By the Way

Good afternoon.

My name is Gabriel Elder.

You may not know me, but I know you, most certainly. I know your every facet – the way you sigh when you slip into a freshly cleaned bed, the way you fix your hair in the mornings, the way you don’t notice when someone is watching you from an indiscreet corner across the room. I’ve seen you – you are my obsession, my recipient, and I make my words eloquent for you. I washed my hair for you this morning. After all, I took the time to write you this note, didn’t I?

When you see me smiling, know that it is all for you. I relish in our meeting and my mouth waters at the thought. Every morning I don’t have your essence within my grasp, I clench my teeth a little tighter, I close my eyes a little longer. You are my last thought when I sleep and my first thought when I wake up.

No, no, you don’t know me. You can’t know me – yet. You can’t witness the way the afternoon light shines against my hungry, glistening teeth, sparkling white to make you think I am friendly. Wouldn’t want to make a bad first impression, no?

No. Of course not. I want to hold your hand and your beating heart, both at once, if possible. I am so conflicted in everything I do because of you.

I hate you. You are weak, young, and ignorant, and you will certainly not receive this notice kindly.

I love you. I’m wearing my favorite shirt today – for you. It’s blue. I got it on sale.

Perhaps this is all a little confusing. Calculating as I may be, I have failed in one thing: I haven’t told you the purpose of this letter. Oh, by the way, this letter is for you. Whoever’s found it. If it wasn’t for you, you wouldn’t have it in your possession, period. Even now, I’m watching you read it, and my, how I’m laughing.

Right, right, the purpose. I’m a little scatterbrained today! I chuckled at that, too. Did you?

I’ve been assigned by the Myriad to kill you. You don’t know what the Myriad is, and you probably never will. It’s our job to watch you, and not the other way around. Or, my job, anyway.

Look at me, mumbling in fragments all over this page. You captivate me. Can you tell?

God, this is all a failed attempt at warning; a formality. Trust me, if I had the freedom myself, I would sink my talons into you right now, render you into life’s shrapnel, but… I digress. This is all a very regulated process. As a matter of fact, I was assigned to you a full six weeks ago. I have seen you at least once a day, since, but I’ve been biding my time, through paperwork and office agonies, because this isn’t barbarism. I’m warning you now, as formality, as I mentioned before, so that you can pick up the last strings of your life and tie them all neatly together. Don’t worry about avoiding it or anything, because you’re dying one way or another, and my only dilemma is how to smooth it into society’s framework. The media is such a pesky thing.

If you struggle you’ll still die, so don’t bring that into consideration. There’s no fooling the Myriad. Don’t get me wrong, people have tried – valiantly! – and failed. There is nothing redeeming about an incomplete life of failure, by the way. There is no martyrdom in disappearing from the cesspool of life and no triumph in being messily wiped from the slate of the earth.

Did I mention that I love your smile? God, it’s the loveliest thing I’ve seen since…

I didn’t think parting with you would be this hard, but here I am, blathering on. This note is such a mashed jumble of inconsistencies that there’s no saving it at this point.

You’re the most beautiful living thing to be tantalizing me. You have consumed my life for six weeks, dictating my every mood with your every gesture. I am your puppet. I grin when you grin and I suffer when you suffer. I hunger when you sleep. Your every gesture is something new and brilliant in my day and I simply cannot get enough. But, as it appears, you are not incessant. As a matter of fact, and it is fact, you cease quite neatly here shortly. Rather a shame, some would call it, but it is a rebirth in my eyes. You complete me. I cannot wait to get a grip on you, to ingest your ruby essence, but… nevermind. This will all come later. After all this, I wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.

You will be ending in twelve hours.

Don’t forget to turn the oven off.

Bullets and Sunshine

Kailey suddenly sat up in the bed, her blue eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and confusion. Something was very, very wrong.
"Nurse!" she called, at a moderate volume at first. It quickly elevated to screaming. "Nurse!"
A lady came bustling in, her portly figure masked in the traditional white uniform. "Yes? Yes?!"
Kailey gripped her bulbous stomach, her breathing quickened by now. "I-I need Mac. Get Mac!"
"Ma'am, he's not-"
"Get Mac!" she shrieked, although her body was naturally frail and her throat burned with the effort of it. Contractions were subtle and small but growing, and she struggled to get comfortable, settling in for the long haul of birth that was sure to come. The nurse had rushed away by this time, alerting every relevant person of the news. Mac was needed, immediately. She was not about to give birth to their baby without him, especially with her illness forcing her life to be on the line for it. She rested back against the pillow, closing her eyes. Please, let him be somewhere nearby. Please, let his most recent obligation have been just a few miles away. Please, let him say goodbye, if he had to.
More nurses rushed in, checking on her and changing her bedpan, doing everything for her except the one thing she needed them to do. "Get Mac," she croaked, over and over again, as sweat collected on her brow and her hands gripped the bars on the bed with a grip of steel. She closed her eyes, her chest heaving. Please, God, let him come quickly.

Fingers

Heavy, heavy fingers
Wandered slowly down the street
With their lonely, lonely humming
There was nobody to greet

So they meandered there, together
Always looking low and high
For somebody else to weather
The intensifying lie

I am

I am

updating my blog, finally, in a
gesture of love, of smiling, of
living continuously, heart beating, and
yes, it is Valentine's Day.

I am

always considering the best and the worst, and
livid yet lax in the moments of pain, and
odors sting my nose, pervading my clothes, and
needless to say I am here every day, and
each word oozes out of my fingers like glue.

I am

seeing the white, black, and blue of the world,
or meeting and grinning at strangers I know, but
really I just want to curl up at home, yet
really I want to meet a soul-mate or two,
yet all I can do is smirk to myself in my room.

I am

always awake while my eyes are closed, on the
verge of a breakdown and breakthrough at once,
erring and sighing through blurry-eyed notes, with
rage in my smile and falseness in my mind, and
anyone but no one could convince me otherwise.
Get your face out of my business, my laptop cord is young, too
easy to shatter and nowhere near stable.

I am

wily and wanton and laughing and musing, no
righteous, rambunctious, regal rewards run rampant,
only a hug here or there with a pat on the back,
nothing to convince me not to stray off track -
greedy grins and sly smirks peer at me from afar.

I am

not a figure skater or a bobsledder
or a skier or an athlete, even, yet my
tv tells me all about my dreams.

I am

saying and saying and saying and saying and
asking and asking and asking and asking and
doing and doing and doing and doing and
needing and needing and needing and needing and
escaping without ever really escaping and
seeing and seeing without opening my eyes and
saying and saying have you ever read sideways?