Dreamers Often Lie

 

As I walk through the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.
I walk the length of the long hallway with an official clad all in white.White like the walls. white like calm, like purity. Innocence. He walks with the steps of a man who’s been here since the early hours of the morning, who’s holding on real tight to that promise of a lunch break. He walks like he maybe needs a smoke. I trail behind him, not feeling comfortable enough with the guy to match his pace and make polite conversation. I wouldn’t want to interrupt whatever fantasy he’s having about that turkey sub he’s probably got in that mini fridge in the employee lounge, neatly wrapped in plastic with a big Mr. Hospice Official in the Professional White Shoes. Or maybe it’s meatball. Yes, I keep my distance and admire his walk and how silent his shoes are against the floor. There’s a resounding echo as my heels make contact with it. Click click click click click click. I’ve been here so many times before, I’m wondering why the walls still make the effort to announce my arrival. “Here we are Mam.” Says Mr. Official in White as we stop in front a plain door, simple like the others. He begins to shuffle through a bunch of keys on a ring, later producing the right one and makes to work one lock at a time. I hate this part, standing behind the door waiting in anticipation for what it will reveal. It never fails to send my heart thudding against my chest in an attempt to escape and, if I could, I’d help it. The final lock clicks out of place and Mr. Official in White pushes the door open, allowing me to pass in front of him. “There you go Mrs. Montegue, I’ll be outside if you need me.” I utter a quick “Thank you” and step inside. The room smells of bleach and various inexplicable products that make up “clean” and I find it hard to focus through the sting in my eyes and nose. That combined with the low hum and the blinding whiteness that seems to come from everywhere has taken over my senses. Everything is so much sharper, it makes me dizzy and I get lost in the detail. The good thing about that though is that it provides an excellent distraction from the sight in front of me. One of the more notable things about this room is the painting on the far wall. It’s just a still life of a pot a flowers but it’s the only color this room has. The frame is a pure black, the kind of black you’d get lost in if it weren’t for the soft grain of wood trailing the surface. Bordering the frame is the wall of a home only the artist could see. The wall was a pale green that maybe said artist thought up, or a pale green that’s sitting under rubble right now. In the center of the frame is a round blue vase sitting on top of a glass table that reflects the blue right back. It’s such a pleasant blue. Blue like a Jay, soaring against a summer sky. Blue like nurse scrubs. Blue like an aftermath.  

There’s a shuffling from somewhere in front of me, somewhere amongst the wires and the beeping. I’m content to ignore it because I haven’t quite finished the painting, but a soft voice ventures forth from the limbo and says “Juliet.” It sounds so weak and part of me wants to cradle it, kiss its forehead. Another part wants to snuff it out. “Juliet.” I reluctantly turn my head towards the sound, my eyes landing on a pair of clasped hands. Lifting my eyes a bit further, I find a chest so far sunken into the bed it’s resting on, it could be one with it. With a little bit more effort, I lift my head and let my eyes rest on the face of the sunken body that is barely there and he’s smiling that smile. He’s smiling like he’s just seen the goddamn sun. In reality we couldn’t be less East. “I’m so glad you came.” He says, and of course I came. I really didn’t have a choice in the matter I think as I finger the ring on my right index. A star. “Of course I came.” I don’t even try to smile. What is a smile anymore? My muscles unlearned that quite sometime ago, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t ever stop. “I’m so glad…” he says again. It looks like today is going to be one of those days, stuck on infinite repeat. Everything around me, stuck on infinite repeat, swirling, twisting in a continuous circle. I’m the eye of the storm, it seems, and everything is spinning and blurring and graying, leveling homes and lives. I’m just waiting for the day it all decides to stop and just die. “I’m so…” he trails off and continues to mumble, which is fine. Him mumbling means him not smiling, and I’m just tired of that smile. Tired of this. I want to shake him until he stops smiling, until he breaks. Don’t misunderstand me, the man in front of was once the love of my life. I defied my family for his love, risked my life, lied for it…but he is not that person anymore. So, yes, I want to shake the goddamn life out of him and scream that this man is a liar. I want everyone to see him broken and exposed as fake that he is, I’ll scream it till my voice is raw “You liar! You liar!” He’s wearing my loves face, and using his voice, but he is not my love. This man is furrowing his brow, moving his lips, asking me questions and expecting answers he cannot understand, because he is not who he claims to be. He is a lie, he just doesn’t know it. 

