A Love Tale
Now I know what they mean when they say, "Someone stepped on your grave". Before - when I lived - these words were something like a metaphor to me, which denoted a disgusting feeling that appeared without any reason, when you suddenly felt the urge to look back, and were too scared to do so, because there was a ruthless monster or darkness ready to swallow you... A very bad feeling. But then it was only a feeling, and now I know how it's like when someone steps on your grave. It's worse than fear, worse than monster and darkness, since all my existence now consists of fear and darkness and pain, and when someone steps on my grave, the agony grows stronger. Because my grave is empty! I'm not there! I was snatched from it, uncovered, stolen from my last home, although I still keep some kind of a connection with it: and I always feel when someone steps on my grave. And I do suffer. Although there's got to be a threshold, a limit, passing which you won't feel any pain anymore. There's got to be one. But it's not there.
While they come to my grave quite often. All my days are filled with sounds of footsteps, voices... They come to my grave, the stand and stare at the tombstone, they talk about me, about this terrible, tragic end for such a beautiful woman, and they think about what has become of me, of my face, three months after the funeral, and they discuss again and again this strange, mysterious, almost mystic story...
"Almost mystic"! "Almost"! How can people be so silly? So blind? Why are we so silly and blind while we live? Why can we begin to understand things only after we've died? I was also silly and blind. Absolutely. Like all beautiful women. I had no reason to become intelligent. Because I was loved and adored as I am. And I never cared. I never saw an inch before my pretty little nose. A perfect little nose, given by nature to her beloved creature... which I am. I never saw people who were around me. I never cared. Except for HIM, HIS love, for being loved and desired by HIM, and to remain beautiful as long as possible, so that cameras pictured me and people went to the cinema to see me, not another good or bad movie. To see me. A perfect beauty.
I had the best, the most expensive, the most beautiful lingerie. The thinnest stockings, so soft and smooth to touch, HIS hand would slide upwards, through the dense elastic lace, to the soft warmth, to the body... HE said it was like an Indian cress flower unfolding under the sun. But to enjoy it, to make the pleasure really pleasant, HE would first cool his fingers with silk and then tease them with lace... Only then would the pleasure be really exquisite. Just like HE liked it. HE liked long foreplays, teasing me and himself, so gently, so cruelly, so that later we fell into the sea of joy together... Others were easily pleased. But not HIM. This is why I wanted to be with HIM. This is why I cared for my lingerie, my stockings, my shoes - I had the best pair of legs in the world! - and for my skin, to keep it soft and smooth. And my hair - so that my hair was like snow under HIS lips. And since I couldn't go out wearing only lingerie and high heels, I learned to dress and make-up elegantly, to underline my beauty. And I also learned to cook for HIM and entertain HIS guests. I had no time to become intelligent. All my time was devoted to being beautiful and nice. I was a very nice woman.
I was afraid of growing old.
Silly...
Now I dream about growing old and dying naturally. This is happiness... Happiness is death - real death, complete death, absolute death, so that your body rested in peace and your spirit was set free. I don't want anything else. Just let me go. Stop torturing me!
Although I have almost resigned myself. I look into the real death very seldom. Like a child from a poor family looks into a large toy store. The child knows that they'll never but anything in this store, but hopes that maybe that kind lady buys him or her that toy train or that marvelous doll in a pink gown? My family was rich, I had all the dolls in the world, but I know how poorer children feel. Just like I feel. I can't help dreaming of someone more powerful and valiant than HIM, who would give me real death.
But real death will part us.
And I still love HIM.
And I look into the black abyss, I look at the spirits of other people. They are free! Their bodies rest in peace: beneath the earth or in the flames of the crematorium. This is happiness. They don't care for people stepping on their graves. They don't hear what others say of them.
I had a very strange death.
Until the last moment I couldn't believe that this was the end.
I felt everything. Each moment, each second, my senses sharpened, I could even hear the squeak of the dress tearing under the blade, the subtle crunch of the flesh, of my skin - my beautiful skin, so smooth, so cared for with different cremes and lotions... I felt my body resist the cruel attack of the knife, the cold, strange, cruel knife. They thought it was quick, but to me it seemed like at eternity, an eternity separated one stab from another, the flash of pain, a short break of darkness and then - again... The first blows were very painful, the rest weren't, I was dying, I felt my blood run from the wounds, run down my body, on the carpet... I was dying and the pain was fading, but it was only worse since there was now only cold in my body, filling the emptiness in the veins and heart... And under the heart. For they took my baby. I understood: they came for it! They wanted it. Urgently. They couldn't wait until his birth, couldn't wait for only two weeks... My baby, it was in me, I could feel it all the time, even when I was sleeping. And now they took it from me, I was empty, the cold oozed into the cruciform cut on my belly.
