ALEX GARCIA TOPETE - CHRONICLES OF LOVES FOREWARNED - PART V

​Chronicles of Loves Forewarned  
To Grace Caitlin McClure.
Sincerely & Always.
@&

“This book is fiction and many things have been changed in fact to try to make it a picture of a true time…”

• Ernest Hemingway in A Moveable Feast (Fragments)

 
 
“Writers are always selling somebody out…”

• Joan Didion in Slouching Towards Bethlehem

 

​32: Coward 
She did it. She finally fucking did it.
Mallory finally killed herself.
What a cunt.
She had said too many times that she would do it for her threat to be real. She had said it for the attention, the pity, and some semblance of care.
“Teller, I want to fall asleep and never wake up.” There was no mention of dreams or tomorrow. Just letting go. That was nowhere near the divine calls and dirty pleasure of the minutes shared before. Fuck Mallory’s pillow talk.
She told me so many times and in so many different ways—she wasn’t supposed to actually go through with it. Para-suicide, they call it in the textbooks: clinical, no real intent, just a death wish with too much self-importance. A girl crying wolf every time for the sake of the attention and the mayhem it causes among those who hear her cry.
Mallory was a perfect case of para-suicide.
And then she had to fuck up that perfection, taking a leap.
What a cunt.
What a coward.
She escaped this world but left all of her shit behind for somebody else to clean up. Typical Mallory. No note. No goodbye. No tying of loose ends. In the end, her end, just one big knot was left.
She knew she would leave everyone in a void, thus pushing everyone’s buttons for one last time. That was the ultimate fuck you to the family she misunderstood, the friends she didn’t want, and the savior she fucked and fended off—-me. I was supposed to save her, yet I never really had a chance as long as that depended on her. She couldn’t handle being saved. Especially not saved by me.
What a coward.
Things could have been different, if this was really the ending that was coming. Perhaps I could have helped her. Perhaps I could have made those late-night conversations count for something more. I could have been a better influence. I could have been more than a dealer of sedation, seduction, and ennui. Perhaps I could have made Mallory save herself, if she wouldn’t allow anyone else to do it. Perhaps I could have shown her how to feed herself that value for which she was so famished, and which she so ruthlessly defiled.
Instead, she was lazy, and chose to sleep forever.
She chose silence.
That’s how the world works, I guess. The end is always dark. Sometimes it comes as a fade, and others as jarring cut—but it’s always black. Darkness. Nothingness. The abyss looks back at you, waiting for the time you fall, because that time always comes.
Always.
Mallory knew this. So she took a leap into the abyss. Typical Mallory—defiant, rebellious, choosing to choose her own ending rather than letting it unfold or daring to make any effort. She was too proud to risk failing if she attempted anything else, and she was even lazier about even trying.
In the end, the abyss wins.
Always.
What a coward.
Mallory lost. She lost on her own terms, but lost all the same. She had lost herself. She couldn’t be saved because she didn’t want to be saved. She wasn’t calling for help or attention. Hers wasn’t a threat, it was a promise, almost a preview, of what was to come. She was building up to a climax of nothing, circling her own abyss where she would drag everyone she could in order to be right about the world. Even dead and gone, Mallory couldn’t fathom being wrong.
But she was wrong. Dead wrong, now dead and wrong. Wrong about herself, about others, and about life. She didn’t value anything, so how could she judge anything at all? She killed herself out of spite rather than to relieve her soul.
She didn’t want to fall asleep to find relief. She just wanted to shut her eyes at what others enjoyed. 
What a coward.
Mallory offed herself to shoot everyone down with her. The best revenge will be to do exactly what she hated because she couldn’t do it on her own free will—-to keep on living. The best revenge will be to live and forget. I knew Mallory would fuck everyone like this one day. And she finally picked a day.
She picked a fucking Tuesday.
There was no suicide note because there was nothing of note.
Not for me, at least. Or for Val. We both knew Mallory better than she knew herself—-and she resented us for it.
Val will agree: Mallory simply killed herself. That’s all.
What a cunt.

