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Que porquerĂa de mierda estar viva. Cuando la persona que mĂĄs amas en el mundo no estĂĄ. Cuando se muriĂł a los 34 aĂąos el amor de tu vida, de la nada, de repente. Tan saludable y hermoso. Tantas ganas de vivir y tanto para dar.Â
DespuĂŠs de eso, es decir, ahora. Ahora estoy en un descanso de mi trabajo. Sentada frente a la computadora escribiendo esto. Pasaron tres meses. Le doy de comer a los gatos. Me baĂąo. Visito a mi cuĂąada, a mi suegra. Voy al cementerio. Trabajo. Practico canciones en el ukelele que me regalĂł.Â
Estar viva sin Gringo es una tortura. El sinsentido sin dudas angustia, me dijo mi psicĂłloga. Pues sĂ. Angustia mucho. Me enoja, me entristece, me desgarra, me revuelve, me presiona, me marea, me desarma.Â
Soy esa que vive sin vos. Soy la que te extraĂąa. Estoy enojadĂsima. TristĂsima. Devastada. Que porquerĂa de mierda estar viva.Â
They always complained about how cold it got down in that grey basement, but she could never understand what they meant. She had no sense of what warmth or coldness felt like, not when she couldnât even feel bullets against her skin.
Marcus and Tim Hayley were two happy, married men. They met in their thirties and ever since then, they never stopped loving each other. Their marriage was happy, filled with sweetness and support. For twenty-five years they lived together on Jorpady, a small but highly military planet; they met thanks to the army. Marcus was an engineer, working on spaceships on this planet, repairing them and, at his careerâs pinnacle, he even created one with a bunch of other specialists. He was a strong-willed man, patient and down-to-earth. Meeting him was quite an experience: he was always looking in his interlocutor's eyes, and it seemed like he scanned their inwardness. Tim was a pilot in a base on Jorpady, he was part of the elite, being a major actor in his squadron. He was a leader, tolerant and honest. His aura was reassuring: when he was around, everybody seemed to be more at peace.
At fifty-five years old, they thought their duty as servicemen would be over forever. But, as sudden it always is, war came back. Jorpadyâs allies were threatened by a galactic mafia; a complicated story of murders, weddings and gold, like in the good old times. This war was gigantic. Jorpady and its allies being small planets, they had to strengthen their  military forces thanks to, and maybe too, old and young new soldiers. Especially pilots. Tim had to go. He had to fight again. The husbands hoped for the last time. However, they never hoped for this kind of last time.
One morning, Marcus heard a knock. He rushed to the front door: the war had ended a couple of days ago and he had been waiting for Tim since. He was so excited to finally see his husband who went away for several months, he felt like a teenager. He opened the door quickly, breathless. But when he saw, in front of him, no Tim, he stopped. His entire being stopped. He knew what was going on. He hoped he didnât. He was too clever for his own sake. He understood right away who was this servicewoman, in front of him, and why she was there.
âGood morning Sirâ She said, saluting him.
Marcus didnât respond to her military salute. He looked at her blankly, directly in her eyes. He had to focus on something to not completely fall apart.
âI am Lieutenant Mary Diarchâ She coughed to make him listen to her.
But she wasnât successful. Marcus was falling apart. He felt that everything outside, that everything his senses could perceive was pressuring him. Was compressing him. He couldnât see, his eyes were blurry with tears. He couldnât feel the tip of his fingers. He couldnât hear, his head was full of tinnitus. He couldnât inhale and exhale, his breath was flying away. He could only taste blood in his mouth.
âAre you Marcus Hayley, Sir?â She asked.
Marcus swallowed his tears and tried to speak, but no words wanted to come out of his throat.
âSir?â The Lieutenant asked again.
âI am.â He simply answered.
His voice was the only thing he could hear, her voice was just a quiet humming in the back of his head.
âMay I come in?â She then demanded, following a certain protocol.