The cold.
And then - rigor mortis.
Rigor mortis is terrible. As if a second skin of marble grows on your body, and you turn into a stone. You cannot move a finger. You cannot even blink.
I lay watching through the lock which fell over my eyes and stuck to the cut on the cheek.
They went, nobody heard nothing, there were only the dead around me. Dead just like me. The dawn was several hours away, and this cold... The living don't know this cold! The living don't know that the dead also have feeling, only more subtle and profound, the dead can see and hear. I heard the darkness. The clock was ticking somewhere. The kitten was meowing. I was so sorry for it. I couldn't help it, I couldn't even help myself.
I looked terrible.
The chamber maid who came at six in the morning to clean up didn't recognize me at all.
And the cop that was the first to enter, vomited right on out sofa. Trying not to look at me. I wondered if he had seen movies with me.
They took pictures of me! So terrible! If I had been alive, I'd have never let them. but now I had no choice. So they took pictures of me...
And I was waiting. Waiting for all this to end. Darkness and rest were already beckoning me, and I was already expecting the darkness and the rest, the flight in the tunnel that felt like an Indian cress flower unfolding under the sun... I was getting ready. I tried not to notice their hands and everything... They wrapped me in something and took me somewhere. The light. The cold scissors cutting the clothes, the cold blade cutting the flesh, the cold ruler which they stuck into the cuts for god knows what... What was it they wanted to know? What couldn't they understand? The cause of death?!
The cause never matters. Because death is a one way ticket. After all, I wasn't poisoned! I was stabbed, slashed, I died of blood loss - this is evident, why should you cut me?! Why this ruler?!
They washed the blood from my face.
They tried to close my eyes. They spoke about stitching my lids... But then they decided it wasn't necessary, since I was going to be buried in a closed coffin, so it didn't matter.
They put me in a bath with some strange, smelly liquid. At first I didn't like it, but then the marble began to melt, and I felt flexible again, although I still couldn't move a finger.
...Did anyone feed the kitten?!
They were going to bury me in a closed coffin, but Sandy cared for me and brought me everything I needed: a long evening gown, the most agreeable and modest she found in her wardrobe, since my house was locked up and filled with police, a new robe, a pair of stockings, and a pair of shoes. But these people didn't put the stockings on, they simply stole them. At least they put on the robe, because the dress was rather rough... And the shoes were terrible: so rigid, not at all comfortable, I'd never buy such for myself. And nevertheless Sandy is wonderful. Sandy always cared for me. She used to call me every day, she used to buy vitamins for me... She was the first to worry that nobody answered the phone.
I do not know who chose the coffin, but it was wonderful. Very cozy and warm. It had two little locks, both opening by one and the same key.
Where do people put the coffin key?
Into the grave?
Or into the pocket?
Why should one keep the coffin key?
Why didn't anybody notice that HE kept the coffin key? In this crowd, nobody noticed - they were crying, those who weren't crying were just slowly shuffling, stupefied by drugs... I also swallowed several sweets shaped to resemble these drugs, several days ago, in front of a camera.
But in real life, I never wanted no drugs or pills or whatever. I never needed none. I have always been strong and healthy, my life was joyful and calm, and the best sleeping pill for me was a good working day plus a few hours of sex.
And now I was going to close my eyes forever...
The coffin lid closed, the little locks clicked, I sank into a velvet darkness, then the coffin trembled slightly as it moved into the grave, then it stopped, and lots of flowers fell onto the coffin, and there was a ring thrown into the grave, too (whose? Sandy's?), and then there was only earth. They were burying me, I was getting ready for my rest, my peace, and I was only worried about the kitten (the house is sealed, the kitten lives in the garden, it's absolutely wild, it cannot fawn, and it cannot find food for itself, either) - is it alive? - I tried to feel the kitten, but I failed. I sank into a dream, into the holy darkness, I flew up and up, to the faraway light, free from my body, free from the earthly pain and suffering, I was so happy and warm... The light was approaching, I rushed to it -
And then I felt someone step on my grave.
