Chars Of Ardor

“If someone makes you feel, let them. Then close off the excess.”

Dead moms say the most ridiculous things that somehow become the most significant memories, well, y’know, after they’re dead. It doesn’t really make me think of her fondly.

I mean come on, you’re on your deathbed, one leg hanging over the grave with the grim reaper getting impatient by the second. Everything you say is going to seem meaningful, even if it’s just ‘potato’. Everyone close to you is going to be reminded of you when they see a potato. Some will wonder if you’re being cryptic, others might cry, and some might never eat a potato again.

That would be very cruel of you, by the way.

Point is, right before you die, everyone loves you. No matter how horrible of a person you are. That’s the reason they tell you to live each day as if it’s your last.

“There he goes, monloguing again,” a familiar voice muttered. Two hands on my shoulders, Craig shook me from behind.

I turned around, unhurriedly.

With the way Craig’s mouth had opened, the inaudible gasp seemed quite audible.

“Looks like you didn’t get much sleep,” he said quietly.

I shook his hands off and made way towards the library door, fixing my scarf.

The scarf was the only way to stay invisible.

Right before I could get out of the door’s aisle, I was violently pulled and shoved behind, butt landing in the seat of a creaky wooden chair.

“I could fucking punch you right now!” Craig spat in my face, both his hands on my chair’s armrests.

“What is it now?” I sighed.

“You’ve been smoking with Hector and his delinquents after school,” Craig was fuming, “don’t even try to fucking deny it.”

Uh oh, he found out.

“Yea, man, it was a one time thing. You know me, come on,” I looked into his eyes to make sure he trusted me.

I wasn’t one to get addicted, it was just a moment of weakness.

“Fine,” he released his hold on the armrests and stood up, “just...stop being reckless, man.”

“I will,” I don’t know why I needed to say the next few words, “Besides, I can take care of myself. Stop trying to be my mom. She’s dead.”

Craig opened his mouth as if to say something, the concern apparent on his face.

“Just kidding,” I laughed, “you coming over for lunch?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, one hand on his waist. “You’re an idiot.”

Flinging an arm around my shoulder, Craig was more vigilant on me today as we walked back home.

“Welcome back,” a sweet voice, with a negative octave called out. A woman in a maid outfit and pink apron came to the doorway with a ladle in her hand.

“Y-youre wearing a maid costume?” I did a double take, unable to help the blood rushing to my cheeks.

She chuckled. “Yes. For you.”

If my face wasn’t an obvious giveaway of my thoughts, my nosebleed certainly gave away my spontaneous combustion.

Her and Craig, both laughed.

Craig pushed me towards her.

“I should do this once in a while too, maybe I’d get the same reaction.” Craig chortled.

“You should,” Adalie said, my face muffled in her chest, she pointed at me and said, “And thanks for the treat!”

I swear, these two were a deadly combination.

.

“You’re wearing your scarf again, Ian.” Adalie’s eyes were fixated on my neck, her eyes lightless.

I knew that look.

“I feel naked when I don’t wear it.” I beamed at her, trying to lighten up the atmosphere.

It was a look of sadness.

“It’s just me and Craig here, we wouldn’t mind seeing you naked,” she beamed back.

How cruel.

I knew sadness when I saw it. Sadness because of someone, sadness directed at someone. Sadness disguised behind a smile.

Sadness surprised you when it came from someone you love. Like your mother.

People who say sadness can’t hurt you physically, apparently have never felt the kind of sadness I have seen. I’ve seen it in my mother’s legs, her shaky fingers, her quivering lips, and her tightened jaw, too weak to clench further from the exhaustion of crying.

I pursed my lips, biting the inside of my cheek.

I couldn’t let anyone have the same power over me. I wouldn’t.

“Adalie.” Everything was quiet. “Why do you do this?”

“Do what?” her brows raised, she shook her shoulders a little, “Make lunch? You both were comi-”

“No, I mean, this,” I waved my hand at her, “wearing a maid outfit, making my favorite dishes, and acting all cutesy.”

I knew the crudeness in my tone was apparent.

“Adalie,” Craig said to her as if warning her of something, holding her attention while I stared at her, unfazed.

“Y-you don’t like i-”

“Just answer me,” I cut her off, curtly.

“Excuse me,” Craig got up to leave, looked at her and nodded. She nodded back, her face now small and concerned.

“Why do you do this?” I reiterated, my eyes bearing into her.

“Why do I do this?” she looked at me, but it was like she was looking at something far, farther away, “because I love you, of course,” she smiled.

“Because I love you.”

There it was.

“No one loves you like mama.”

“I thought you knew,” her voice was laced with yearning.

The last time someone said they loved me and I loved them back, they’d poured a pot of boiling water on my neck.

“I do,” I sighed at the food that had probably turned cold and got up, “it just seems too much, y’know? You coming to live with your brother, your brother trying to set me up with you. You telling me to love myself and not be concerned about the stares I get when I don’t wear a scarf and all that bullshit.”

“It’s not about the scarf, Ian,” she got up, “your mother died a month ago.”

“And I don’t act like someone whose mother died?” Are you listening to what you say? So what if my relationship with her wasn’t that close? Are you going to tell me what’s appropriate to feel?”