 
33: HeroAngels return to Heaven
Demons fall to Hell
Go home, Mallory
Heroes aren’t from Earth
 
Many wish to escape darkness
You did it, Mallory
Many fear the abyss
You didn’t Mallory
Many try, many fail
You succeeded, Mallory
 
Angels return to Heaven
Demons fall to Hell
Go home, Mallory
Heroes aren’t from Earth
 
Good night, Mallory
Let stillness release you
Sleep tight, Mallory
Let peace embrace you
Well fought, Mallory
Don’t let victory betray you
 
Angels return to Heaven
Demons fall to Hell
Go home, Mallory
Heroes aren’t from Earth
 
Teller won’t forget
how you both used to be
Val won’t forgive
how you ran away
I won’t forgo
the chance to sing your hymn
 
Angels return to Heaven
Demons fall to Hell
Go home, Mallory
Heroes aren’t from Earth
 
 

 
34: MythMallory is gone. So tragic.
But good grief.
Everybody will feel bad about it. Yet no one should. Mallory couldn’t help herself. No one could help her. No one was supposed to. Anyone who thinks otherwise is wrong. Dead wrong.
Teller will feel like shit. Good grief.
I was afraid this would happen. Somehow I knew. Mallory was the type. Destructive. Vindictive. Bombastic. Gaslighting everyone even in her death.
Such a myth that any of us could have made a difference. Delay, maybe. Push, definitely. No one’s at fault, really. But somehow, we all are.
Good grief.
The Sunday Brunch Club won’t even talk about this. That’s for sure. We had buried Mallory months before, anyway. She never existed. That’s the nicest thing we can do to her memory. Just forget.
I wonder what Scott thinks. He never really met Mallory. But he knew of her. Mallory, the urban legend. Mallory, Teller’s mythical lady dragon to slay. Who would have thought that she complied with that myth, too?
Knowing Scott, he sees this as some kind of triumph. Something worthy of a song or anthem. So damn Byronic.
Good grief.
Teller will be the silent victim. Unless I do something. We can’t let Mallory get away with it. I won’t let her ruin Teller. I never let her before. This is not the time to start. I know a thousand reasons why Teller should feel shitty about himself. Mallory isn’t one of them, dammit.
Fuck Mallory. Good grief.
She and I were friendly once, but never really friends. That would require trust. Empathy. Humanity. Mallory had none.
Some will say she was troubled. That she didn’t mean to do it. A narcissistic sociopath didn’t need saving. She was the trouble. No one else will say that.
Good grief.
No more trips to the hospital. No more late night calls to Teller. No more distressing damsel hiding in fatalism.
I must make sure Teller overcomes this. He must. I need him to. I couldn’t live with myself if Mallory’s ghost haunted him around. Teller doesn’t deserve that. And neither do I. No one does.
No what others say, Mallory’s suicide is on her. Only her. No matter what Scott thinks, this isn’t beautiful or poetic. At the end of the day, even if no one says it, the world’s better without Mallory.
At least Teller definitely is. Good grief.
 
 
 

 
35: Sweet SorrowThere’s no legend
There’s no glory
Unless romance brings pain
The pain of love when it breaks
The glory of love when it ends
 
A note on a napkin
A napkin for tears
Sweet sorrow of our love
And I walk away
 
Our story must be sad
like all epics of love
Forever-afters belong to fairy tales
But you don’t believe in princes
and I distrusts happiness
 
A note on a napkin
A napkin for tears
Sweet sorrow of our love
And I walk away
 
All good things must come to an end
Love stories end with a wedding and a kiss
So our story must end here and now
For our legend to remain
Like that fateful couple of Romeo and Juliet
 
A note on a napkin
A napkin for tears
Sweet sorrow of our love
And I walk away
 
Be free, my love
as you always were
I’ll keep singing of our love
for many will sing along
Hoping they could be loved
even after our love is dead
 