The Liar opens his mouth again, “How’s everyone at home, how’s your family? Your mother?” I consider this for a moment, then something clicks in me, hard, and I don’t want to answer with the usual “Fine, they’re all fine.” They’re not fine, and I’m not fine, “They’re dead.” I say, because it’s true. My love would know this but, as I said before, this is not my love. This man is sick. This man is a murderer; he killed the love of my life, he just forgot. His face contorts in confusion, then concern. “What happened?” he asks. “They were killed.” He seems to accept this answer without even asking who’s killed them. It doesn’t matter though, because I’ll tell him anyway. By the end of this day, he’ll know exactly how they died, by who’s hand, and everything in between that he’s forgotten. He will remember, if only for a second. I stare into his eyes, his lovely, lovely eyes that stare back at me without question, with utter trust and adoration. You’ve gone too long unscarred. Sighing, I step away from his bed and turn to explore the room. For what, I’m not sure. I don’t have to turn around to know his eyes are following me. And I don’t have to turn around to know that he is still. Smiling. “Do you remember, the night we met?” I ask, still scanning the room for something. Something. He remembers, I know he does, we have this discussion every time. With a smile in his voice he replies, “Of course I do. You were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. You still are Juliet.” Yes, every time. “Do you remember how our families died?” I try. My eyes are still searching the room, so I don’t see the confusion on his face that I know is there. “Our…what?…everyone’s dead?” Yes, yes they are. I decide to take a look through some drawers, maybe what I’m looking for lays inside one. “We killed them. Don’t you remember?” Of course he doesn’t. “We killed them with our love. They couldn’t understand it, it filled them with hate, and they hunted each other.” And it’s true, they did. “I don’t understand…” He says, and it sounds a bit sad.  

Things aren’t going how they normally go. I don’t usually try and upset him. Today is a different day, though, and I just want them all to stop, for this to be the last day. I’ll find a way in one of these drawers.  “I don’t understand, Juliet…I don’t understand.” He says, and I can tell he’s beginning to get agitated so I ask him another question “Do you remember the night we met?” and he forgets, just like that. Forgets to be agitated, forgets to be hurt. On, off, like a light switch. Like a trigger word only you and you attack dog know, predictable, controlled. And of course he remembers, I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. I still am. This is how it goes, each time. What comes next is always the surprise. “Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, that tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops…” Oh, you beautiful boy. You beautiful, sweet boy. You’ve left me so alone in this place. This man, he sits here in his hospital bed and presumes to know us. I’ll set this right. He continues to repeat what he’s said to himself in the background, as I begin shuffling through another drawer, having not found what I’m looking for. He has a habit of doing that. It’s noise and it’s useless. Those are not his words. Despite this, I cannot help but reply. “O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her cycle orb, lest that thy love prove likewise variable.” 

It’s instinct, and I don’t even need to look away from what I’m doing. I couldn’t if I tried anyway, because it is at that moment that I find what I’m looking for. Glistening silver and lying abandoned inside the drawer among various tools and hospital things, it winks at me. “What should I swear by?” he speaks, and I can hear the fake remembrance in his tone, the amusement. It’s like a game, see? And, well, we’re in the 4th quarter. “Do not swear at all…” I pick up my prize, winking at me from the darkness like a lighthouse and stare at it with wonder. It’s going to bring us home beautiful boy. “…Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self which is god of my idolatry” Something so small, so simple, in a serious of moments will negate all time and memory. I never take my eyes from it, even as I turn and walk towards him, the lair. The fake. “…and I’ll believe thee.” I reach his bed and finally look away from what’s in my hand, and into his eyes. He trusts me, unconditionally. It’s in his eyes, those deep pools, windows to a depthless dark. He opens his mouth, because this is the next step, because this is how we play. “If my heart’s dear love-” But it’s not his to speak for, so I cut him. He chokes, bleeding blood that is not his own. You liar! You liar! Flowing scarlet stained lies down his neck and chest. It’s my turn to speak, so I do, because…this is how we play. “Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight.” Staring up at me in shock, he continues to choke and bleed, but I don’t believe him. How can he be shocked at what I’ve done? He doesn’t know me. This man is not my lover, this man is sick. I cut his chest “It is too rash” Cut “too unadvised” Cut “too sudden.” Cut. “Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be ere one can say it lightens.” The sheets are being coated in red, being passionately caressed by the hands of a desperate man. If time had a color it would be red, I think. This blood was born with the man, has seen the greatest of loves and fueled the hand behind a kill. It has flowed through this mans head and heart, connected the two seamlessly, and it remembers what he does not. I climb up the bed and sit on the struggling man, carding my hands up his chest. This blood will remain immortalized on my hands forever. “Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath, may prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.” I say, then I whisper “good night, good night” as I lay my head down on his chest. It’s wet and strangely warm, and I can see it, I can see the time slowing down. And that moment I’ve been waiting for, where everything just stops spinning out of control? It’s coming, I can feel it, and that is worth smiling for. So I do. I close my eyes, and I smile, speaking only to myself now “As sweet repose and rest come to thy heart as that within my breast.”  

 

Author's Note

One day I found myself wondering whether or not Romeo and Juliet would've lived happily ever after had they not killed themselves...and this is what happened. I would just really like some feedback on this, it's my first like...legit short story haha :)