“Craig told me you were smoking…”

“It’s not your business!” I stormed off to my room before she could continue.

It’s poetic being a ripple. You affect everyone’s lives around you and disappear while the waves resonate within themselves. A true harmony of chaos.

Currently, I was the ripple in this house. A shameless person who said harsh words to the people that belong here and would leave, keeping the uncut ribbons in a void so they could make sense of where they stood.

My eyes glossed over.

I didn’t want to leave. Adalie and Craig were important.

There was a knock on the door. Not even waiting for a second, Adalie walked in, her lips pursed and posture stiff. She closed the door with a firm thud.

“Is Craig back?” I gulped.

“No.” She began walking towards me.

“Adalie.” I deadpanned.

She walked over to me, pushing me on the bed so I was seated at the edge. She climbed up and straddled my hips.

“Remove your scarf, Ian,” she stated, her voice heavy.

“No. Adalie, you cannot just-”

She pulled at my scarf, with more strength than I thought she had. The material was flung across the room. My hands instantly moved to cover my throat.

"You didn't like me acting cute," she huffed, "I am being straight here.

“Adalie, stop,” I peered up at her, blinking the tears away, “Please.”

I didn’t know if my voice had reached her but her eyes had softened.

She pried my right hand away from my neck as I tried to cover it with the left one.

“Never remove the scarf.”

She linked her fingers in mine.

“Mama will always love you if wear the scarf.”

Connecting the tips of her fingers to mine, she breathed. “Ian has beautiful hands.”

I blinked up at her.

“His fingers are nimble, slender and sophisticated.”

She took my other hand and held both of them, exposing my neck. The tears were beginning to fall over the creases of my eyes.

"Everytime Ian says he's too sensitive, Adalie wants to cradle him into a bundle and kiss him better." Adalie whispered, caressing the charred skin.

“Mama loves you. The scar means nothing. Ian is normal.” Amazing how she said those words while checking over and over if the scarf was properly tucked in and pinned. Everyday, whenever I was leaving to play, whenever I woke up.

Adalie let go of my hands, placing them flat against the bed on my sides. Her hands travelled to my midriff.

“Ian has a beautiful stature,” she never looked away from my eyes, never looked at my scar, “his build is noble, his hands are smooth and effeminate, not in the typical way men have.”

“Mama loves you, mama loves you.” She would keep reminding me everyday, as if it was necessary, as if she was saying it to herself.

"Ian has the prettiest eyes, Adalie could stare at them all day."

“Ian takes care of everyone. Ian loves being with Craig. Ian loves being with Adalie,” she gave a small smile.

“Ian’s jaw is always tightened,” she placed her hands on my jaw, smoothing it, “Ian’s brows are creased,” she placed her thumbs above my eyebrows and flattened them, ironing them over.

“Ian’s shoulders are always stiff.” Her hands travelled to my shoulders, massaging them.

“Ian is always far away,” there was a croak in her voice, making me do a double take. "Ian is never where Adalie wants him to be."

How ironic, seeing something you never want to become, and turning into an exact replica of it.

She'd caught it in my jaw, my shoulders, and my brows.

“Get this hideous boy away from me!” she’d bellowed at the poor kid who was just trying to help me when I'd skinned my knee. I’d untucked my scarf on accident and lost it in the river while playing.

“He’s not my son!” After which, she’d looked for me sobbing into the woods, carrying a drape, calling out my name. Covering me when she found me, “Mama loves you so much, I am sorry.”

She’d say it over and over, even when she thought I was asleep and wasn’t listening. And love me she did, desperately so, unable to bear the mark of being fatherless, driven to edge, yet still loving me in her own wretched way.

“Ian’s scarf,” she held my throat with both hands and I stiffened, “Ian’s scar is just a scar, it’s just part of him, part of his past, part of what happened. Ian doesn’t need it.”

You know when someone is making you feel, but when do you come to know it is getting over the limit, becoming excess? If you knew, you’d close it off after you felt even a little, thinking it to be your limit.

How do you stop someone who doesn’t want to stop? Is it even possible closing off the excess?

Why say it on your deathbed as if you were enlightened?

Why make me feel the excess even after dying?

“The scar is hideous, Adalie.” I held her hands over my neck.

“Ian is beautiful. Everytime Ian says he is hideous, Adalie wants to knee him so he trips into her chest,” Adalie held on tighter and leaned closer.

I chuckled, fresh tears forming in my eyes. “Why are you doing this?”

She gave the same all-knowing smile as before and simply stated, “Because Adalie loves Ian.”

We both looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably just a few seconds, until she broke the silence.

“And Ian loves Adalie,” she stated, matter-of-factly, and leaned in to press her lips against mine.

A chaste kiss, with just our lips touching at first, I let the salty wetness fall over my cheeks as I pulled at her waist, moulding our fronts together for a deeper one.

Pulling away, she lightly pushed me down the bed and laid beside me, my head resting below her chin, listening to her breathe. We laid there until I drifted off, finally having a good night’s rest after ages.

I heard her mutter in my drowsy state, “Craig’s going to be so happy,” and felt my lips breaking into a smile.