Take this napkin
A note for your tears
Sweet sorrow of our love
And I walk away
 
36: Cut to the Chase 
0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes, and 4 seconds remaining.
Tic, tic, tic.
Boom.
There went Val’s and Scott’s romance. Game over.
And I stayed the hell out of it. I had been in the middle for long enough, so I didn’t need any shrapnel to hit me as the whole thing blew up during the party.
During a wedding party, of all possible scenarios for their fallout. Matt’s and Gloria’s wedding. There had to be some sort of poetic irony in it. Too bad Scott and Val weren’t making a scene—-they were just running through their lines, like a theater dress rehearsal.
For once I was more than glad that I wasn’t a spectator to their play, even if it was the grand finale. I was sure I knew it already, line by line, the whole act, just as they, the leads, knew it. I had forewarned both Scott and Val a long time ago.
I knew the ending of their story, so it would’ve been painstakingly boring to sit through it. I was better off sitting at the bar, accompanied by my drink, my musings, and myself.
The bar: natural habitat of both the accomplished and the frustrated writer. The next couple of single malts would determine whether I belonged to the former or to the latter.
Paris’s Hemingway? Or Cuba’s Hemingway?
“Drinking there with Hemingway’s ghost, love?” Suddenly I wasn’t alone anymore.
A kindred spirit had joined me in our natural habitat—-same writerly species, opposite chromosome, and same drink.
“Love? Isn’t it too early to be throwing the L word around?”
“I rather throw ‘love’ around than let it throw me.”
She had to be a writer. Whisky, words, and wit don’t mix like that in any other cynical cocktail.
“Cheers to that.” And then we raised and faux-clinked our glasses, keeping our distance and yet getting closer.
“Are you here for the groom or the bride?” I had to make sure she wasn’t a hallucination, or worse, another mirage of mine.
“I’m here for the booze. And the bride, I guess.”
“Beautiful bride. Handsome groom. Nice wedding. But I agree, can’t beat the booze.”
We both finished our drinks. Ten seconds and one disgruntled bartender later, we were sipping again.
She had to be a writer. She had that voice.
Chatter turned to conversation, digging deeper and deeper, one-liners becoming dialogue and clichés chiseled into Shakespearean quotes as fashion statements.
What a roaring scene: writers talking over drinks at a fancy party. Fitzgerald would’ve been proud, while her dress would’ve made Jay Gatsby himself forget all about Daisy.
She had to be a writer. No other species can at the same time appear so beautiful and feel so damned.
Well, maybe actors can as well.
Whatever. Two breeds of the same lying bastards, I guess.
After plenty more pouring and pauses and parentheticals, I was buzzed enough and more than a little vexed to ask the lingering question.
Yes. She was a writer.
Nome de plume on the page and in life: Leia.
“My phone number? No. I won’t give it to you. That would be too—-too plebeian.”
The vocabulary. That word. Of course she was a writer.
She grabbed the pen I had clipped on my lapel, uncapped it, and proceeded to scribble furiously on a dry napkin. 
“Is this your playing hard to get?”
“As much as I love the chase, no.” She handed me the napkin, crisp and full of text, like an ancient scroll. “This is me seducing you.”
It was her address.
“Why use the phone when there’s mail? Something tells me that you’re much better in writing, anyway.”
She definitely was a writer. It takes a writer to leave a writer at a loss for words.
And just like that, she was gone.
And just like that, I had inspiration again.
And just like that, I had to write.