Marcus knew this protocol. He remembered Tim talking about it, one night. His husband wasnât allowed to mention this part of his job, but Tim didnât really care about this kind of rules. His husband did the same thing as Mary Diarch, some times. Tim went to peopleâs houses to announce them the death of own of their family members. Tim. This simple memory made Marcusâ legs shake. He let the Lieutenant enter, without a word. Slowly, he shut the door and walked to the living room, followed by the woman. He motioned her where to sit down. He sat beside her.
She slowly turned her body to his. He sat his elbows on his knees, his chin on his knuckles, staring at the floor. The parquet that Tim chose, years ago when they built the house. Marcus would have preferred tiles, but after hours of silly arguments and a little bit of lovely words, he gave up and let his husband choose. Marcus wanted to dive into this memory, he wanted to forget everything. He just wanted live again this familiar scene. The single thing that he wanted at this precise and unique moment was to not hear what the Lieutenant was going to say.
âSir, I am very sorry to tell you that your husband, Tim Hayley, died in a spaceship crash three days ago.â
His entire world collapsed. Tim disappeared with Marcusâ sanity. The Lieutenantâs words echoed in his mind, becoming an upsetting, continuous, destructive sound. The following words felt like Tim was stabbing him with his lost love and ephemeral memories.
âWe still do not know how he died, but his spaceship was disintegrated. We are all very sorry for your loss.â She said slowly.
âWhat?â He responded, after a long pause.
Marcus heard in the Lieutenantâs voice strangely raucous. He knew that she was a soldier, that she was following the orders, that she had no other choice than being stern and cold, than being military. He was blaming her for that: he couldnât blame anyone else for his husbandâs death. He was just so desperate. Marcus thought he had to have a target, someone to condemn, and it would make him feel better to have someone to hate. But it was too much pain for him, he couldnât put so much hate or feelings on someone. Tim wouldnât have let him do that.
Marcus felt so full of agonising emotions, he was ready to explode of despair, but his misery made him suddenly empty. He was able to do nothing. He was nothing. Marcus Hayley couldnât be a person without Tim Hayley.
âSir, I have to inform you. Now that your husband is dead, you have to make an important choice for your futureâ Lieutenant Diarch began.
Stopped. Everything, in his heavy mind stopped. A choice? A thousand of despondent questions crossed his head, but he couldnât open his mouth and speak without crying. Marcus simply turned his head quickly to face the Lieutenant. He truly watched her in the eyes for the first time.
âThis is the Jorpadyâs army policy, you must choose. As Tim Hayley -your husband- is dead, we must keep the armyâs reputation clear and erase the populationâs worries about the dangerousity of being a soldier or a pilot. Thus, you have to choose: you can either loose every single memories of your husband or you can⌠die, and everyone will forget  you who are. We gave the same choice to anyone who knew about your husband.â Her voice faltered.
Marcus never heard about this policy. Tim never talked about this policy. He wasnât mad at the Lieutenant any more. He wasnât mad at Tim for not telling him. He was firstly mad at himself because he had been so stupid to work for the people who created this policy. He deeply hated them. He didnât want to understand. The Lieutenantâs explanation was clear, and logical on a military planet: soldiers were the government, Marcus didnât except less from these people. But he couldnât believe that he trusted them for years.
âWhat?â He repeated, to be sure her words werenât the fruit of his imagination.
âYou can choose to...â She took a heavy breath and continued. âEither loose your memories of your husband or die, and everyone will forget about you too. You have a day to decide and I will come back tomorrow, to take you to the base where your choice will be executed.â She explained.
Marcus did understand very well the first time. They gave him an inconceivable dilemma. They wanted him to choose between living without his husband the rest of his life or simply die with him? How could he choose in his state, he wasnât sane! The Lieutenant saw how anger, incomprehension and grief shined in Marcusâ eyes.
âYou can not live your house or have any communication with anyone. We are watching you Sir.â
She got up, his glance did not follow her moves. Before leaving the living-room, she hesitated and turned, saying a few last words.
