Daylily

by Asim Khan

Simon cried before he left his house, not his home, not alone, with God, without God, in his thoughts, in his soul. His eyes were welled with lachrymose remains, the swelled dregs of a lost age, their glazed remains rubbed but not away; he felt ashamed. But the streets were damp, fuscous and chilled, so he could remain, hidden and doused from his searing, scudding flame that had billowed from within, in a fit of tempered pain.

 

Carried by the wind, he drifted forlorn. Careworn and confused, he wanted to cry again, as palpitations panged, at his heart that was tired from obdurate ache. With his face in contortion, devoid of content, he used the streetlamp shadows as an urban umbrage – a mask, for his forsake. In a shambling gait, he swigged his sweet liquor, a double-edged succour he had no choice in sinking in, drowning in – palliating. But today he felt the substance only fuel his ire, cause it to grow, with its intentions falsely labelled over the spumous waves of unknown. Confused, Simon ran like a child with his throat tightening in strain, he could not scream – cry out his despair – give to it his name. So, he dwelled in thought, as he had forever done, writhing like a grubby night crawler on the freshly laid asphalt lawns.

 

‘I could die,’ he pondered in wistful remorse; a desperate game of hide and seek that was cruel and lonely and silly to play. He then, in prevaricate interlude, switched to think on equally pointless things in a myriad of different, nevertheless pointless ways. ‘Be happy,’ he laughed out, manically and gravely crazed, to counteract, clamber, climb the depths of his bipolar hole he called his grave.

 

Empty roads, stilly, fetid and coarse bordered the suburban houses that to him were irrationally overbearing; down on his luck, ‘fuck serendipity,’ he puled then to them, smashing his brown tinted bottle on the floor, so that it glistered like diamonds. The houses watched on in their vigil way, with occasional squints that flickered from on to off, with an indifferent fillip of a switch. Curtains closed, he carefully observed what he could through the shafts of their folded fabric, glimpsing what he could of fat middle class life that he had grown up to hate. He had nothing – truly – a travelling salesman, with a vagabond degree, who bunked in houses of homosexual coquettes, who hummed and groaned up close to his skin, and whispered sweet surrender that to him were muffled moans that grated against him. They loved him, adored him, could barely afford him, and even if he could not come they paid him all the same. Simon had never minded the company, the attention, albeit depraved, but the saliva made him sick; he would gag, and then convulse, on the thought of a flaccid blowjob, so much so he would spend days without a bite or a drink.

 

Sauntering sideways slightly fatigued in his bones, he made his way to the churchyard, where gravestones stood crooked and eroded like decaying teeth, with bits of mouldy sprigs and plastic wraps stuck between them and the occasional wreath. Another drunken bum sat on the frosted bench unaware of ‘Simon the voyeur.’ The man was slurping ever so correctly from a lager can. He remembered vaguely that he owed this unpleasant man, either some accrued monies, or a crude favour, so he quietly retreated, and then ran, far away into the long, sloped roads to town – an abyssal descent – some shops were still open – he would feign his wellbeing – suppress his lament.

 

He stumbled into the restaurant (a regular), despite feeling uncouth, unclean and sore. A lady approached him, whom he immediately adored, why not; he had seen her before, and liked what he saw. Verily, it was love, pure love of another, but he was a coward and she was demure, and fragile, and wonderful, and precious to him; yet every look panged him into disquiet, for he knew she was not treated at all well, no better than him.

 

He made his order and she walked away. He stole a tissue; stowed it in his back pocket for another day. And in the proceeding quiet and emptiness he pounded his head, jangled his memory with languid nonsense. But then, whilst he fingered a hole in his chair, the words of the Good Book passed through his soul as if blown into his ear, by the tepid air of conditioned wind.

 

‘What shall we say then? Shall we continue in sin, that grace may abound? God forbid. How shall we, that are dead to sin, live any longer therein?’

 

And these words were absurd and profound and haunting, and made Simon think of his youth, and of his baptism, and in his belief of Christ re-risen, and then of stupid thoughts that would circulate, and of nasty flashbacks of which there was no reprieve or placation; he was insane, he was not insane, he was in sin – how could he live any longer therein? He could not feel what these words meant – he felt confused, forced to repent his habitual ways. But, what was true? What was true today? Was it not lost in tomorrow through the spirit of time by the amoral and ceaseless days?

 

His thoughts were broken – he read her name off her tag: ‘Lily’ it bore, he knew this before, but he used it this time to look into her more, closer than he ever had done. He fell deeper and deeper into her, imagined her with him, together as one. He carefully examined the wheals on her arms that were purple and red, punched in by her husband who clocked in his time then, fucked her violently on their plush, crimson bed.

 

She handed him his food and drink, and looked into Simon’s wandering eyes, then smiled kindly as if to ask if he was okay?

