Free short stories about Generation End

Posts Tagged ‘love’

CHRISTIE’S LETTER

… Have you ever been completely loved before? Not the romantic kind of love, not the parental kind of love. I’m talking about the kind of love that’s complete. I know you don’t understand what I mean, and I don’t expect you to. Actually I do expect you to know what I mean, because I want you to experience it one day. Or maybe I don’t, because it’s the kind of love that will make you fragile. It comes by as infrequently as a red moon, and once its gone, once the feeling it leaves you with erodes away, you’ll feel like a useless, dry lake, desperate to see that red moon again.

Complete love is love with no missing pieces. It’s a love that’s interested in everything you’re interested in. It’s a love that cries more for you than you’ve ever cried for yourself. It doesn’t care about that thing you did. It doesn’t care who you are. It laughs with your laughs, and it puts its hands on your hands and even though you know it has other plans it speaks only to you for hours, and hours, and hours, and after it all it smiles and sings to you, and you realise you’re the only person in the universe that matters to it. And you say, “How is this possible? I’m repulsive, I’m ordinary, I’m flawed – how can I be the only person in the universe that matters to you?” And then the love envelopes you and you weep, and it weeps with you too, and it kisses you, and although it’s a complete love, its completeness is limited by time, and it says goodbye, it says it will text you tomorrow, and then you’re left wondering what to do next.

 

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MIRACLES IN WEST END

miracles in west end

I had become a mess so Christie told me to visit a lady in West End who performs miracles. Apparently, she helped cure a lady of her cancer, she helped cure a friend of his chronic back pains, she returned joy to a broken person’s life.

I went to the hall and sat down among a small group of others. The lights were dim and music was playing, and although I was thinking of nothing I wept. It was a ridiculous catastrophe: tears keep stumbling away from me and I had no idea why.

“I don’t have powers,” she said to the small crowd, “I am merely an instrument of God.”

After a while a queue had formed for people to come up to her to be healed. As each person would approach her, she’d say something to them, and no matter their size, they would fall to the ground.

I was invited to come up to her. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands and smiled, and she placed her hands in mine and she whispered in my ear: “You never have to feel lonely again. God is with you.” She blew onto my chest and I fell to the ground, and I lay there, thinking that nothing inside me had changed.

I stood up and returned to my seat, wondering what the hell just happened.

This guy who was around my age came from nowhere and sat next to me. “You don’t have to feel alone anymore,” he said without invitation, “I’m certainly not.” He spoke of other things – his addictions, his ego, the homes he’d lived in, and how his coming closer to God had cleaned his soul. He told me that everyone will go to heaven. “I think I’m supposed to talk to you and I don’t know why.” He hugged me, stood up and walked out of the hall.

I sat there on my own until ten in the evening. I was exhausted. When it was over I drove home and fell into a deep sleep.

 

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Book I’m reading: Walt Disney: The Triumph of the American Imagination 

Show I’m watching: Billions

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SOMETHING IN YOUR STOMACH

Someone from work once gave me a moleskin, and for some time I just let it sit at the back of my car.

“If you don’t want to write in it, why don’t you draw something in it?” Christie asked me from her hospital bed.

“Yeah okay,” I complained. “Like drawing is so fucking easy.”

She got mad, so I drew something:

kanye west standing on 3 heads“How much drugs are you on?” she asked me.

“Nothing!” I lied, so I drew something else:
an evil spirit about to give you a handjob

She laughed at this one. Well it was a tiny laugh, but I still considered it a laugh.

Christie was in hospital for something they’d found in her uterus that was causing her to bleed.

“Apparently, there’s a chance I can’t have kids,” she said, her eyes turning a little red. There was a tube in her arm and she looked small in her hospital bed – she hadn’t been properly eating in days. “Will you still be with me if I can’t have kids?”

I looked at her and her family members standing behind her. They were pretending not to be listening to our conversation. “Of course.”

I remember once thinking that if I were to ever be a dad, I had to be a young dad, like a nineteen-year-old dad, or a twenty-one-year-old dad. I didn’t want to be some old dad who couldn’t relate to my kid. But then I grew older and older and I became almost thirty, and then I thought that if I were to have a kid, maybe I should adopt a twenty-one-year-old or something, someone who’s already grown past that shitty rebellious adolescent stage of life and is graduating and has an entry level job at some large and stable company, and is in a stable relationship, and any disturbing vices they may secretly carry would have nothing to do how I treated them when they were five years old, because I wasn’t there when they were five years old. Can I handle a child? Can I hold one, and feed one, and understand one, and love one no matter what? No matter what? I mean, why make one when you can adopt one, right? Can you even adopt a twenty-one year old?