And the flight vanished. I fell back, slipped back into my body, so cold and rigid, just like these shoes Sandy had bought for me.
And then I heard HIS voice.
HE had stepped on my grave. HE was standing there now.
I was glad that HE returned, that meant that HE really loved me, it's so awfully good that I was buried in a closed coffin, that HE couldn't see me!
And then I heard the sound of a spade against the ground.
I couldn't believe it.
They are digging my grave! They want to take me out! And HE is with them!
"What if someone notices the light?" asked one of them. I didn't recognize his voice. "Let's put out this torch-"
"Oh, shut up," said another, "I can't see a goddamn thing." His voice was familiar to me. He was one of the guys that murdered me.
"I hope you've chosen the lightest coffin? We won't need a crane to lift it?"
"I didn't choose it," said HE.
"What the - ?! You should have cared about that! You knew we would -"
"Shut up," interrupted the one whose voice I knew. "Better keep digging."
"Great! It's a hell of a load -"
"Then, boys, you are going to have to work a little," said a young woman. I recognized her voice, too, she was also one of them.
"What if the guard calls the police? You know, he could keep the money and -"
"No he won't. Charlie's had a good talk with him."
The voices were growing louder and louder, which meant that the layer of earth between us was melting. The spades touched the coffin. Then someone jumped into the grave and probably attached some kind of a chain to it.
"It's not that difficult. We can lift it. But we need a forth man. Sue, go to the car and get Brian."
"Yea, right, he's got to be working too, like us!"
"Oh no, he'll scream, he's crazy, he's afraid of the dead!" - said the girl.
Then there was silence. A very awkward silence.
"Shut up, Sue, what an idiot you are!" - said one of the men.
And then I heard HIS voice, very calm.
"We'll do without Brian. Why should we traumatize him... The three of us will do the job, and Sue will hold the light for us."
They sighed with relief and then HE jumped into my grave. I recognized HIM, although HE was silent, maybe by the sound of HIS breath or HIS heartbeat? The living don't notice that all the heart and all the lungs work differently.
HE grasped my coffin and put in diagonally, so that I slid along the satin sheet and my feet stopped against the coffin side. Then the coffin slid upward, HE was pushing it, and the others were pulling. They pulled it out and put on the ground.
"That's it," said HE, getting out of the grave and breathing heavily. "Now dig it all back, and all these flowers that were inside should stay inside. And the wreathes and everything should stay as it was. Tex, help me!"
HE was their boss. HE was giving them orders. As if it was absolutely normal and right. Everything was so strange that I couldn't understand the happening at all. But the sound of HIS voice gave me pleasure since it reminded me the days when I was still living. I mean that at that moment I haven't yet begun to feel the pain and terror which I suffer ever since. But it was already unpleasant for me to have them meddling with my grave. I wanted it to be over as soon as possible. I wanted HIM to take me somewhere. I had no idea that I would feel the connection with my grave anywhere HE took me.
Tex helped HIM to put my coffin on a carrier... on something with wheels which HE drove, so HE drove, and my body shook in the coffin.
Then they put my coffin in a car.
The man called Brian who was waiting in the car helped HIM lift the coffin and never showed any fear of the dead. Fear of me... Why should they fear me? I am their creation. They've made me dead.
Then the rest of the men came - the girl named Sue, the nervous guy Tex and the third one whose voice I didn't know. And off we went.
It was unpleasant for me to be near these people. It was unpleasant for me to have HIM talking to them.
Unpleasant - that's it.
All my feelings had been transformed by death.
I seemed unable to hate them for what they had done to me and my baby.
I still loved HIM, but I didn't hate them.
Probably because I did love HIM when I was living, and I didn't hate them then. Such feeling as love or hate cannot emerge after death.
We were off, away from the cemetery, the Hollywood Memorial Cemetery, and a strange feeling was growing in me. Like a thread connecting my body and the burial place (where I had spent at least twelve hours), fastening stronger and stronger. It was growing painful. I was afraid that it would stretch too hard...
But the car stopped.
I heard the sound of the gates being opened.
