From: Valeanna1 Date sent: Wed, 11 Mar 1998 19:59:00 EST Subject: "Leave" (1/1) by J. C. Sun Title: Leave Author: J. C. Sun E-mail: valeanna1@aol.com Category: VAR Rating: PG for sexual themes Keyword: Three Spoilers: references to Three Summary: leave-v. t. 1) to allow or cause to remain 2) to put, place or deposit so as to remain 3) to let be without interference 4) to relinquish, to forsake, to desert, to cease from --English Gem Dictionary .leave .j.c.sun. I have been changed. I have been left without fear. I have been left without death. I have been left. I wander this earth, now, aimlessly, endlessly. I crawl in these darknesses, I walk these paths and I travel without purpose or goal, for the voyage, the sensations are the fulfillment itself. And I cannot help but thank the one who set me upon this task of discovery. So I went to him, the night before last. I went up his fire escape. I did not mean to frighten him. Truly, no. I meant only to stand at the window, to look and see what has gone and come in his life since last I saw him, since last I was with him, to drink in the sight of him and to remember if only in a tiny little part, to remember what it must be like to see the sun come up in the red, red sky. But he sat there, so soft, so warm, so very sleepily gentle that I climbed through, the line of his body and the color of his eyes whispering through the veil to pull me through his window, onto his desk and into his line of sight. And he leapt up, afraid, shocked, looking terribly vulnerable in his flimsy boxers. The television played patterns across his chest, the flicking dance of cathode rays and cable painting on tight skin. They mesmerized me, and it took conscious will not to reach out, to touch them and to see if he had truly changed. He chokes. He falters, but in the end, he says my name, softly, a little breathy whisper that comes from his flared nostrils and the knotted vein of his jaw. "Kristen." he says, finally, body taut. "Hello." I say, my head lolling to the side. I run my nails across his couch, I watch the television a bit, drinking in the colors and the sounds of the advertisement, I laugh a little at the salesman's fervor and the hurried urgency of his words, the avaricious glitter in his eyes. I listen to his breathing, to the breathing of the other woman in the other room, and I rock back on my heels, tasting the smell of him that hangs in the air, a musky dark incense. Incense burnt to whom, one must wonder. "Has she been returned to you?" I ask, flipping through the magazines littered on his coffee table. "Who?" he asks, puzzled. I look up from Omni. "The one you spoke of, the second one who was taken. Your woman, your woman of the cross, of the crucifix. Your madonna." "Madonna." he whispers, eyes slipping shut, hands balling. "My madonna." "She." I gesture. "She, the one you were dying for." "I. . . I was not. . ." I laugh. "You were dying for her." Silence. "You have found her." He nods. "She is the one in the room?" I point to his bedroom. Again, a nod. Has she stolen his tongue? "A pretty thing," I say, glancing inside, catching the line of her. Asleep, she lies, covered partially by thin sheets, the moon bringing out the smooth curve of her hip, and the deliacate point of her shoulders rounding out to the outline of a full breast. One hand is tucked underneath her head, rich hair spilling over the pillow and the strong, clean shape of her casting crisp shadows across the mussed bed. She is tiny and precious, yet a flower made out of metal, for the face, the thin slashing shape of her face and the hard point of her chin, the marks of pain incised around her mouth even in slumber, in the hawk-curve of her nose. Cold, very cold, yet lovely, this woman. This coldness, this is what he lacks. This coldness, it makes him better. "Very pretty. You have good taste." He starts. He casts a nervous glance towards his gun. I laugh, and he relaxes. "You are happy?" I say. His mouth twitches, and I read that he is happy, as happy as he can ever be. "I love her." he answers me. "I love her." I nod. "You have always loved her." He smiles. He touches the crucifix upon his chest. He touches his heart, he touches the strand of gold alloy and the symbol of a man some say was the son of a god. He touches a thing made of two simple bars of different lengths laid across each other, and joined to form one of the most powerful images, a totemic form that speaks in a hundred languages and has resonated in the human soul for two thousand years, a thing that has killed more men than any disease and a thing that has held humanity together in darkness. It caused people to die in screaming agony, their bodies writhing in fire, and it caused cathedrals to be built, beautiful soaring cathedrals. He touches that symbol, and he smiles. And he frowns. He asks how I survived the fire. "I am. . ." I sigh. "I cannot kill myself; one must survive." He nods. He understands. Three becomes one. One becomes two. And I leave. I climb out the window. I leave. I leave him behind. I leave the Madonna behind. I climb out the window, I step onto the fire-escape and I walk out onto the main street. And I step into the night. A heavily pregnant cat scavenges in the dumpster. A rat scurries across the alley. Water drips. A car passes. Neon signs blink. A tree bends, a wind blows, a cloud passes across the moon and a car makes a screeching left turn onto Madison Avenue. A gas station flickers off, the city is a garland of lights, the river a glass ribbon. And I wonder to myself--I wonder if he will always love her, if he was always be able to stand by her side, if he will always be able to love her and I wonder if love will always be enough for him. And I wonder if she will always be able to fill the empty places in him, if she will always be able to make him happy, if she will always be able to smooth the rough hurts inside him and pull him close and let some of her own coldness into him, and I wonder if she can still love him after she finds the truth. I wonder all these things, and I also wonder of myself. I wonder if this earth is truly mine, if I wonder if I will always stand upon this street and watch the night above me. I wonder if I will always be this way, in these places, and I wonder if I will ever know what it is like to fall into the cool dark pond and never float back up, ever. I wonder if I will ever love a man like I love the night and the water and the stars, love him him as much as that. And I wonder if I will someday be able to stop and look at my years and say to myself that this has been a good life and that I have tasted of everything that I wish and that I am happy now and that I am ready to go, and that lord, I am ready to die, so take me into your arms now and let me see the sun again, lord. I wonder if I will always be standing against time. I wonder. And I see my reflection in rolled car windows. I walk. I go. I leave. I leave. .la fin /Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and The winter sun creeps by the snow hills; The stubborn season has made stand. My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand. Dust in sunlight and memory in corners Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land. Grant us they peace. I have walked many years in this city, kept faith and fast, provided for the poor, Have given and taken honour and ease. There never went any rejected from my door. Who shall remember my house, where shall live my children's children When the time of sorrow is come? They will take to the goat's path and the fox's home, Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords. Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation Grant us thy peace. Before the stations of the mountain of desolation, Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow, Now at this birth season of decease, Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word, Grant Israel's consolation To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow. According to thy word. They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation With glory and derision, Light upon light, mounting the saints' stair. Not for me the martyrdom, the ectasy of thought and prayer, Not for me the ultimate vision Grant me thy peace. (And a sword shall pierce thy heart, Thine also). I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me, I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me Let thy servant depart, Having seen thy salvation./ --T. S. Eliot in Song for Simeon