And then I realised that I was actually rambling the above monologue out loud to Christie, and her whole family was watching.

“The hell are you on about, Dean?” her brother asked me.

I continued holding Christie’s hand, and we continued talking about other things, and her family left, and I stayed until the nurse said I had to go. I leant my head against Christie’s chest, and I told her that I wanted to listen to her heart, and I listened to her heart, and then I stood up and said goodnight and I walked all the way home.

 

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LOVE IN EVERY LINE

love in every line

“He loved her,” she insisted.

“No, he’s in love with her.”

“No, no, no.” She still wasn’t listening to me. “This is what he said: ‘I loved her.’ It was love in the past tense.”

“People don’t say things like that unless they still love them. Once you stop loving someone, you never mention them again. They’re not even a memory.”

She scoffed at this. “You out of all people know this isn’t true. People talk about people they don’t love anymore all the time, but it doesn’t mean they’re still in love them. What part of past tense don’t you understand? He. Loved –”

“I understand everything about the past tense” – I lowered the stereo volume just to make sure the entire world heard my point – “but I understand nothing about what you’re saying. Don’t you know love? Haven’t you ever held it in your hand?”

“I held love in my hand whenever I held his.”

“That’s so corny. Can you see my ears bleed from the corniness? It’s corniness like that that gives love a bad name.” Her speaking about him, or even the thought that she was thinking about him, or even the fact that we were dedicating an entire moment of our temporary lives talking about him, that we were associating “love” and his terrible name in the same sentence – it all made me delirious with envy, but the envy was a secret even I didn’t want to admit. Why couldn’t I throw my envy away and burn it and then piss on the ashes? He didn’t love her. There was no way he loved her. I didn’t want to know her anymore.

“I don’t see your ears bleeding,” she said as she moved closer to me and inspected my ears. Her breath smelt like raspberry Vodka. “And what’s a non-corny love anyway? Has love ever not been corny?”

“A non-corny love is a love that’s mixed with practicality and romanticism.”

“So love has elements of corniness.”

“You know what? Whatever. He loved her, he still loves her – does it really matter?”

“Yes. His love matters.”

“Why does what he do with his love matter? Why should –”

“Because I love him.”

Everything became silent. “So you love a guy who left you behind.” I looked at her. Her eyes were slightly teary; she was sniffling. This guy had picked her out of an ocean, broken her, then placed her back into the ocean without waving goodbye. And I was completely sober when I said what I said next: “Fuck his love. Fuck you. You hear me, you dirty shit? Fuck. You.”

She was crying now. “I still think about him. I still smell him. I still see him in people who have any characteristics that resemble anything about him. I still love him.”

I took her to bed, and in bed we laughed about things, and when she was asleep I did sit ups, push ups, checked Facebook. When she woke up, we spoke a little bit more and I drove her to a café where she was supposed to meet him for “closure”, and, before exiting my car, she turned to me and smiled and said, “he loved her,” and she said thanks to me, and I said thanks to her, and she tapped her finger on my hand before shutting the door and heading to the café.

LOVE

what is love

“I don’t believe in love,” was what Carol told me when we were at Carol’s home, having late dinner that she cooked, listening or not listening to music that may or may not have been playing from a small speaker in another room.

“You believe in love,” I told her.

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

She sighed. “You can’t just dictate what I do and don’t believe in.”

“Yes I can.”

“How long have I known you for?”

“A few days.”

“You can’t dictate then. You don’t have permission.”

“Why not?” I teased.

“What is love anyway? It’s a word. It’s nothing. Actions are more important than words.”

“Such as saying ‘I love you’.”

“If love were real, you only need to say ‘I love you’ once, but we can’t live with just hearing ‘I love you’ once. It’s conditional. Love has always been conditional, which in turn defies the definition of what love is.”

“But then can’t you say the same about friendship? Why do we need to see friends more than once in order for them to remain our friends?”

“Who says we need to?”

I took a sip of water, thought about her nonsense for a second, then put my glass back down. “Have you ever been in love? Have you ever told a guy, ‘I love you’?”

“Of course I have. But I was stupid. I don’t love them now. I don’t speak to them, and if I see them, I will not have any feelings for them. Even if they begged me, I will never take them back because there’s nothing there. I’ve changed. My body, my perceptions, it’s all changed. Love is meant to be eternal and constant, but us people, we’re always changing. Something that’s constant cannot get along well with something that’s changing. Just like success. I don’t think you should call someone successful until you’re able to see their entire life. For you to see love in its entirety, you need to watch this person’s love in its entirety. Which is impossible.”