 
37: ExpiredIt’s not time. Not yet.
Scott doesn’t mean to break up. He’s just rattled by the wedding. We all are. Matt and Gloria saying I do will do that to anyone.
Scott and I shouldn’t break up. Not yet.
He wrote it on a napkin and left. I can’t take that seriously. I shouldn’t. I won’t.
I remember Scott’s first letter for me. Written in script on parchment paper. Like a note from the Renaissance. A specter from the past.
I shouldn’t be mad at him for this. Not yet.
Where’s Teller? He must know something about this. He always does. Or at least have an opinion. Advice, even.
We need to talk about this. Eventually. Not yet.
Scott, my worshipper. Saying goodbye to his goddess. On a napkin. There’s something wrong with all of this.
I gave Scott a chance. I have the relationship a chance. I had never done that.
It’s not time. Not yet.
Scott has been good for me. For a while, anyway. He knows me well. Well enough.
Why does he want a break? Is it the wedding? Is it M? Did I cause it somehow?
I don’t want this. I want him with me. Still.
Today’s not our expiration date. Not yet.
I won’t let this be the end of my story with Scott. Not at Matt’s wedding. That’s something that M. would do. Hell no.
What will Teller think? He had predicted this. Well, not this. That Scott wouldn’t last. That I would sabotage.
In all honesty, Teller wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.
If Scott and I have expired, that won’t be a bad thing. I won’t let it. But he’ll have to put it in a letter. Not a napkin. Stories must end as they started, right?
If this has to end, at least I’ll be myself again. Only better.
Just not yet.
 
 
 

 
38: P.S. 
Valerie,
Selfishness is a very important trait of yours, and I will continue to encourage you to use it to the best of your advantage. I guess that a letter is a proper (if not poetic) ending for a wonderful chapter which started precisely with letters. And which also was somewhat ignited out of my curiosity, my gravitation, and meditations. Despite our uncomfortable silences, I shall not keep silent what must be said.
Over the past couple of days, I’ve been mulling the subject of “us” trying to figure out what was wrong, or at least when/where the symptoms had appeared in an attempt to trace the problem. After much consideration, I realized that it was not a problem but problems—plural. Mainly, we fell into a rut, which was positive and had its own balance before: you would come up with whims that turned out to be enjoyable adventures for us both (oh, the road-trips), and/or I would come up with a plan upon which we could agree and enjoy (picnics, for instance) or I would have to push you a bit before you caved and enjoyed it in the end. There was equilibrium between your spontaneity and my discipline that worked. However, somewhere along the path, sometime not long ago, our energies (and timing) lost their sync: you would reject my plans more energetically than I would counter, and your whims would fail to fit our schedules.
On my part, I realize that I wouldn’t push you as hard as before because I (still and always will) dread to trample your cherished liberty in the slightest, and thus get into your bad light. Like with bar of soap, I didn’t squeeze too hard, fearing you would slip away, not knowing that I was basically dropping the soap otherwise.  Also, the crumbling of my plans paired with my already-existing uncertainty about my immediate future have made me redirect (as you know) much of my energies and efforts towards straightening that up—in my head, in my life, in real life.  The support that you’ve given me through this has been great, but it all still relies upon me and my work. What I do or leave undone marks what I will or won’t achieve, and as much as I am very self-confident, it can still shake me up.
I believe it nicked and dented several of our personal basics: you went to the last symphony and opera so that I wouldn’t miss them, not truly because you wanted to go; reading became increasingly upsetting for you; bike rides turned out to be frustrating events that got the best of me; I failed at surprising you with feasts of food, chocolate, and wine; even movies and TV declined as experiences to share.
Put simply, the way things unfolded washed away my charm to overpower (to the lack of a better word) your refusals and to be a more positive influence for you. Apparently, despite my savior complex, I cannot play the hero all that well—and for that, I’m sorry.
What I’m not sorry for is all the good things and enhancements we’ve prompted in each other even when looking into the darkest abyss. You’ll always be, as corny as it may sound, my first kiss and the one who taught me how to ride a bike. You’ve been a tremendous support and inspiration to many of my endeavors, and a terrific companion for my adventures and adaptation, giving me a view literally from a tree-top. For all of that, I am unspeakably grateful.
I hope that whatever good influences and habits I might have prompted in you, you keep for your own sake, benefit, and just to make your life a little easier, rather than discard them. I know I’ll keep riding my bike (eventually) and drinking bubble tea from time to time, among other things that I know I don’t notice anymore.
I know that we will share more experiences as good friends—specially if you continue to accept and request my help whenever you need it. Please don’t negate my serviceable nature as friend by keeping me out of the loop of your troubles that I’ve come to know so well.
We don’t act as good friends in public—we are good friends regardless. We have always been good friends first and anything else afterwards.
Having exceeded the page I intended, and with the sun breaking dawn, I’ll close with the last thing that remains to be said:
 
With the love sprung from knowing you deeply and being there,
Scott.

