First visualistion of Aurelia aka The Star, new superhero from my up coming novel: The Saviour series: The Star.
Many thanks to illustrator extraordinaire: @cknightcomics
What happens when the person that you love, does not die, leave but is simply lost. What happens with the love that you shared? Where does it go? Does love find news homes in new souls, or does the love inside you change alter, mutate become something other? Does it disappear slowly over time, leaking from your pores like water, before the well finally runs dry? Or does it shift from one person to the other, a new love taking the place of where the old love was, replacing the stored memories with new ones? I can’t justify loving someone that is lost, nor can I justify not loving someone that is here, so where is it, all that love that was shared?
I can say that I love him still; his departure did not teach my heart to forget. I can say that I know what it means to love. I would say I felt regret about being heartbroken now that the object of my affection is gone but I don’t, my heart is delusional in its patience as if he will return, breathing new life into this love affair I have paused since his departure. My mind understands, it does not accept but it understands. But my heart, hopeless and illogical, stubborn in its inability to see reason is patiently waiting, a timer not set, no end date required. But time will not wait for me, and though my heart is steadfast my head knows the truth.
Though the truth is slowly fracturing my heart, I will not bring myself to remember the past with regret. I have been in love and have been loved, wholly unconditionally and without restraint. I have loved and been loved deeply without abandon, cared for so sweetly that my soul has been imprinted upon. This phenomenon is rare. I know what I had was real. Even if I was only able to taste heaven for a moment, I am a believer for life, I have been converted. Even though only I know, even though I have no discernable evidence, I believe. I have lived in that feeling for an infinite moment.
Is it enough to believe in love, even if you are no longer in it? You have seen Heaven, but now you are on earth once more, so is it enough? Is it enough to know that it exists even if you can’t have it ever again? What is the point of love if when you scour the world forever you may only be a silent witness. Or is love, akin to a treasure map, a wondrous prize we hope to find one day, never really knowing what we will do when we reach the X on the map, is love about the possibility, about the hope of it.
When I was in love, I was afraid and content. The emotions warring within me. Part of me was afraid of how much I had given of myself to another person, and how much I still wanted to give. How integral they had come to my way of life, how they had woven themselves into the fabric of my existence, my happiness a fragile ball they protected just as much if not more than I had. I was astounded and suspicious. If love felt like this why wasn’t everyone falling? I knew the answer before I had even asked the question; to be in love was to be afraid, because this person, this piece of your soul could leave, or die or break you in ways that you would never recover. It is terrifying, and the more you feel the more afraid you become, but your heart does not cease loving because of fear, and I found that John Donne was right, winter will not abate the springs increase. There is no capacity for love, it just keeps expanding and expanding, the heart forever growing, gorging on the love it keeps taking, its appetite insatiable. It can’t stop, it won’t stop and a part of you marvels at the feeling. A little slice of heaven, immortal in our love for each other.
I was content because here I had what everyone was looking for and I had found it almost accidently, without really searching. It wasn’t happiness, although there was a lot of that or sadness though there was some of that. Love to me is being perfectly content. My body at an equilibrium where it wants for absolutely nothing because it had found it in him. He wasn’t perfect and nor was I but somehow we had found peace and I was content.
Even though I lost him, my love, our love is everlasting. That love that we shared was soul deep. I can convince my mind that he is gone, my heart may never believe, but my soul? That I have no control over, that is his, there is a space inside my soul that will always be his no matter who I end up with. He will own a piece of my soul and I will own a piece of his.
The words are hurled at me and despite clasping my hands into fists and staring straight ahead, a few tears slip past my control and trail down my burning face. I hate myself more than anything in this moment, more than her and definitely more than him, who looks at me smirking form the side-lines.
“Are you listening to me you spoilt useless brat?!” She screams getting right up in my face, her breath toxic with alcohol, “you think crying is going to soften me huh?”
She pauses and I can’t believe my body has the audacity to indulge her as more tears trickle down, my mind is clouding from the breath I don’t want to stop holding but I’ll do anything to stop the tears.
She slaps me hard across the face.
“Next time you answer me!” she says grabbing my face: she looks at it, contempt written in every line of her still youthful face. I hate that she is pretty, that she is stared at when we leave the house together, that she is the youngest mother at my school; that some of the teachers openly lust after her and the guys in my stare at her with wide eyes. She loves it and she flaunts it.
