Therapy writing

Faudastenia Road

THE oldest still standing alliance in the world was between Portugal and England. These countries were not geographically too far from each other and yet their differences proved to be of a different kind. A kind that was too immense, too overwhelming for them to bear. They had met in the US, where the two went for interviewing the writer of a book that could be the story of their lives. In Wyoming, they both visited Annie Proulx and had a cup of tea altogether. What they felt at first sight wasn’t love, let us not be mistaken. Physical attraction was more the case and, if the chance had been given, they would’ve jumped at each other in no time. Over tea, they conversed about what it meant to be a foreigner, to live in a close minded place and to be different from the status quo. The last two topics were particularly applicable to one of them – the Portuguese. The English did not have the problem of living restricted by other people, for he lived in Manchester. Nevertheless, he himself was restricting his being, letting his fears take control over his life. Fear of life, that’s what he had. Soon after they said goodbye to the woman writer, they swapped telephone numbers and made plans for a drink the day after. A drink led to another, the looks were unmistakable, the signs were obvious – they were meant to be together.
When they went back to Europe, they were already lovers. In Portugal, the dark skinned longed for the next time he would see the blond one. He told his parents about him when they were already in three months of dating. A meeting was arranged and everything seemed perfect – everyone got along instantly. But still he wanted more from the other. “Christ, he lives in Manchester, what’s the problem with holding hands with me anywhere? Or a kiss?”
He had always said to him that he had told his parents there in England about their relationship but wouldn’t mention any get-to-know-each-other dinner. The psychological distance was far bigger than the geographical one, indeed, since they had already talked about moving to Lisbon anyway. But why the fear of a simple phone call? Was that all that their love could offer to both? Would it only exist in privacy and secrecy?
The phone rang while they were on vacations. It was from England. “Hi, mom! Yeah, I’m having a great time in Portugal. No, no, she’s in the shower. Right now I’m with a friend. Yeah. Alright, bye, love you too!”
A friend? Was that all he was? Or was he a she then? At that moment, he felt like part of the Wheel of Fortune – he had risen, yes, but that was only the beginning of his fall. And did he fall out of love for the other one. No more prisons than the ones his tiny little country on the Westernmost part of Europe had built for him.
The mountain created in their imagination, which was once a safe and perfect place for their love, was now standing between them. It was much too suffocating.

***

As he drove the car at high speed down Faudastenia Road, he was somewhat at ease and peace with the world. Bad thoughts had been driven away from his mind and love had cured his despair – for a long time he had forgotten the last day he had been truly happy. It was as if life had become bleak and dark all of a sudden. Sleep didn’t bring him the peace he so desperately needed and night trauma had settled in his brain – emptiness filled his heart and soul from the moment he woke up to the moment he went to bed. Even when he fell asleep he didn’t rest, for nightmares haunted his mind. He woke up countless times during the night. Once, it got so bad that he drove his car off a cliff. He didn’t die but was scarred forever. Nevertheless, love came to restore his debris back to shape and changed his life.
He took a fast turn on the road, saw the animal lying dead there and stepped on the brake as quickly as he could. The car hit the rails and burst into flames. The sun was setting.

I still don’t know how it all happened. I remember Faudastenia Road and I remember thinking about him. All of a sudden, I saw fire and was surrounded by it. This light I see now is bright but at the same time pale – it makes me think that despite this accident I still have him in my life, and that is enough. I am not alone. Wait. Someone’s coming. It’s him! What’s look on his face?

I have to do this for both our sakes, and he will understand. I simply fell out of love with him, that’s all. I can’t keep on blaming myself for that, can I? And I can’t keep on lying, that’s a sure thing. Sometimes this consumes my mind in such a way that my thoughts run at an uncontrollable speed I can’t do this I can do this I should do it I can’t be blamed I feel so guilty it’s not fair I hate myself I’d rather die than do this to him it was such a beautiful relationship why do I spoil it like this it’s just a phase but why do I feel like it ain’t just a phase I really should tell him and if we’re meant to be together then we will right oh god I can’t even sleep I have to do this for both our sakes I’m evil but I can’t help it anymore I’m an asshole I feel like shit I have to I must I ought to I HATE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE.

He had brought flowers with him, the last he would give to him. They were his personal favourites: violets. He knew how much he loved those. He was preparing himself to leave him. This would be the perfect timing; he would grieve enough lying in the hospital bed, unable to move. He was also afraid that he would kill himself and thus in the hospital that would be impossible.
The flowers were handed with a vague, blank stare. They both knew it. He made a sign for him to put the flowers by the window. They kissed. He couldn’t speak because a shard had pierced his throat and damaged the vocal cords. A song was playing on the radio: “I lost my face and now it can’t be found”, it went. Outside there was heavy rain and as the afternoon advanced the silence became denser. He got up, went to the window and put his hand on the glass, as if looking for something, some kind of freedom, some sort of peace. When he turned to the one lying in bed he knocked down the flowers. He picked his things, stopped beside the bed and they looked at each other for a long moment. There was no goodbye. There was the sound of the door shutting. The pale light in the ceiling. A sigh. It was his last one.

I want to be washed away with the rain, he thought. No tears were falling down his face, or they were mixed with the water. We’ll never know. As he entered the car he remembered all the good moments of his now ex-relationship. He couldn’t deal with the feeling of guilt. He turned the key and started driving. Faudastenia Road was still witness to the accident and the rails now left an open escape from life and suffering. He had nothing attaching him to this world as he drove off the cliff.
He was already broken beyond repair.

And then it happened – with no explanation and no previous warning. Seas, lakes and rivers dried up as blood is drawn from a vein. Diseases turned all animal life nonexistent. First came the rage, then the end of rational thought and lastly the wars. The peoples of the earth slaughtered their own children just because they were born the offspring of the collective hatred for that which is not the rule. Babies stopped being born. Humanity was blind to all the culture that had been constructed throughout the centuries of its existence. All that had been written, composed, built, painted and filmed was destroyed to shreds and forgotten. Beauty and Truth were lost as famine brought cannibalism into the world. Mountains came crumbling down and flowers withered and died. The Earth had come to an end.
The sign still said Faudastenia Road.