darkwall
Well-known member
His mother always called him Stevie; but his lovers called him Richard, Harold, John, Percy and Lee.
He had something of the look of both youth and age in his face. He used them in front of different people and at different times of the day. He seemed older in front of a roaring fire, younger when debating things. The way he talked, you might have thought he was an idealist. But I knew him well, and he was one of those revolutionaries without a battle to fight. There is nothing more pathetic, believe me.
He dressed down all the time, and with an air of condescension. He turned up for parties in a cardigan, the arrogant turn of his lip hidden by a handsome smile. If he was self-deprecating, it was because he was backed up by reservoirs of confidence that his doting mother left him like a trust fund.
He played the part of a spy who sold secrets to both sides. Sometimes you'd torture him for answers for ages, and when you were exhausted he'd give you the information anyway. I realise now, of course, that for him torture was to be ignored. If he was ever quiet, it was because he was thinking of what to say.
Did we see the end coming? You always look for signs, afterwards. When someone dies you ask yourself, "could I have done anything?", which turns into, "could I have known?". Looking through older photographs, you analyse the distance between them and other people. You stare hard into their smiling eyes, willing some pain to come to the surface. In this way, we make our own ghosts.
No-one tells you this, but death touches everything. When someone dies young, it makes things seem hollow - it ruins Christmases forever. Thinking about your own death allows you to weep a few shameless tears for the dearly departed. Shadows in photographs become pronounced: memories change as you realise that you are now the only one to have experienced them.
You "meet" the dead person several times again. Old answering machine messages, letters, and the things you borrowed from them. I last met Steven standing on the balcony outside his office, where he'd jumped from. There were several potted plants by my foot, and as I reached down I noticed that their petals were plastic. That's when I remembered: Steven couldn't tend to his balcony because he was afraid of heights.
His mother always called him Stevie; but his lovers called him Richard, Harold, John, Percy and Lee. Yet I knew my brother well, and from the time we played with crab-apples in the park to the time he was diagnosed with alcoholism three days after Christmas, his days were nothing but a waste of breath, believe me.
He had something of the look of both youth and age in his face. He used them in front of different people and at different times of the day. He seemed older in front of a roaring fire, younger when debating things. The way he talked, you might have thought he was an idealist. But I knew him well, and he was one of those revolutionaries without a battle to fight. There is nothing more pathetic, believe me.
He dressed down all the time, and with an air of condescension. He turned up for parties in a cardigan, the arrogant turn of his lip hidden by a handsome smile. If he was self-deprecating, it was because he was backed up by reservoirs of confidence that his doting mother left him like a trust fund.
He played the part of a spy who sold secrets to both sides. Sometimes you'd torture him for answers for ages, and when you were exhausted he'd give you the information anyway. I realise now, of course, that for him torture was to be ignored. If he was ever quiet, it was because he was thinking of what to say.
Did we see the end coming? You always look for signs, afterwards. When someone dies you ask yourself, "could I have done anything?", which turns into, "could I have known?". Looking through older photographs, you analyse the distance between them and other people. You stare hard into their smiling eyes, willing some pain to come to the surface. In this way, we make our own ghosts.
No-one tells you this, but death touches everything. When someone dies young, it makes things seem hollow - it ruins Christmases forever. Thinking about your own death allows you to weep a few shameless tears for the dearly departed. Shadows in photographs become pronounced: memories change as you realise that you are now the only one to have experienced them.
You "meet" the dead person several times again. Old answering machine messages, letters, and the things you borrowed from them. I last met Steven standing on the balcony outside his office, where he'd jumped from. There were several potted plants by my foot, and as I reached down I noticed that their petals were plastic. That's when I remembered: Steven couldn't tend to his balcony because he was afraid of heights.
His mother always called him Stevie; but his lovers called him Richard, Harold, John, Percy and Lee. Yet I knew my brother well, and from the time we played with crab-apples in the park to the time he was diagnosed with alcoholism three days after Christmas, his days were nothing but a waste of breath, believe me.
That's sad...is that a true story or something you wrote?