I stare at her defiant and she steps even closer.
“No wonder your dad left me,” she whispers, “sick and tired of taking care of you, if I could do it over, I’d abort you in an instant.” She clicks her fingers in front of me as she releases her claw like grip of my chin.
It’s an insult I’ve heard before, but as she steps back her face slyly victorious she knows that it’s hit its mark. She turns and walks back to her boyfriend her face so altered that even he does a double-take, but he still follows her upstairs.
I am rooted to the spot, angry beyond my own comprehension. I fist my hands even tighter, I want to hurt myself, I fist my hands tighter still but my freshly cut nails only leave faint imprints. The thought is enough to jar me from that insidious path I’ve taken more than a year to shake.
“Leave the environment,” I whisper to myself, that’s what my school councillor advised me and I listen, because even though the feeling of hurting myself is still a beating pulse in my chest I don’t want to end up like Tiffney, I shake my head at the image.
I walk out of the house, it’s surprisingly warm outside, the sun not yet set, it’s actually a beautiful day, I walk briskly to the end of our road, then I pick up the pace as I walk a little further, a glance back and I can still see the house. What if I just take off, what if I just run. Better yet what if I don’t come back.
The thought causes me to actually smile and as I wipe at my face a kind of madness sets over me as I begin to run.
I’m running and it feels so good.
I run for a good long while, slowing down, almost stopping before I speed up again, my thoughts always galvanizing me forwards.
It’s late now, the sun has well and truly set, she’ll not worry, she never worries but she’ll wonder.
“I hate her!” I say vehemently and it feels good to say it out loud to own the feeling.
I’m always tip toeing around her and her latest squeeze, because she lets me eat her food and sleep under her house. I’m on guard all the time, more than that I’m fearful, especially after the incident, I almost believed she cared that time she punched the guy who was trying it on with me. I remember her rushing to me to see if I was okay, hugging me tightly and turning to threaten the guy, I’ll never forget that look of fury on her face as she protected me, I was only ten but still that memory of that day was crystal clear.
I’m crying again. I hate myself but the tears keep coming and I’m gasping for breath because I want my mummy, I’m pathetic and stupid and idiotic and weak. I keep up a stream of insults until the tears run dry because I know I have to go back.
The walk back home is much longer and I pause a few times trying to think of radical ways I can leave home forever, but I can’t. I know how hard it is out there being a runaway, and my situation isn’t half as bad as others I’ve heard of, I just have to make it four more years, then I’m off to Uni, then I’m gone for good.
I keep up the stream of positive images like my councillor tells me to do, but it all falls short when I see the house. I don’t have a curfew because she doesn’t care to set me one but still I know it’s late; past eleven at night.
I walk in – they are both cuddling on the coach, but she jumps up when she sees me and follows me to my room.
“Didn’t have the balls to go through with running away?” She sneers.
I sit on my bed and glance up at her, my exhaustion is weighing down on me and I show no surprise.
“Answer me!” She says angrily.
I nod suddenly I’m bone weary and just want to sleep.
She glares at me her face suspicious; she’s moving her weight from one foot to the other. I glance at her questioningly.
“Well next time –”
“Don’t worry there won’t be a next time. Three years, then you won’t ever have to see me again.” I want to say it firmly and confidently but it comes out strangely detached and she flinches.
She hesitates before she says; “go and wash those dishes in the sink!”
I nod slowly and I can see that my indifference is getting to her.
My councillor always tells me not to react and I don’t I just stand there and take her abuse but this is something different – I’m acting like I don’t care because I really don’t.
I open the door and standing there looking directly at me is Hershel, from my class, the quiet kid at the back who doesn’t really like to make eye contact with anyone.
I wonder if is he is lost and I’m about to close the door when he speaks.
“Good evening Riley, may I come in?” His voice is very deep for a twelve year old, most people make fun of him for it, or they used to, I haven’t actually heard him speak for almost half a year.
His voice startles me and I almost close the door anyway, except I don’t, but I can’t just invite him in either, he could be crazy, it’s always the quiet ones, that’s a saying for a reason.
I debate for a moment as he just stares at the ground, he has got really curly hair, it’s dark brown at the roots and almost blonde at the tips, he even has blonde highlights. It’s quite feminine hair, I never realised, maybe it’s the voice that threw me.