I recognized this sound, the mild whisper of the leaves, the squeaky song of the cicadas: these were the gates of our home, the cicadas of our garden - Siella Drive, I'm home! I felt puzzled because the police had locked the house, but then I thought HE must have solved the problem some way or other. They lifted my coffin and carried it up the stairs of the entrance and then down, into the cellar. We had our washing machine and a couple of trainers there. We also had an ironing table there, that's where they put the coffin, and I heard a lot of voices as if the cellar was packed with strange people, and then the key clicked in one lock and then the other, and bright light beamed in my face, while I could do nothing, neither shut my eyes nor open them, so I lay with my eyes half-shut, and HE bent over me, and I saw HIS face, pale, full of terror and anger...
And disgust.
HE turned away from my face. HE asked in a harsh voice:
"Why? Why - so?!"
And they explained why.
One person spoke. I couldn't see him, but I heard his voice. And I didn't like his voice.
This person said that they had had to distract the attention from the actual cause of the murder. From the baby they had taken from me. It had been necessary to perform everything as if the murder had been accomplished in a state of mental frenzy, of utmost rage, so that all these wounds and cuts seemed to be produced by aggression - as well as my open belly. And that person said that I looked much, much better than the rest. They had been shown no mercy.
"You know that we can fix everything. She will be as pretty as ever. Just keep her out of the sun... And she will once again belong to you, and now your power over her will be complete, absolute! Isn't this the most desired thing in love? Absolute power over your beloved one? Isn't it what all lovers most desire?"
HE was silent.
And that person spoke again. He said that the murder was necessary, that they couldn't let me have this child and then take it, that life isn't a movie and that the vanishing of a famous movie star's baby would attract as much attention, as Lindgren's baby kidnapping. Even Lindgren was suspected! What about HIM? All the newspapers write god knows what! The journalists cannot understand how close they are to the truth! They blame us, the dead, for everything, they think we were having a black ritual or something... In fact, there was black magic in Siella Drive (this house will never be happy, people will never be happy here, they will not have children within these walls, everything is overwhelmed with evil here, it was here that the ritual was held, the ritual that I knew not of, it was necessary, my baby needed sacrifices), the evil had long ago come to Siella Drive, but we, the victims, knew nothing... While HE knew everything. Satan had no flesh - HE gave flesh to Satan's child, HE and me, our love, our junction. I was the vessel, HE was the guide. HE had opened himself to this power. And some of this power now belonged to HIM. They, these people, had been looking for such a man for years: a man strong enough to be the guide of pure evil and stay alive; a man capable of absorbing this great power and not die smashed by it. Now HE could do anything. Gain anything. But it seemed to me that HE could gain anything without it. Without this dark power...
The stranger said: "Lie-detector. That's it. If they had suspected you, you wouldn't have passed the test." His voice sounded assured, but HE, my husband, answered with a bitter laugh:
"I have already passed this lie-detector. They have suspected me, probably because of the movie... A person who's created such a movie is capable of anything, they thought. And they were right. I passed the test. I wasn't here anyway... So I convinced myself that I was innocent and I passed the test."
"I adore you. But life is no movie. And your wife is no Rosemary. She couldn't be one of us. We don't need her. As well as you: you are not humble enough. But you've got the power; as for her... Which sacrifice would suit Him better than His own mother? He is going to be very powerful. Like you."
"Good. Now give me back my wife."
They wanted to take me out of the coffin, to lay me down - but HE forbade them touch me, HE lifted me, and HIS hands were so warm, this warmth penetrated my very heart, my stopped heart full of dark blood. There was a pentagram drawn on the floor, in the circle of candles. It was drawn with blood. The dead can tell blood from paint. All of them gave a little of their blood for this ritual, they mixed it in a large goblet to draw the pentagram - I felt the blood of many people in the blown lines on the floor. HE put me on the floor, took off Sandy's dress and robe and shoes. Then HE put me, naked, in the middle of the pentagram, my head, arms and legs - along the five lines of the star. I was terribly wounded, they had cut me in the morgue, too, but HE was courageous enough to touch me without disgust. And without mercy, either.
And the candles were black. As in HIS movie.
And then they carried out the ritual.
If I could have shut my eyes, I would have shut them. Not to see all that...
But I couldn't. I had to see.
And to feel...
It was violence. The most unheard-of, cruel, perverted violence. My body, my soul, my human being! It was twice as worse than death. And they called it "the return of life". They, the living, had no idea that life cannot return. They could only bring some shade of life into a dead body, giving me pain and suffering!
The ritual was overseen but that man whom I didn't know: a short clumsy gnome, who resembled a spider.
And the key moment of the ritual was the physical act between the dead woman and the living man.
