill or slit his wrists, whatever suited his fancy. It didn't matter to Aramis anymore. The more time he wasted on Punishment, the less time he had with someone who actually appreciated him.
        Aramis flicked his cigarette aside into a small, bare patch of land, mercifully clear of dried grass, which would have been perfect tinder for a wildfire. The thought of immolation crept into his mind, but he dispelled it with a laugh. No, he wouldn't leap into a tower of flames to end his life. That was far too dramatic, even for him. Punishment might find it a suitable end, or perhaps even the b***h, but not Aramis. He was far too old for these silly little mind games and the constant back-and-forth of Punishment's fickle heart. Aramis then wiped the sweat from his face and pursed his lips to the sunlight in the gesture of a kiss, cordially thanking Phoebus for his newfound gift: the sun god bestowed upon him a subtle bronzing of his skin. It certainly made him appear that much more rugged and handsome. He just might keep it this way. And so, with nary a thought on the Emperor of the Indecisive, the Kind of the Confused, the Duke of the Distressed, Aramis turned around and went back into the Elbow Room room, ready to start his shift--his life--anew.
 Bleeding Apocalypse · Wed Jul 19, 2006 @ 12:14am · 3 Comments |
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