“You’ve just been hurt,” I said.

“Who hasn’t?”

“There’s no one definition of love. Who says it has to be eternal?”

“Who says it doesn’t have to?”

And then we debated Eva Cassidy songs, and then we debated John Lennon and Yoko Ono, and then we debated Love Actually, and then we debated Romeo and Juliet, and then we debated Obama and Michelle, and then we debated Kim and Kanye. By this time I’d already told Carol that I wasn’t looking for a relationship, and I knew this hurt her. We went to bed, and I told her how perfect her body was, which was true. She had an amazing vagina. I’d never experienced a vagina quite like it, and because of that I used it to my heart’s content. I left at about three in the morning, and she told me to text her when I’d gotten home.

 

Book I’m re-reading: Strange Animals.

ANNA AND THE DEFINITION OF LOVE

anna and the definition of love - short story

I remember once knowing exactly what love meant. I was about nine years old, I think, and to me, love was what my parents had: it was being happy with each other once in a while, it was being upset at each other once in a while, it was posing happily in photographs, it was a guarantee that they’d be with each other until the end of time.

Things kind of changed when I was about sixteen, and I told this girl named Madison that I loved her and that I will love her until the end of time. She also told me that she loved me and that she wanted to marry me. I frequently wrote stories about her and made her things, which always seemed to make her cry and hug me and tell me that she couldn’t wait to grow old with me. One day, she told me that she cheated on me with a twenty-eight-year-old, and after a bout of anger I told her that I was willing to forgive her, but she said that was pathetic and we ended it. A couple of months later, I had her in her little walk-in-robe, and I had sunglasses and a beanie on and we both had our bottoms off and I made fun of her big thighs, and she giggled and told me to shut the hell up. We’d been broken up for some time, but she wanted to ‘finalise’ things before she fully committed to her new boyfriend. At the end of it, as I tried to cover her eyes and her nostrils as much as I could, she kept asking me, “You love me, right? You love me, right? Because I love you, right? I love you, right?” and I said, “I love you, open your mouth, I love you, open your mouth, I love you,” and I was pretty sure we were both lying to each other. About the love. I think.

My texts with Anna didn’t end. In fact, they became more and more frequent. Besides sending each other dirty messages and photos, we also talked in depth about each other’s lives and even began telling each other that we missed each other – gigantic red flags that anyone less lonely or desperate or lacking in moral integrity would’ve taken more seriously. I was a fool.

“What does love mean to you?” She asked me once.

I shrugged, even though I was on the phone with her and she couldn’t see me shrug. “It changes all the time. One day it means one thing to me, the next it means something else.”

“Well to me,” she said, “I don’t know. I know love comes in many forms, or whatever, but the relationship kind of love, like, to me, it’s…”

“It’s what? Stop stalling.”

She giggled. “It’s hard to explain. It’s something completely unjustified and doesn’t make any sense, but we long for it, you know?”

I found out that her favourite colour was ‘shades’, that she secretly liked the Twilight soundtrack, that she missed her moments with her father before he remarried. Because her fiancé was back in town, we didn’t have any opportunities to meet. I did, however, find one moment to see her: ten minutes before her shift began.

She spotted me sitting in front of her work, smiled, and sat down next to me. “Have you been stalking me?”

“I sort of made you a salad.” I gave her my salad.

She grinned and took it from me, looking it over. “You sort of made me a salad?”

“I tried to make one at first. I fucked up, so I bought you one.”

“You’re easily the sweetest guy I’ve met.”

“There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“So are you going to take me out tonight? Wine and dine me? Seduce me into stripping?”

“Only ask questions you mean,” I said.

She smiled, checked the time. “Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Same.”

“It must’ve been a long drive to get here.”

“Wasn’t too long.” It was forty minutes.

We talked a little more until she had to go. I watched her walk into her work, and I watched her look back at me and smile. I drove to a friend’s place, and as we spoke about life and everything else I repeatedly checked my phone until I finally received a message from her. She was having her break. I smiled, replied, and she immediately replied back.

Sometimes I still think about that girl, Madison. With her straightened hair and her ridiculous laugh and her ugly braces. I told her that I hated her once, and when she ended things I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Once in a while I’ll remember a song we shared, and once in a while I’ll remember the way she’d speak, or laugh, or sneer, and how, simply by existing in my life, she could either make me feel like the most important man in the universe or mercilessly turn my entire life inside out. I hope she turned out fat.