Chronicles of Loves ForewarnedTo 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…”
“Writers are always selling somebody out…”
25: Abyss in Wonderland Seventy-seven percent chance of catastrophic failure. Teller knows the risk. I’ve told him as much. It’s why I do. There’s no reasoning with him in terms of Mallory. Dammit, Teller. “I can handle her, Val. I’m the only one who can.” “That doesn’t mean that you should.” Hundred percent chance that he knows I’m right. Mallory keeps Teller intrigued. What he calls spontaneity anyone would tag as instability. Teller knows the ending of those stories, but the middle part he yearns to figure out. Fifty percent chance that Teller regrets and erases his story with M in the end. Sure, the sex is mindblowing. He swears so. But it means nothing. It’s a weapon for Mallory. And a chain for Teller. And Teller knows it. Dammit, Teller. Ninety percent chance you’re being an idiot. I’ve known Mallory for far too long. Some may say she toys with people. She doesn’t. She consumer. Not like a fire, but an abyss. Sixty percent chance Mallory sucks Teller into her abyss. Again. Teller will fall for Mallory’s tricks and I’ll have to pull him out once more. Teller seeks inspiration. Mallory inspires concern. Teller desires passion. Mallory craves the void. Teller creates. Mallory destroys. Forty-four percent chance they cause a black hole together. Teller just likes Mallory because she’s pure chaos. He cannot predict her. She’s an aimless trip through Wanderland. Red and blue pills swallowed at once. Then follow the frenetic bunny. Dammit, Mallory. Why, Teller? Mallory likes the attention. She thrives on the energy. And resents it all. Typical Mallory. A constant contradiction. They began badly. They’ll end worse. Teller will take the worst of it all. And I can’t stop it. Only Teller can. Thirty-six percent chance he will stop. Dammit, Teller. You know better. I know better. If Teller stops, he won’t just let Mallory go. He will retaliate. Mallory doesn’t know that. Mallory consumes people. Teller burns souls. They’ll definitely end worse. Twenty percent chance they don’t crush each other. Dammit. What odds. At the end of the day, I’ll be the one picking up the pieces to put Teller back together. We know the odds of that. And he will have something to write about. In spite of Mallory herself. One hundred percent chance of that too. Dammit, Teller. 26: Chance I must tell him. That’s my mission for tonight. I must tell Scott we should be a couple. I want us to be. I must tell him tonight. That’s the sole reason for this party anyway. Old friends. Old flames. All here to witness. What a night. Gloria will be thrilled. And probably relieved. Matt might shit himself. Or not. Depends if he even notices. He might be too busy hitting on Hillary. Hillary will cheer my choice. She won’t care. She’s a good friend. Dutiful. Even if emotionally absent. Or empty. I can’t tell anymore. I must tell Scott. Dawn and Josh will be happy for me. If they come. They may be too busy with each other. The story of their life. Disgusting. Conroe will regret it. Truth be told, I invited him to spite him. I hope he comes. He’ll see what he lost. I must tell Scott. I can’t wait. I’ll have to tell my dad. I’ll call him tomorrow. We’re due for an update anyway. He can pass the news to my mom. After our team’s soccer match. I don’t know how Teller will react. He’ll love to have proof that he was right. All long. He might even refrain from teasing us. Damn Teller. I must tell Scott. Where is he? The anticipation is killing me. Well, having to wait. Ugh. Patience… I should mingle. I should play hostess. Whatever. There’s snacks. And drinks. That’s enough. I’m not needed. I wonder if Matt knows about Conroe. Poor Conroe, his life would become hell. Matt would make sure. I should tell him at some point. They both deserve the truth. No secrets. “So, are you telling him tonight?” Dammit, Teller. You know better. “Him who?” “Scott. You can’t fool me.” Too true. “Tell him what?” “That his goddess has heard his prayers.” “Don’t try to be clever with me.” “I’m not trying. I just am. And you like it.” Dammit, Teller. “Yes, I will tell Scott tonight.” If he shows up. “Tell me what?” Finally. “Oh, you’re going to love it. I’ll leave you two. I know a Devil’s threesome when I see one.” Dammit, Teller. Fuck off. I must tell him. Just say it. “So, what do you want to tell me?” “I really liked your letter the other day.” “That’s the first time you have liked one of them.” “Not the first time. Just hadn’t told you.” “I’m delighted to hear that. Really.” I must tell him. Do it. “I want to tell you something.” “I wrote you a song too.” I just can’t handle. What has been wrong with me? “Seriously?” His innocent grin. His hazel eyes. I must tell him. “Yes. I never kid about songs. Or you.” All my suitors have been shit. That’s what’s been wrong with me. Until Scott. Teller was right. Dammit, Teller. I won’t tell him. There’s no need. I must kiss him. 27: Choice Party’s on Masks off Tonight’s the night I’ll be her choice She can’t deny us anymore I can’t wait much longer Tonight is meant for romance The romantic climax of us Hearts open Eyes closed Tonight’s the night I’ll be her choice Talks bringing us closer Thoughts binding us tight Tonight is meant for romance The romantic climax of us Love wins Darkness fails Tonight’s the night I’ll be her choice Teller’s on her side for better Teller’s on my side for worse Tonight’s meant for romance The romantic climax of us Val will say it first We’ll be together at last Tonight’s the night I’ll be her choice I’ll see her in the moonlight We’ll wake in the sunlight Tonight is meant for romance The romantic climax of us We shall kiss My dream come true Tonight’s the night We have no choice 28: Chronicle It wasn’t an engagement celebration but a party for the damned, and I was certain because I knew everyone’s