but elated, the taste of dried blood was still on my bitten tongue as I trudged through the blasted world. My bleeding fingers stained the strings of my violin. It had to hurt. When it didn’t, I knew I hadn’t done enough. I was a walking stigmata, weird Goth-girl who didn’t even listen to modern music, with her eyes purple-kohled from sleeplessness and a gaze which saw right through you into the impossible beyond.
I was close, I suppose, to self-harm. But I still think that, for all the teenage drama, my self-sacrifice and self immolation were, essentially, about music. Good was bad. Good was rubbish. Good was so far off the scale as to be inaudible. The only books I read were books about music, often technical, or—as my sole relief—the lives of great composers and performers. Poor old Gustav, poor old Petyr, smashing themselves against the hopeless rocks of public apathy, but I didn’t think of them in that way. The death of a child, a wife, a lover, debilitating disease, devastating shyness or critical flaying—these things weren’t sad in any proper sense, because that was what life was like, that was exactly what was to be expected. Grief, hopelessness—the more raging the emotion the better—were all simply things to be captured and made sense of within the music, which would last long after the flesh had fallen from the bone. Emotions themselves were worthless spasms of chemistry and electricity.
Yes, I was getting better. It wasn’t some delusion. This really was my life’s work, and sacrifices had to be made. That chuckle. His rarer laugh. What remained of his scent fading from his tee shirts into the back-ground odours of this house and this century. His lips warm and hard against mine on that New Year’s Eve. His room still lay across from mine, scarred as if by some wan sunrise by the white shadow of Dad’s brief attempt to emulsion it, but otherwise the same. Sometimes, I waited for him to come to me, long-haired and gaunt in that old faded red dressing gown amid the other Romantic greats. After all, my brother was hardly out of place. He was beautiful and talented and dead. What did it matter if it was WRFI or TB, suicide or madness? He, too, would uncurl from the restless hiss of my breathing and the sound of my heart beating against the springs of my bed. As blind as Carolan. As deaf as Ludwig. Torn from the present, nailed to the past, he was there with me, gaunt and pale and knowingly mocking. But the closer he got, the thinner and more pitiful he became. Leo and not Leo. Not a figure of power, no—or not of power entirely. For he was the dust-picking of breezes. He was the buzzing of flies. He was the open sores of child-hoods of endless starvation and pain. He was the hopeless joy of giving in, and a distillation of suffering. He was the savage white light which lay beyond the deepest black. Sometimes, on the best and worst of nights, I let this Leo who was not Leo embrace me, and still I wanted more and more of him. For I would have given everything. Anything . And I knew by now he would have taken it. And perhaps he did.
Dad, in his newly exalted position of Head of Year, bought us into a family health scheme. Medical insurance, he announced when he came home with the glossy paperwork, was exactly what all responsible families obtained for themselves these days with the health service so over-stretched, and Mum and I both nodded, knowing that Leo would never have been eligible. Still, it was pleasing to think that, in those days of impossible premiums, we could now afford such a thing.
There was a plush clinic situated in a new out-of-town complex on the fringes of Solihull. Some of the buildings were shops. Some were offices. Some were warehouses, set off from their neighbours by high fences and warnings about automatic machinery. There was a lake. There were ducks. Our appointments had been spaced across the same after-noon, but Dad had had to call off because of some security
I was close, I suppose, to self-harm. But I still think that, for all the teenage drama, my self-sacrifice and self immolation were, essentially, about music. Good was bad. Good was rubbish. Good was so far off the scale as to be inaudible. The only books I read were books about music, often technical, or—as my sole relief—the lives of great composers and performers. Poor old Gustav, poor old Petyr, smashing themselves against the hopeless rocks of public apathy, but I didn’t think of them in that way. The death of a child, a wife, a lover, debilitating disease, devastating shyness or critical flaying—these things weren’t sad in any proper sense, because that was what life was like, that was exactly what was to be expected. Grief, hopelessness—the more raging the emotion the better—were all simply things to be captured and made sense of within the music, which would last long after the flesh had fallen from the bone. Emotions themselves were worthless spasms of chemistry and electricity.
Yes, I was getting better. It wasn’t some delusion. This really was my life’s work, and sacrifices had to be made. That chuckle. His rarer laugh. What remained of his scent fading from his tee shirts into the back-ground odours of this house and this century. His lips warm and hard against mine on that New Year’s Eve. His room still lay across from mine, scarred as if by some wan sunrise by the white shadow of Dad’s brief attempt to emulsion it, but otherwise the same. Sometimes, I waited for him to come to me, long-haired and gaunt in that old faded red dressing gown amid the other Romantic greats. After all, my brother was hardly out of place. He was beautiful and talented and dead. What did it matter if it was WRFI or TB, suicide or madness? He, too, would uncurl from the restless hiss of my breathing and the sound of my heart beating against the springs of my bed. As blind as Carolan. As deaf as Ludwig. Torn from the present, nailed to the past, he was there with me, gaunt and pale and knowingly mocking. But the closer he got, the thinner and more pitiful he became. Leo and not Leo. Not a figure of power, no—or not of power entirely. For he was the dust-picking of breezes. He was the buzzing of flies. He was the open sores of child-hoods of endless starvation and pain. He was the hopeless joy of giving in, and a distillation of suffering. He was the savage white light which lay beyond the deepest black. Sometimes, on the best and worst of nights, I let this Leo who was not Leo embrace me, and still I wanted more and more of him. For I would have given everything. Anything . And I knew by now he would have taken it. And perhaps he did.
Dad, in his newly exalted position of Head of Year, bought us into a family health scheme. Medical insurance, he announced when he came home with the glossy paperwork, was exactly what all responsible families obtained for themselves these days with the health service so over-stretched, and Mum and I both nodded, knowing that Leo would never have been eligible. Still, it was pleasing to think that, in those days of impossible premiums, we could now afford such a thing.
There was a plush clinic situated in a new out-of-town complex on the fringes of Solihull. Some of the buildings were shops. Some were offices. Some were warehouses, set off from their neighbours by high fences and warnings about automatic machinery. There was a lake. There were ducks. Our appointments had been spaced across the same after-noon, but Dad had had to call off because of some security
Similar Books
