This Is Our Last Stand (short story)

« – From the beginning, I knew you would be trouble!

• Then why did you stayed with me? »

B. and F. were once again in a middle of a fight. The arguments were getting more and more regulars. They both asked themselves if they still loved one another. Both thoughts yes, but somehow, they managed to ruin their relationship.

« – I was hoping that I was wrong… That you’ll prove me wrong!

• This was a test then? All this time, this was just some kind of game for you?
• And you failed!
• I’m glad ! Not all failures are bad, I’ve just learned that because of you, thanks! »

This was spiraling, every day, the guts wrenching bouts kept getting more violent. They both felt that dreadful feeling; what will happen the day the words will not be enough anymore? They knew that if they’ll continue in that way, it will turn physical. They knew, they knew! But they loved each other, that’s the worst part of love. Loving to the point of reaching a point of no return. Their love will turn into hate. If they had to fall into this dark corner, they would fall in it together. What if? What if it was a necessary step to finally stop the downward spiral ? No, love, love is a complicated feeling, but to reach the point of physical and verbal violence, it will turn life into a living nightmare. But… this is love? Love right? It supposed to beat everything isn’t it?

« – No one will ever want you anyway.

• I was only with you because I pities you. I’m way too good for you.
• I gave you everything!
• Good, it wasn’t enough. You are a failure.
• Yet, you’re the one who slowly but surely undermining our relationship.
• You played you fair part in destroying it, hypocrite… »

When, how did all started to crumble? It’s strange, but both couldn’t figures out the starting point of the downfall of their relationship. No, actually, they both had their little ideas, but no, this wasn’t something that started this ongoing conflict. It was something lurking in the shadow of their love, something dark, in both of them. They probably are the kind of people who want their lover’s soul. They want everything from the other, taking everything. Passion? Yes, that had to be it. Passionate crime… that what’s will happen if none of them admit defeat. But no! The relationship will end, because one of them have to be defeated by the other, it’s no fun anymore, it’s serious.

« – When I look in your eyes, I don’t recognize the person I’ve fallen in love with.

• How could I be so stupid. I should have known that something was wrong with you since the beginning. Too many red flags.
• See, you’re weak. Stupid even. You’re stupid. I’m ashamed to be seen with you since the beginning. Should have listened to my friends.
• Speaking of stupid, your friends aren’t the sharpest tools in the shed. But hey, you choose them.
• I have chosen you!
• Did you? Can you choose who you’ll fall in love with? That would be a first! Or you have really chosen me because nobody would love you. I’m glad all this time with spend together was a waste of your time. I loved every minute with you. It’s over, I’ll get over it, but I did grow during our relationship. For you, it’s a waste of time you’ll never get back. »

This was that last phrase that ended their relationship.

Their was love, at last.

Jaskiers

Publicité

Waiting For The Night In New York (A Short Story)

FYI: I am not fluent in English, I’m trying to be at least. Sorry for the potentials mistakes. Feel free to correct me in the comment section.

—

The putrid smell of the street, the trash bags scattered, the rats, the cigarette butts, the stray dogs, the cold wind, the incessant passing and honking of cars, peoples going places or arguing with each other, all of this and more, Billy was used to it.

Becoming a singer, like Dylan, that’s been is goal since he came here at the tender age of 20. But nothing works out exactly how you dreamt it isn’t it ? This and the fact that New York was ruthless, a city that does not take any weakness nor sympathy if you want to make it big.

The rule is, work your ass off, turn to madness, being crazy will give you opportunities. Take pills, smoke joints, if you courageous, inject some smack into your veins. Go crazy, insane, and create. After all, this place has seen some shit and it seems to push people to continue destroying themselves, like an entity that claim their fair share of life and sacrifices, to prosper.

Billy had become that poet in the gutter that Dylan sing about. Everyone recognize themselves in a Bob Dylan ballad. That’s the real magic, the real talent for an artist. This and a little bit of vision, predicting the future, being some kind of prophet. Add some poetry, the magic of words, like a Leonard Cohen and you have yourself a good starting point for an artistic career.

Was Billy not talented enough ? Who really know, talent is maybe thing but doesn’t make you famous nor rich. The work, the grinding, the hustling, sacrifices are the keys to the American Dream. Let’s not forget that you have to be original, mysterious, playing with your audience and, this as to be said, being merciless with your rival and enemies.

Billy was that guy who used to think that everyone was kind, or had to be. Loyal, respectful, those were the qualities that you had to put aside, not always but sometime, to impose yourself, to gain your place in this city.

Too kind, too nice, too honest was Billy to show rudeness. He let himself being stepped on, mistreated, misguided for the profits of others. Others that used him at their advantages to become successful. But not for long, they all lacked talent or the will to keep working.

Too good, Billy was a friend that gaved his shoulders for those broken souls to cry on. Never used their weakness for his own advantage.

The street, his street, his gutter, his territory. The only thing he got to own since coming in New York was this street. It wasn’t the most welcoming place in town, the most secure nor peaceful but it was his. He lived their since so long that the people unconsciously linked him to this patch of concrete and decaying building.

Billy’s Street, that was the name of his place now. And for him, it felt like having his star on the Hollywood Walk-Of-Fame. He often joke by rebranding his corner « Walk-Of-Shame » because of all the junkies, prostitutes and their clients, off beat cops, drunks and homeless people that wander it.

Billy came to find fame, he found something else, maybe more precious and rare, he finds his place with the peoples of the underground, a sect, a clan that his so well kept from curious eyes that the world have completely forgotten their existences.

They were his audience. Audience that no Bob Dylan will ever have the chance to perform in front of.

And Billy got stories for days, even years.

Billy is what’s others aren’t : he’s free. It’s America, after all.

Jaskiers