I want to ask him. So many things. As we sit here in this sun soaked bedroom, yet another day passing through us. I want to know him, but I am afraid to ask, because what if knowing him is the scariest thing of all.
I want to ask him why. Or, who did he want to be before he became this person, and why is he this person now? Has he ever been whole? I want to ask him what he wants out of life. I would also like to know if he wants me in that life, but I am not in the mood to hear that I am just a passing fancy, so I keep my mouth shut.
Who were you before you were here, with me. I want to tell him that I used to be angel, but I have fallen down to earth, and in the mud and the soot and among everyone around me, I no longer recognize the angel I once used to be. I want to know if he was ever an angel, too. If there was every anything sweet and innocent about him before he became the devil. If there had ever been any hope for him, if he ever could have been anyone other than this person.
The reason I want to know is because I wonder if we could have been better people, and if we were ever better people, would we have found each other and loved each other then, too? Before he was broken, and when I was still beautiful, would we have found each other? Or is this just happenstance, and we are the sad victims.
If I had known him before he had been hurt, could I have saved him. I can’t save him now, and we are beyond hope, but when we die and go to heaven, will we still need each other? Who is he when he is at his best? And will we ever be our best again?
What is his paradise, and am I in it. Or is are we just in hell together for right now, and as soon as we can escape this place, we will not want to be together. Am I just a convenience, or is this love he has for me an attempt at permanence. Are we really the bad people other people claim that we should be, or are we capable of something better than that when no one is looking.
And what about the future? We are sitting here, rotting, and we have nothing to look forward to except our own decay. But what about the future? Is there ever any way that we could find our way into a better looking life, together? Can we wheedle our way into someone else’s dream? With the wedding and the house and the babies and in old age we will be sitting on some porch, sipping lemonade, holding hands? Or is this just it. Would he try if he thought it were possible? Would I?
I don’t ask him any of these questions. It would feel foolish to think that we are anything beyond the monsters we are right now. I do not wish to whisper about false hopes and ten million could have beens. I accept that I am suffering here with him, and all we can do is move forward, from moment to moment, like a leap of faith, and he will hold my hand as long as he can. And then, when he can no longer hold my hand, I will be here alone, and having the answers to any of those questions means nothing, either way.