“Come in, but don’t touch anything,” I caution, before leading him up to my bedroom, Hershel is quiet, too quiet, I don’t even hear his footsteps behind me, freaky.
I sit on my desk and he just stands, eyes on the floor.
“I have something to tell you,” he says quietly.
I wait for him to continue.
“Go on,” I say.
I wait some more.
“Tell me,” I command.
“I remember that when Miss Brent died you spoke at the assembly, my dog has just died can you please do the same?” He asks.
I am speechless, not only do I not know Hershel, I didn’t even know he had a dog, certainly I didn’t know the dog well enough to write him an epitaph.
I want to refuse but I don’t because I like to think I am a good person which is how I ended up standing in front of a grave on Saturday morning, speaking about a dog I never even met before.
Hershel is quiet, but I can tell he is sad.
When I finish he just stares at the grave, then he walks away, I follow him, into his mansion, because he is rich, like famous person rich, given a tour of his house, that rich.
We walk into wealth and he just stands there at the threshold, during the tour I saw a gaming room, I want to go there but Hershel is silent.
Then the maid comes up to us with a lovely bouquet of flowers that would fill up my whole house, she tries to give them to Hershel but he is just staring at the floor again.
I take them and thank her, before reading the note out loud.
“We will send a replacement, love Mum and Dad,” the words are out of my mouth before I even realise what I am saying, I re-read it appalled, and I carefully put the note down.
“You may go now,” Hershel says looking at me directly.
“You can come with me, my mum is not a chef, but she’s making spaghetti and meat balls, I don’t have a pet but I have a little sister, she’s almost two and she’s basically an animal,” I say tucking a braid behind my ear as I take my bike out of the shed.
“You do not have to be nice to me because –”
“Because you lost your pet and your parents are mean, yeah I do, come on it will make me feel better.” I say grabbing his forearm and dragging him along, it’s awkward with my bike, and I scratch my leg but I don’t let go.
“You do not have to drag me, if it will make you feel better then I will come.” He says going into the shed to take out his own bicycle.
I laugh, “Was that an actual joke? I thought you didn’t even know what it was.”
Hershel smiles as both get on our bikes and ride back to my house.
This generation is apparently, impatient, well connected, but still so incredibly lonely, which is why despite the multitude of social media platforms and dating website, true love is still an elusive dream. It’s why we no longer fall in love, but the truth is we never really did, not really. We fell in lust, mistook it for love then coasted into friendship, but true love, the kind that is whispered before it disappears. Most of us don’t know what it is, and what is worse is, though we search for it, we don’t really want to find it, not really, we wouldn’t know what to do with it. Or we would convince ourselves it wasn’t real before letting it go.
Do we fear something so special that it is easier to convince ourselves it doesn’t exist instead of looking or believing, and belief is a difficult thing, because suspending our analytical overly critical and sceptical minds is beyond most of us, we want proof, and even if we are presented with it, we dismiss it as a fluke and ask for more. I would liken it to if 99.99 per cent of the population was blind and that 0.01 per cent could see, convincing the masses that there was another sense, would be challenging, almost all would be sceptical to the point of disbelief, others would be cautiously optimistic but in their heart of hearts still not believe such a thing were even possible.
I didn’t believe in love as a teenager, I thought it was good for stories, poems and films, but in the real world there was no space for something so fanciful, that was until I saw it. A couple changed my opinion almost instantly, and I knew as I saw them together I was witnessing something magical, my heart was racing and I was only a witness, stepping in to their bubble of happiness for an instant so I could taste Heaven and be assured of its existence. I believed and for the next few days I was euphoric over my find, energised by the couples love for each other and I wondered if that was attainable why wasn’t everyone clamouring to take a piece of that extraordinary experience for themselves? I realised that love was like a fairy, you need to believe in love in order for it to appear to you, but unlike a fairy, love doesn’t require your belief in it to validate its existence – it will exist with or without you.
Most people want to believe but they simply don’t and the others that do, are delirious in their happiness and their fortune and despite this they still find it difficult to validate and proof it to others. Why? Because it sounds far-fetched, a fantasy, fantastical, too good to be true, they wouldn’t believe it themselves if they weren’t living it.
But I believe, so why wasn’t love immediately available to me. I came to the realisation that love exists it’s just not available to everyone. The reasons for this varies from person to person but the prevailing one that I have seen time and time again is that we are afraid.