âI⌠Iâm deeply sorry, I didnât mean to⌠Well, I donât choose and⌠I...â The Lieutenant said, out of the protocol.
âLeave.â He barely whispered.
Lieutenant Diarch understood nonetheless, nodded, and left. Silence struck Marcus. It shouldnât be here, itâs not its place. Timâs voice should be replacing this deadly silence, his laugh, his stories about fights, about his spaceship, about his friends in the army that he hadnât seen in years, how relieved he was to have finished this war, how comforting it was to know it had been his last fight, that he was going to retire, that they could leave for a better planet, far away, just both of them. But no. It was too much. Silence. Tim left Marcus silently.
He wasnât ready to grieve. He didnât want to admit his husband was dead. Tears coming down his cheeks monotonously, he instantaneously got up and rushed to their bedroom. More than one time, he failed to fall down, his entire body shaking. His heart was throbbing in his chest. Marcus thought it was going to escape and explode. He heard his heartbeat so clearly, he felt his blood rushing through his veins so acutely, his entire body was numb.
When he arrived in the room, he threw himself on the ground and crawled to the box below their bed. He pulled it out and with shaky hands, opened it. In it, memories. Every memories he shared with Tim. The box was filled with photos, souvenirs, small shells, tickets, stones and a bunch of other silly objects which wouldnât have had a signification or a prize for anyone else, except for Marcus and Tim Hayley. Marcus grabbed the photographs and leant back on the bed. He passed his hand on his dripping nose and sorrowful eyes. On each picture he stared at Tim.
Marcus examined his face. His eyes, his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his eyebrows, how they changed when he was happy, hopeful, sad, deceived, impressed, angry, tired. In love. Marcus examined his body. His torso, his arms, his hands, his legs, his posture, his body language how they changed when he was happy, hopeful, sad, deceived, impressed, angry, tired. In love. Marcus examined his memory. Timâs words, Timâs wishes, Timâs laughs, Timâs emotions, Timâs perseverance, Timâs kindness, Timâs personality, Tim loving him. Marcus found a photo of them, at their wedding. Happy, hopeful, impressed and in love.
He couldnât bear it any more. He had never felt so much pain, his mind shattered and his body slashed. Driven by pure pain, he tore the pictures. He didnât want to see himself with his husband, he couldn't look at himself. He wanted to remember Tim, only Tim, not him. Because if Marcus became conscious of his situation, he would remember the choice he had to make. The only thing he wanted to remember, at this particular moment, was his husband.
All of the photographs were torn apart. Marcus made a pile of the parts with Tim, and he threw the rest away. Staggering, he crashed on their desk, grabbed some glue, took the first picture under his hand, stuck it on the wall and looked at it, breathless. For several seconds of complete steadiness, Marcus admired the photograph of his husband. But soon, it wasnât enough. Progressively, he remembered that Tim was indeed dead. Furiously, he basted the wall with glue and pasted every single images of Tim on that small, cracked and brown wall, in front of their bed. The sound of his hand plastering the images echoed with his heartbeat, getting faster and faster. He finished plastering all of them in a few minutes. Out of breath, he stepped back, bumped his feet into the bed and fell onto it.
Surprisingly, the softness of the mattress eased his mind and body. The only sensation that was left were his tears rolling down his cheeks. He took a deep breath. A smell invaded him. Timâs perfume. Even if he was gone since months, Marcus had this ritual of perfuming the sheets with his husbandâs cologne. It had helped him to fall asleep and to feel less lonely. But at this moment, it did the exact contrary. Marcus startled and stood up. He didnât want to loose this memory either: he totally knew how Tim looked like, thanks to the pictures in front of him, but he had to know exactly how he smelled. To keep him sane.