HE loved me as if I were living, but it wasn't in our cozy bedroom, on the bed or on the carpet, it was in the cold cellar, on the wooden floor, in the circle of black candles, with all these people murmuring something... HIS hands were caressing me, returning me the warmth, but I couldn't answer. I was still rigid. And I was shy. So many people standing around, staring at us. But HE wasn't shy. HE was never shy. HE caressed me, and under HIS hands the wounds and cuts on my body began to heal, causing a pain even greater than the one I felt when I was dying. I was coming back to life, I felt the warmth running through my veins, but inside me, where the emptiness was, where the baby had been, there was still that cold, ready to overwhelm my entire body at any moment. I was afraid it would happen this way if HE let me out of HIS arms. But HE didn't. HE came in me, burning the rest of the cold out, creating a new life in me. A life after death.
What happened next?
We went to Europe. HE took me to the Alpine. It was HIS favourite place. HE rented a small house in the mountains, in a very deserted place, so that we could be there alone until I got used to my new existence. So that no one could hear my screams and noise if I made any. But they had no idea that I couldn't make any, for now my dependence on HIS will is infinite. I feel all HIS desires with my senses. I read HIS mind. HE wants me to be quiet and not cause any trouble - and I obey HIM. HE wants me to be gentle and nice, as before - I am gentle and nice. Although everything that reminds me my previous life - my LIFE - gives me terrible pain. And I cannot show it, since HE wants it that way. And I'm constantly afraid that HE falls out of love with me for what HE has done to me! It's not logical, but men aren't logical. And especially HE isn't. Because HE's a genius. And all geniuses are a little bit mad. And I can see how HE looks at me now. As if I were a living reproach to HIS conscience. I'm afraid that some day HE'll be sick of me and HE won't come to see me again. Already now HE comes to see me very seldom. HE's got a life of HIS own. A rich creative life, full of scandals, happenings, pleasures - I can only guess about this life, for I never go out, there's no place for me in that life, and I'm afraid that HE already regrets having given me a second life - sometimes, when HE comes to make love with me. No, I cannot say "make love". For HE doesn't love me. HE simply takes me to get pleasure - or to make sure that I do exist and that I'm not a ghost or a spirit. So: sometimes, when HE comes to take me, I feel traces of other women on HIM, HIS skin, HIS hair. The smells of their perfume, their powder and ever soap. And the warm lines which their fingers leave on HIS skin. The living cannot see or feel all that. And HE probably has no idea... And maybe, HE does that on purpose, to make me express certain emotions, which the dead cannot do... But I have always been meek, I have always pretended not to notice HIS unfaithfulness. And now it's not even that. HE is not old (although time passes and HE grows older, while I remain the same), and HE mustn't keep faithfulness to HIS dead wife. Otherwise it would look odd - or even funny. Moreover, HE has won so much sympathy with women after this tragedy. HE lost HIS beautiful wife and HIS son...
I never asked HIM about our baby. Because I know that HE doesn't want me to. And after all, I feel that my baby is alright. Our son is growing and becoming more powerful! And soon, very soon, people will know...
But it has nothing to do with me.
What I'm most worried about, is that HE might not come to me anymore. Because I need HIM so. HE is my life now. HE is the last thing that connects me with the world of the living.
Life! Sun, flowers, fruit, oceans, birds, rain! Life...
At first HE used to let me out at night. Yes, I slept in a coffin, just like the vampires in HIS movie. I guess it's the best shelter for a dead person. Sunlight would kill me. just like for a vampire. But unlike them, I don't drink blood and I can't fly. Neither can I be killed by a wooden stake. Well, I think so. Once I tried to kill myself, but I didn't succeed. I took HIS gun, pressed its barrel to my head and pulled the trigger. I felt a blow and a sharp pain. And nothing else. The wound healed momentarily. The bullet stuck in my head. I can feel it - small and cold. And HE never found out. I think some day I will go out in the sun, and I will feel its glory for just one moment! But this will happen only if HE leaves me. If HE forgets about me. HE still comes to me, but HIS visits are becoming rarer and rarer. And HE no longer cares about being tender when HE takes me. Sometimes it seems to me that HE does all that on purpose. HE likes to see how quickly they disappear, the marks of HIS nails on my skin. HE likes that I'm so perfect, always ready to satisfy HIS every wish! Always look good. And there is nothing that I cannot do for HIM. And there is nothing HE'll be sorry about. And this is my advantage over HIS other lovers. They come and go, they were and will be. They change, their looks change - time is ruthless to the living, as well as the dead - the real dead... HIS women can catch a cold, they can grow old, wrinkled and fat, they can cry, or be capricious. While I can't. And this is why they change, and I remain. And HE returns to me anyway.
