You were crying afterwards. I didn't know why, not at first. I asked if you if I'd done anything that might've hurt you, or caused you discomfort, but you said no. Yours were a different kind of tears. We lay in the dark, the only sound that of your soft sobbing. I pulled you close to me, and in time, the tears subsided. Then you sat on the bed, and faced me. You weren't telling me your life, you were telling me stories you had kept for yourself, had never shared with anyone. I listened, intently. These were moments I held sacred, the nearness, the intimacy, the peace. I learned you were a curious child, and so was I, but in a different way. I learned where that quenchless thirst for the infinite came from. I learned how you survived heartbreak. I drink deep of you, of your voice, of your soul, of your love. I knew that there was a story that you wanted to tell me, but its time had not yet come. That's ok - time is not something that matters anymore.
'I was crying', you said, 'because I knew I had to finally tell you this story. And it's something I only ever told someone once - only to be laughed out of the room. That taught me a lesson.' You sighed deeply, then ruffled your hand through your hair. 'This is going to be a pretty weird story. I mean, if you end up thinking I'm crazy, so be it. But please don't laugh at me. OK?'. I nodded, of course I wouldn't. I'll tell you my story after. Then we'll see who thinks who is crazy. 'So...', you inhaled and let the air go out of your lungs, as if you were getting ready to get in a ring. 'So, when I was about thirteen or fourteen me and my best friend went to this fortune teller. Sure, we knew we were probably going to get scammed, but we were dead curious. Some of the girls in school had gone to see the old lady, so that left us curious. One day we just drummed up the courage to go. When we get there, a shoddy house not far from where our school was, my friend, she goes first. And she gets plenty of good news from her reading - she's going to have a long happy life, a loving family, a good job - all that crap. We were already expecting to hear stuff like that. And then it was my turn.'
'I sat down in front of her, and she looked at me quizzically, furrowing her brow. 'Your hand, child', she said, 'give it to me'. I held out my hand and she grabbed - for an old woman she had quite the viselike grip. She studied it for a few moments, then let it go abruptly. 'No', she proclaimed, 'I can't. I shall not.' That left me reeling, whatever did she mean by that? 'Here', she said. 'Your money, take it back. I can't do your reading.' I pleaded with her. She still said no. We left, we had to go back to school. But after school I decided to go back. I went back to where the old woman lived. When I knocked on the door, she didn't seem surprised to see me. She beckoned me in, and once again I sat down in front of her. I tried to give her the money, but she just waved it away. 'You keep it. I'm not going to be doing you any favours', she said. I held out my hand without her even asking. Again, she held it tight, as if my hand was stuck in a vise. She looked at my hand again, nodding here and there. Finally, she softened the grip on my hand, and her very voice seemed to change. She looked at me sadly, sighed, then said 'Look, here. You see this line? It's what's called the life line, yes? And yours, yours is different. See, most people have a life line that can be short, or long or somewhere in between. In its indentations - if you are knowledgeable about these things - you can see patterns. These patterns will tell you what the future may bring. I say 'may', not 'will', because nothing is ever set in stone. But 'may', in these cases, means very, very likely. But you are different. Your life line splits in two at some point. See here?', she said pointing at my hand. 'Sometime in the future, though not as far from now as you should like, you'll have to make a choice. It will be as if you reach a moment where, unknown to you, two roads will be before you. Which to choose?'. She shook her head. 'The answer is not simple. It is not simple at all. Because to you it won't even feel as if you're making a choice.'
'Her words had left me feeling taken aback. It's strange, but I felt a physical weight being placed in me. My heart felt heavy. So did my soul.' The old woman looked at me, and said 'That's the thing about knowledge. It isn't always a gift. Sometimes, it can be a curse.' She seemed so sad. She got up, went to the kitchen and made us some tea. We sat in silence for long minutes, but a I had a question burning in my mind. I... I just couldn't seem to bring myself to speak. Words hung heavy in my mouth. My throat felt crushed by some unseen hand. She looked at me from across the table where we sat, and told me she knew what I wanted to ask. 'How will I know?', the words suddenly fleeing my mouth. They hang in the air for some minutes. She finished her tea, I'd let mine go cold. Then she got up, and stood a while, in thought. 'How will you know, indeed. Ah, child. Sometimes it will be something you see, or hear, and are moved to go and find out just what it was that pulled you there. Or you may be faced with the same circumstance, and then just ignore it. But it leaves a mark upon your soul. Much later you'll realize that the moment of choice had come and gone. But the moment does come. It will be as if your heartbeat moved in time with an invisible clock, and in that perfect moment, against which the centuries beat in vain, if you are attuned to it, then you will grasp it.'
'She sank back down on her chair, and at this the room seemed to suddenly grow dimmer. I could barely make out her outline. But I could hear her crying. No - not just crying. She was... her whole body was wracked with sobs. I didn't know what to do, or how to help. I moved to leave, but before I did, her voice softly called out. Though the light was dim, I now saw her wizened face. It was awash with tears. She held out her gnarled hand. 'Child', said she, 'look. Look here. My hand, it too bifurcates in its life line. I too had the same choice once. I too was faced with two diverging roads. Once upon a time. And I heard it, oh I heard it. The sound of galaxies.' She sank her head between her hands, and started weeping again. Out of the incoherent babble, I could only make out 'I chose poorly'. I left, and never returned. Part of me wanted to go back there one day, but I never did.'
'Remember I told you I'd only told this story once?', you asked me. I did. I'd never forget. I nodded my head, said I did. 'The aftermath of that... well, I wasn't in a good place for a long time', you continued. A deep sigh, and you exhale softly over my chest. Your hand rakes me, and I shiver. 'One day... one day, I was taking a long, hot bath, and I felt myself drifting away. My mind was elsewhere. I was... I was just... just tired. And sad. And I got up from the bath, opened a kitchen drawer, and pulled out the sharpest knife I had. I took it with me back to the bath. I looked at it, cold and sleek and sharp. The perfect knife to slay this dreamer. I wanted to let go, to let it all go. I held it aloft, then ran it across my flesh.'
'Here', you said, showing me where you cut yourself in your arm. I trace the small scar with my fingers, it's coarse skin a map of tragedies averted. 'It cut well. I wondered how easy it would be. I was going to do it, I really was. But then I heard... something. I couldn't understand what it was at first. It seemed such an alien sound. Loud. Mechanical. Almost like a clock... ticking. It said to me that it was not yet time. I looked at the knife in my hands, at how cruelly sharp that razor seemed. So I swore to that razor that never again I would let myself feel this way. I swore to it that none would ever hear this story again. In a sense, telling you this feels like a betrayal of my soul. But more importantly, it feels right. I knew I had to tell you everything.'
We lapsed into a long silence, our bodies as one in the still of the night. 'And now you think I'm crazy', you said. I didn't, but it was now time for me to tell you a story. Wait here for me, I asked. 'I will wait for you', you replied. I got up and went to the pile of clothes we left on the floor. I then took out the pocket watch, and held it to a slanting light that peered through the window. What does it say, its whirs again silent? It rests, its cold metal pressed against your flesh, a cold and broken hallelujah.
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