Marcus dived into Timâs clothes. Every breath he took made him feel alive again. Yet, every breath he took made his tears roll faster, his heart beat louder and his hands shake wider. He pulled out one of Timâs sweater and inhaled it. Finally, Marcus had something reassuring with him: his husbandâs odour was omnipresent. Without thinking, he took of his own shirt and put the piece of clothe on. It was like⌠He could touch him.
Timâs death affected him in such ways, Marcus was barely lucid. He needed everything to convince himself his husband was alive, here, with him and forever. Slowly, he walked to the wall of pictures, and stroked them. Something was missing, something was missing for Tim to be here with him. He couldnât hear him, his melodic laugh and rough voice were absent from Marcusâ head. Panicking, this last typed on his bracelet, which was their hard drive, for any videos or audio tracks of Tim. Marcus had to tighten his fist savagely to keep his entire arm from shaking. After a fight against his shaking members and his moist hand, he managed to find an audio track, from Tim, speaking about his day. It was simple, common and even boring, but Marcus melted. His husband wasnât that dead finally, he was with him: he could see, smell, touch, hear and remember him easily!
Even if he was fooling himself, he felt calmer. He lied down on their bed, exhausted. Â He had cried and bled, thinking Tim was dead. Because they were wrong, these people from the army. Tim wasnât dead, and he would never be! Thanks to Marcus and his memory. Thanks to Marcus and his memories of him. Without even thinking of the choice he had to make, without noticing the terrible impasse he was, because of his anomalous grief, without realising he trapped himself.
When he woke up, Marcus thought he had a nightmare, he thought that Tim was lying next to him or cooking breakfast, that everything had just been a terrible, horrible dream. When he npticed that his bed was empty and the kitchen likewise, that everything was just the terrible, horrible reality, Marcus remembered the past day. He remembered his tears. His pain. He remembered the truth. He remembered he had forgotten something. He had forgotten the choice he had to make. But now, he remembered. And his mind shouted him an answer.
He couldnât die, he wasnât ready to die, he didnât want to choose when or where he wanted to die! The fact that Marcus still felt Tim, in their house, didnât help: he thought that he didnât quite passed away, that he was still with him, somewhere, somehow. Entering in their bedroom again, Marcus could still see, smell and touch -he didnât take off the sweater- Tim. He just had time to admire his husband before hearing a knock on their door.
Lieutenant Diarch was there, maybe to tell him that they had made some false presumptions and Tim wasnât dead! Not a word was shared when Marcus opened the door, closed it behind him, got on the armyâs pickup, was driven to the military base, was led to a small room where he had to change of clothes, and finally had to lie down in a kind of cylinder. He remembered seeing that, one day in a museum with Tim. They were visiting a planet and its early technology: they would freeze people, before discovering how to put a mind in a computer. Since then, everything went a bit crazy and at the end, it all ended up being disintegrated by the Inter-Universal Police because it was madly dangerous. This last memory made Marcus smile, but it also made him realize something.
Tim had disappeared. Marcus couldnât sense him any more. He couldnât see him. He couldnât smell him. He couldnât touch him. He couldnât hear him. He couldnât remember him as perfectly as him wanted, as alive as he wished. Tim was slowly dying in Marcusâ mind. And it was killing him. He began to panic, alone in his little coffin.
âMister⌠Marcus Hayley?â A voice asked.
He didnât answer. Could he?
âWe are going to explain to you what is going to happen next.â The voice said.
A head appeared in Marcusâ field of view. The voice had some sort of white blouse, he presumed they were a scientist. But he hadnât time to bother with knowing who was this person, he had to stay concentrated. He had to remember Tim, or he would die.
âYour husband Tim Hayley has, sadly, died a couple of days ago. All of his relatives went through the same process you are going through now, Sir. Do not worry, this is a common procedure.â
Tim. He had to imagine Tim, near him, laughing at the ridicule politeness of the scientist.
âI am Doctor Clay and I am going to take care of you today.â
Tim. He would just try to reassure him with sweet and funny words.