 

‘I’m fine, and you?’ he replied.

 

Her face split asunder. She raised one side of her face, and lowered the other, to bear the look of utter bemusement. His eyes darted around, erratically, frantically looking to change his circumstance, as she watched on in half amusement, then asking, ‘What do you mean by that?’ with her hand locked on her hip, with a unique eloquence that was hard to resist.

 

‘I was just wondering, that’s all, if you were okay, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

 

She relaxed her once cleft face, and her eyes looked to the ceiling. He looked up too, but she caught him at it, and felt bemused, and could see in him an awkward disposition, or an aphasic condition, or a sordid proposition.

 

‘I’m fine,’ she said nonchalantly, and then asked, ‘do you need anything else?’

 

God, he thought she was pretty, but not of himself.  

 

‘I’m glad you think you’re alright, but, you know what?’ He inhaled deeply, ‘I think you’re lying.’

 

All of a sudden, her face stopped being pretty, well to him prettier than it was, despite her defiance. It was all intense, and all Simon could think was, how God-awful pretty she could be – an angel in the fire.

 

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’ve got some fucking nerve calling me a liar.’

 

It was strange, how to him, it did not seem as if she had raised her voice, when she was clearly upset. He returned the favour, and said in soft protest, ‘How can you pretend to yourself every day? I see you here every day looking pretty, and every day you’ve got a new bruise somewhere that you try to cover up, tell me why it’s got to be like that, tell me why it’s all fucked up.’

 

Simon looked down, away from her fair face, to see his left hand clutching her thin swollen arm; she winced in discomfort. He let go immediately, alarmed, at what he had done. She then looked him straight in the slug holes of his eyes. He half expected her to freak out, but she did not, to his surprise. Instead, her face sunk with consternation. He hung on her next moves, but was pained by his desperate anticipation.

 

‘Sometimes that’s the way it’s got to be,’ she said.

 

Silence… a silence that followed the dead. He wanted to cry, but did not know what for, truth be told, he was not sure, of anything at all. She sat down opposite him, glancing back once, watching him – watching her – inspecting every nuance. She then pulled out a box of cigarettes, which she waved in front of his face. He had no interest in them, he felt sick already, and so passed on them with a wavering grace.

 

For five minutes, they did not talk. Instead, they quietly sat as he ate; and every so often, they exchanged wistful glances for each other to contemplate. She was now lighting her second cigarette when she mumbled through the side of her mouth, and caught him off guard as he finished off his Coke, ‘Tell me, how old are you?’

 

‘Eighteen,’ he said curiously.

 

‘Why, you don’t know fuck all yet.’ She blew out a large cloud of smoke, and tapped her cigarette into a glass, which now had a small pile of ash settled inside it. ‘I’ll tell you something, I ran away from home at fifteen, because my old man kept touching me up, and I got to work that same year working corners. So now, I got me this shitty job, a house and a little girl I can’t stand to be without. You think just because someone wants to knock me around at home, I’m gonna give it up? Go back to getting shagged by some random sleazy fucks?’ Her words shivered pensively as she spoke. Simon felt his heart could break, were it not that it was already broke. ‘My girl is everything to me, and is gonna get everything she’s supposed to. You ask me if I’m okay, ‘kid’, this is as good as it gets for me. This is the top. It doesn’t get better than this, does it – and that’s the truth.’

 

Simon wanted to tell his story, a faint echo of hers, but what was the point of anything at all? He did not know what to do – what was true? It had been his fault for making her feel bad. What could he say? What could he do? She examined him, while she breathed through her cigarette… After a few seconds of waiting for her to speak, he said whatever was in his head.

 

‘You know you’re real pretty,’ the words came out coarsely. His throat was dry; he wanted another drink, desperately. She laughed and sighed together, in a plaintive, faint sound, there was something about him inside of her that could be found; thereafter she leaked a smile, to which he shyly smiled in reply, hiding his sorrow behind his muddled, ruffled style.

 

The place was quiet for a few minutes, until the sound of car pulling up could be heard. Simon did not feel well – for his feeling there was no cure – no word. He took out his wallet and put a tenner on the table. He kissed Lily on the head, and walked out tremulously, with his body unstable. Looking back, again forlorn, he saw her picking up his plate. He cried, out to God, began to pray, and asked himself, why had he been so fucking stupid – what had he done? What was this life? What had he done?

 

And he considered his problems. He watched carefully the moon. If there were no problems? If they could end soon? His mind filled with an electricity of which he could not endure, of which he could not take any more, of which he needed to end, of which he needed a friend to confide in all that sunk him, blamed him, shamed him. But what could he do? What could be? What could be undone?

 

Thoughts of Lily – oh Simon – woe be gone.

One Response to “Daylily”

~ This piece was posted on Tuesday, April 6th, 2010 and was filed under Short Story, Writing. You can make comments on it below. ~