 
39: Last Call“I can’t believe I fell for Scott.”
“It was bound to happen eventually.”
Dammit, Teller. Of course Teller knew. In a way, I knew. It was a matter of chance and damned statistics. Just like I knew we would end up talking about it like this.
Scott was now my past. My future had no name. Not yet.
“Do you think that was love? Me and Scott?”
“I hope so.”
Dammit. I hope so too. Not sure why. I guess I just felt something more. “Why do you say that?”
“Because you were happy, even if just briefly.”
There it is. The truth. Always making an appearance between us.
Teller, my single malt partner. Teller, my oracle of truth. Dammit, Teller.
I don’t know what comes next. But I know I’ll move forward. The future is fuzzy. And that’s exciting. I missed excitement.
Teller had warned me about Scott. But he also pushed me to try. There was a cliff. I happened to fly. He knew I would. For a while, anyway.
Back to my democratic self, I guess. Time to drive ahead.
The Sunday Brunch Club will judge me for all of this. Fair. I judge their life decisions too. Whatever. I don’t care.
My dad will be a little relieved. And extremely disappointed. I wonder if he’ll remain friends with Scott. They both need that.
Many more  suitors will come. They always do. Their names don’t matter, though. They’re extras. I’m the protagonist.
Dammit. What’s wrong with me?
At the end of the day, there’s only one certain future--this, like now. Teller and me. No matter what, I can always count on this. On us.
Teller, my trusted confidant. Teller, my unconditional constant. Teller, the omniscient narrator of our life.
 
 
 

 
40: And at the End, a Beginning…I’m telling you I need you…
Val didn’t say those words, but between us, verbalizing them was overkill. We were done with weddings, parties, romances, acquaintances, the world—at least for a while. And that was fine. It was warranted after the weeks we had lived through. We had Val’s apartment, gifts from Dionysus, and our silence. That was enough for us.
When did Bonnie and Clyde know they had lost?
“I can’t believe I fell for Scott.”
“It was bound to happen eventually.”
“Oh, so now I’m as predictable as one of your characters?”
“Bound to happen out of sheer probability and your suitor statistics.”
 She smirked, recovering some of her spirits with the words. “You’re right. Scott was just a statistic. Pure math.”
That smirk.
“Do you think that was love? Me and Scott?”
“I hope so.”
She perked up with intrigue and rebellion. “Why do you say that?”
Silence would not do between us with that question. It merited truth.
“Because you were happy, even if just briefly.”
We looked at each other, straight past the fog of the last few months and with the weight of our complicity. 
When did Fitz and Hem know they were history?
“What do you think I’ll do next, then?” Val’s voice carried an undercurrent of mischief and sabotage.
“I’m not playing that game with you.” Single malt did not wash away that lie.
“But you are. You always are.” Curiosity and amusement forces another of her smirks.
That smirk.
“Well, I know you’ll find someone. It won’t last forever, but you two will last.” The prophecy seemed to have escaped my mouth on its own volition.
When did Penelope and Odysseus realize the ending of their story?
“How do you know?”
“Because I know you. You didn’t even believe in love. Until Scott.”
“I still don’t. You don’t either.”
“We wouldn’t be here if that were true.” My words caught us both off guard.
We looked at each other, lifting our spirits and raising a toast with our glasses, as always. Val smirked at me over her shoulder as we snuggled closer together against the uncertainties of the past and the future.
That smirk.
Silence, an eternal bond.
We knew we had been warned: there would always be us.