âI heard that Lieutenant Diarch told you, basically, why you are, and if I may, I want to clarify that for you. Jorpady has one of the most powerful army in the Universe, and the government has chosen to keep it that way by using memory loss technology.â
Tim. He would squeeze his hand to remind him that he was there, with him, during the procedure.
âHowever, some people do not want to loose their memories of their loved ones. So, we find, over the years, an other solution. If you wish to keep your memories, you will have to die.â
Tim. He would tell him which choice to make, which one was the best for them.
âAnd if you particularly choose to die, we will have to wipe your loved onesâ memories, so they donât remember anything about you.â
Tim. What would he do now?
âSo, Sir, what is your choice? I can guarantee you that either will be painless and swift.â
Tim. What would he say?
âSir you have to answer me.â
Tim. Where was he?
âI...â Marcus painfully whispered.
âWell Sir, your choice is our law, we promise that we are going to do what you want us to do.â The voice finished, going away.
Tim. He was gone.
Marcus couldnât sense him, he couldnât feel him. Tim was dead. Some kind of door closed the coffin, with Marcus inside. He didnât say anything, Tim didnât tell him what he should do, Tim was silent, Tim was gone for a few seconds, maybe more, maybe forever. Compressed in there, Marcus finally understood, he finally felt it, he finally was able to put words on this sharp pain that was in his chest, this burning agony running down his cheeks. His husband was dead. His Tim. Just, went away.
What Marcus was only able to do was remembering him. Tim could maybe live in his memories. Marcus could keep him alive, with him! So he had to stay alive. But if he stayed alive, his memories would be wiped and Tim would die with them. So he had to not stay alive, because if he did, Tim would die. But if he died, Tim would die with him.
Suddenly, Marcus became aware of his choice. He didnât had time to decide. The scientist didnât hear his choice because he never said it aloud. Furiously, Marcus began to punch the coffinâs door, screaming his husbandâs name. Screaming that he wanted to die with him. Ripping his lungs. Shouting he did not wish to live, he could not live without Tim. Crying he loved him with his life. A gas came in the coffin. Marcus began to cough roughly. His members were weaker and weaker. His eyes were sleepier and sleepier. A few seconds later, he was lying in there, unconscious.
âDoctor, is he going to be okay?â An other scientist asked.
âThis is a silly question. Look at him! Does he seem okay?â Clay responded, a destabilising smile on his face.
âI⌠I justâŚâ The scientist stuttered.
âDonât play with the newbies like thatâ Lieutenant Diarch spoke up firmly. âThe patient is going to be okay. He wanted to die, fine, but we canât kill everyone on this stupid planet because of grief. We made him believe we did what he wanted us to do, but we are never killing the people who come here. Itâs just a protocol.â She answered angrily. âIdiotsâ The Lieutenant muttered, leaving this damned place.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
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An attempt to rescue a raptor opens the door to the way in which grief and joy are so bewilderingly intertwined in our hearts.
BY DEREK FURR
AS I WALKED UPTOWN for a break from work, a wren sang, or more accurately, trumpeted. Perched on a service line, his whole body flipped a quarter turn clockwise with each blast, as if Shelleyâs skylark were reincarnated on the corner of Warren and Wall inâŚ
Hey, just wanted to let you know that so far it's been a pretty rough day for me and I found shelter in your poem once again. It really marked me, and I realised that when to soothe today's wave of grief I came back to those soft and warm caresses that are your words. I'm like a broken record now haha but truly, from the deepest depths of my heart, thank you for sharing such a meaningful messageđ¤đŻ
Oh honeyâŚ
Iâm really glad you told me this. and Iâm even more glad that the poem gave you a place to breathe today.
grief is weird it hits whenever it wants, however it wants and the fact that you reached for something gentle instead of trying to power through alone? that says a lot about your heart. youâre not a broken record, youâre someone who feels deeply. thatâs not a flaw.
Iâm really touched you came back to those lines when everything felt heavy. â¤ď¸đŻď¸