It is this fear that holds most people back from even trying, or giving it their all when they do try. Love like everything else in life has to be fought for. Coming in with pre-conceived notions, or a dossier of demands is not going to work, there is no list or winning formula, it’s abstract because you fall. Like Dr Seuss said it is like falling asleep, you have to work towards it and allow a little bit of uncertainty to enter your life in order to fall, there is no safety net or harness a certain level of trust and openness must be had.
We are afraid of being open because it leaves us vulnerable. There is safety in sadness and misery or even indifference. Love is chaotic, complete with fluctuating feelings, differing attitudes, it is messy, but more importantly it is fragile because your happiness your wellbeing is no longer solely yours to control, your happiness is in the hands of another, and though you say you trust them a part of you doesn’t want to hand over the reins.
We don’t fall in love anymore but we should. Falling in love requires falling. It doesn’t always require some serendipitous moment, though that can happen. Most of the time true love is slowly building a foundation of trust, respect and companionship to reveal the diamond that is love underneath. It doesn’t sound as sexy as love at first sight, but it’s by far more beautiful and sustaining.
The cold marble was making my ear numb and the fixed position I had to hold my body in was giving me a cramp and yet I felt oddly calm, strangely euphoric. I held my body still as one of the three armed men walked past me, his boots brand spanking new, size nine, dark brown laces. I looked up carefully, he was probably my height, 5’10, slim, a mask over his face, but not his ears, pale a little red at the tips. I quickly looked at the other three guards. Their ears exposing their race to me.
My mind pinged as I looked at all three of them again; they had been eating at the café across the road for almost a month. I had spoken to one of them a few times. I could help the police when they interviewed me later. The police who had burst open my door a few nights ago because they had gotten an address wrong, terrified my student who I was tutoring who had been thrown against the floor, a gun to his cheek, as the police had torn my apartment inside out, searching for someone who was never there, before I, who they had put into handcuffs, had been able to explain to them, that 4a the apartment they were looking for was across the street, I was 4a1. A common mistake, one that could have been easily rectified if they had listened from the beginning.
I could anonymously help the bank. The same bank that had refused to grant me a loan to start my tutoring business, a business that had been taking off before the police had put a gun to one of my students, making all the parents rightfully stop bring their children to my house.
Abruptly I was furious and my mind again presented me with a plan to profit from my present situation.
I stood up, clutching my chest. The armed robbers came up to me immediately.
“Take me to the toilet, I will help you,” I said clearly whiles portraying someone in distress to the other thirty seven hostages.
They looked at each other and one of them raised his gun.
“Eggs benedict, hash brown, two sausages, baked beans, three brown toasts.” I said quickly meeting the eyes of the man who had raised the gun, before continuing with the theatrics again.
I was immediately walked to the toilet.
I quickly told them about my plan.
“Where the hell did you learn how to crack safes,” pink ears said, “you talk weird as well, are you like rain man or something.”
“I’m a tutor, one of the children will only learn if I allow him to crack a safe after every sessions, he taught me.” I said indirectly answering his question.
They were silent for a moment.
“Do we have a deal?” I asked to sped things along.
“Hell yeah!” The third man said sticking his head through the door.
“It was the first time I killed a man.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she looked across with a mixture of fear and relief.
There was no judgment on her face, so young and seemingly innocent, she held my gaze, her grey eyes almost shinning as she nodded, eyes aged beyond her years, childhood not something she would ever experience.
“It will not be your last, many more must die before and even then you may never know what peace is,”
‘So much death,’ she thought looking away, ‘too much.’
“You fear that you will become a killer because of the life you took and the ones you intend to take.”
“That is not why I am afraid –”
“You enjoyed it?”
She met that level gaze again, and watched for a reaction as she spoke her next words.
“I felt nothing, there was some justice at ridding the world of evil but I am still waiting for the guilt, the horror of the act, anything.”
No reaction and she looked away.
“You are afraid –”
“Weren’t you listening?” She said hotly, “I don’t feel anything!”
“No, you are afraid that what happened to you has changed you irrevocably, that even when you wish to you can no longer feel emotion. They changed you and that change cannot be undone.”
She looked back to see tears gleaming in that grey gaze and wanted to turn away from the emotion but she stared, fascinated.
She reached a hand out to touch the tear, a barrier of resistance as her hand met with its reflection.