Yes, first HE took me to the Alpine, so that I could get used to my new existence. Sometimes HE would bring living women into the cottage and make love to them. And I lay locked in my coffin, in the lowest part of the cellar, where neither sunlight nor other people could find me. but I heard everything. I think HE needed these women to compare them to me. I was getting used to my new existence, and HE was getting used to me.
At first - in the Alpine and later, when we returned to the USA and when we lived in England and Scotland - HE locked me in the coffin at daytime and let me out at night. Candles. Then electric light. HE bought me dozens of gowns - very beautiful and very uncomfortable, not in the least resembling those I wore when I lived. But I couldn't protest against uncomfortable clothes and footwear because HE wanted me wear that. And again I had all the best of lingerie and stockings. And I had a bathroom! I could spend hours in the bathroom - that used to warm me up a little. And I could brush my hair again.
I looked in the mirror and was amazed by my new beauty. I became even nicer! Like a doll. A splendid living doll. Real women can't look like that. But anyway, even if I were better than the living, there was something I lacked. Otherwise HE wouldn't need all these women.
I traveled with HIM. Of course it would look suspicious if HE took the coffin with HIM everywhere, and HE had enough trouble with law caused by HIS new tricks about which I knew nothing... So the sect carried out all our voyages. And the sect solved HIS numerous problems. And little by little HE got used to me and found out that I am not dangerous, so he never locked me in the coffin again, and if I wanted, I was free to walk in the darkness of the cellar. Sometimes I lit the candles. Sometimes, the electric light. But I never read or listened to music. I wasn't interested in things that might invoke some interest in the living. I had a better entertainment: I listened to the sounds of the world! All my senses sharpened. I could hear through the walls. I could hear things miles away. And I could hear what was happening near my grave even across the ocean!
HIS visits become rarer and rarer, and I stay alone for many days, sometimes even weeks. Fortunately, time is different for me. But still, my life is worse than that of the living...
Sometimes, in the daytime, I dare go upstairs and spend some time in the rooms, hiding from the sun. All the windows are covered with thick black curtains. Just in case. If sunlight falls onto my skin, it will spoil the beauty, and HE won't like that. And I don't want HIM to be disappointed. For I live for HIM. Yes, sometimes I go upstairs, although the smallest ray of light hurts my eyes. But at night - yes, at night - I do go out, if I am sure HE won't come to visit me. And these walks are wonderful. Unfortunately, all the beasts and birds run away from me, and even the cicadas stop squeaking, because they are wiser than men, they feel I'm not alive, and so I shouldn't be here. And I have never seen a man in years that have passed since my death. HE rents the houses in very deserted places. Always in the middle of an orchard. And in summer we enjoy the fresh leaves covered with dew, and in autumn, the smell of the musty ground, and in winter, the snow under my feet and the ice shining in the branches, and in spring, the mixture of colors and exquisite odors... It's a pity that the nightingale flies away from me! So winter is the best. The nature is sleeping. Everything looks so unreal, so beautiful, so dead - just like me! And I can dance in the middle of the snowy orchard, among the trees and bushes, I can waltz around them, wearing my splendid dresses with full skirts and open shoulders... Sometimes I wish a passer-by (no matter who, a thief, a vagabond) could see me dancing in the orchard. I want someone else to appreciate my beauty. For I am an actress. And I want someone else's adoration. Not only HIS.
Some day - when this excuse for a life becomes unbearable for me - I will go out in the daytime. And before burning, I will feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. Some day this will happen. But - not now. I'm not ready yet. HE still needs me.
But HE cannot live forever.
Maybe HE will live till the day our son sets in the world. An then HE goes the way of all flesh. And only then will I go out in the sun. To follow HIM - there. For I love HIM. I love HIM so!
Maybe when my body burns in the sun, I will be free, really free, and I'll never ever feel anyone stepping on my grave.
And maybe, I will belong to HIM even there, HIS property, HIS toy, HIS woman, HIS love - maybe I will belong to HIM forever - if I could pray, I'd pray for that!
Copyright by Spanky (2002).