She remembered the mornings when she'd be awakened by his music. Some kind of throbbing through the floorboards, his bedroom above her bedroom. She'd sneak up the stairs and giggle quietly, her 12 year old self watching him dancing, naked, sometimes, to his favorite music. Watching him grow into a young man, happy and fresh, was a delight for her beyond her years.
His muscles, contracting and expanding, his back, his legs, they all seemed so pure and so very American. So of his own time, like he was owning his future. As if every morning belonged to him, existed for him to be young. As if the world couldn't imagine their front door opening to produce this strong specimen of a man.
Even as a teenager, she loved him and his body for who he was, but everything that he would grow into. All the people he would mutate into as he grew up. She read about World War 1 in history class, but only began to cry when her mind fitted him with a British Uniform. And as history evolved, she understood the meaning of cannon fodder and saw him going to liberate Paris or to wade through the jungles of Vietnam.
Crouched on the stairs to his teenage bedroom, all of his future lay ahead of them both. She made a vow, over and over, to accept him and everything he became. Even if he turned into a soldier who killed people. Even women, even babies. There would be nothing that he could do to shake her faith in him, even if it was too horrible to tell. She would always understand.
==
Her dreams and nightmares were the same. Chasing after something and/or being chased. Trying to get back to that sweet spot in memory, the running taking up space in her brain. If she ran hard enough, focused on the jungle, focused on not tripping or on tracking the person she needed, she could forget that he was dead. There would be something to chase and a reason and, if she caught up to it, a glorious moment of reunion.
==
And this is why, when she was wandering around in his empty house, she didn't mind. She was the pursued or the pursuer, but at least she had found the end of the running. In all likelihood, she would die; this man-whomever he was- would eventually kill her, probably in a very gruesome way. But she would stick it out until the end.
In the seven days she stayed trapped in his house, she never had a nightmare once.
His muscles, contracting and expanding, his back, his legs, they all seemed so pure and so very American. So of his own time, like he was owning his future. As if every morning belonged to him, existed for him to be young. As if the world couldn't imagine their front door opening to produce this strong specimen of a man.
Even as a teenager, she loved him and his body for who he was, but everything that he would grow into. All the people he would mutate into as he grew up. She read about World War 1 in history class, but only began to cry when her mind fitted him with a British Uniform. And as history evolved, she understood the meaning of cannon fodder and saw him going to liberate Paris or to wade through the jungles of Vietnam.
Crouched on the stairs to his teenage bedroom, all of his future lay ahead of them both. She made a vow, over and over, to accept him and everything he became. Even if he turned into a soldier who killed people. Even women, even babies. There would be nothing that he could do to shake her faith in him, even if it was too horrible to tell. She would always understand.
==
Her dreams and nightmares were the same. Chasing after something and/or being chased. Trying to get back to that sweet spot in memory, the running taking up space in her brain. If she ran hard enough, focused on the jungle, focused on not tripping or on tracking the person she needed, she could forget that he was dead. There would be something to chase and a reason and, if she caught up to it, a glorious moment of reunion.
==
And this is why, when she was wandering around in his empty house, she didn't mind. She was the pursued or the pursuer, but at least she had found the end of the running. In all likelihood, she would die; this man-whomever he was- would eventually kill her, probably in a very gruesome way. But she would stick it out until the end.
In the seven days she stayed trapped in his house, she never had a nightmare once.