sins and demons too damn well. If I was in Hell, might as well sojourn like Dante, starting at the bar and letting myself drift among that lost generation. “Allan Teller honors us with his presence, folks!” Matt parted the crowd like Moses and embraced me sideways like comrades ought to do. Matt, always the overhyped host, endlessly in love with Gloria, yet forever unable to fetter the foils of his flesh. Over the years, he had counted the freckles of every woman at the party, feigning to have forgotten them all for good, yet he must reminisce from time to time when canvasing Gloria’s caramel skin. Matt, the Saxon Casanova and sexy inventor that would become an industry king, about whom women would say I undressed him back when. Val had been the only one who escaped his charm, and both God and I knew how hard he had tried and would continue to not give up. “Teller! I hope you’re having a good time.” Gloria was dressed in her usual white, as heavy-handed of a wardrobe selection as a Renaissance painting. She loved Matt as much as he loved her, but she didn’t love herself enough to accept that her blindness to his philandering would never amount to a blessing or bliss. Yet, they would finally be married in a few weeks, together as one, just as she had always fantasized about her fairy tale. “Wanna hear the latest from the lab, Teller?” Hillary materialized suddenly, showing her shoulders and not wearing a lab coat for a change. And with her, Josh materialized too. He remained a step behind her, adequately close, in indivisible unity, but never at the same level. Hillary used to soar high and then she found Josh. Only love can give you wings or chain you to the ground. What a waste of wings. “Teller!” Clarissa said everything else with her tight hug. Not long before, Clarissa would be almost a statue in a corner of the party. She had become open, expressive, lively. Val had done that to her friend, and Clarissa knew I was the only one who also knew. She knew some day her story would be heard louder than herself. “Hey man.” Awkwardness dripped from those words. I nodded at Conroe, half civilized courtesy and half superhuman effort not to follow Hem’s example and start an impromptu boxing match in public. He would forever be the guy who almost made Val cry, making her regret to be in her own skin. His words were weak and worthless to me, just as his person. Where was Scott? Many other attendees, gathered under the guise of celebrating Matt’s and Gloria’s engagement, blended into the mass known as the party crowd. All of them I knew well enough, their stories so burdened with ennui and blasé that they would all be a waste of words and ink. Pitiful how some people couldn’t even damn themselves interestingly. And surprisingly, Mallory was absent. How uncharacteristic and charitable of her to let someone else, Gloria and Matt of all possible people, keep the spotlight. Her absence was a true engagement gift from her. Where was Val? I had seen everyone except her. Like Dante, I had to find Beatrix to know I was out of Hell. And I found her. And Scott. Outside. Alone. Kissing. I’ll be damned. 29: Bad Habits My life is going back to normal. Slowly and steadily. Twenty one days to go. Crap. Normal doesn’t cut it for me. Honestly, it never has. But I dealt with it. My life, full of anxiety, bouts of workaholism, bed hopping, boots, bunch of boys, little men, dream crashing, and drinking—dear, dear drinking. Scott though helped me say goodbye to all that. For a little while at least. With him, I hit the pause button and reshuffled the playlist. But I know me. Time is running out. Our one-hundred day trial heads to a heed. I already feel my reality, my normal, creeping back into motion. Crap. What should I do? “Isn’t that always the question?” Dawn seemed to be reading my thoughts, as usual. Even more so whenever I made an effort to conceal them from myself. And as usual, the answer is that I know only what not to do rather than what I should do. Or want to do. Luckily, I have my Sunday Brunch Club. Well, to call it mine sins of selfishness. I mean our Sunday Brunch Club. Everyone needs one. Your group of close friends who know you better than yourself. And with whom you can make life-altering decisions. Or just chat about celebrity buzz or take tequila shots until the meek light-weights black out. At the end of the day, I’d be lost without these ladies. And they’d be much worse without me as well. I wouldn’t have anyone female to talk to. And they wouldn’t have someone in common to talk about. “Val, seriously, it’s the story of your life: you orbit but never attach, like a freaking satellite.” Hillary always referenced science. And she was always right. “It’s your cycle, like the moon.” Crap. All three of them know me too fucking well. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up side by side with certain people. You never lose touch, despite family deaths, career moves, broken hearts, personal tragedies, national crises, emotional letdowns, college experiences, and romantic disasters. Actually, you never lose touch precisely because you shared the ride. You get to know each other too fucking well. Besides, we all know our roles in our little private show. Knowing what role to play, what archetype to represent definitely helps you become who you are. Here you have Hillary, the calculating scientist. She always mentions something scientific and uses polysyllabic words like polysyllabic. She also has always been the one with the life as steady as a chemical reaction according to its formula. Josh has been the sodium to her chlorine since high school, when they became lab partners. She never explodes, so they never explode. Perfectly stable. They’re solid. And everyone knows they’re the only ones with a bond strong enough to withstand having kids. Some think Hillary settled. I used to believe that too. She could’ve cured cancer already if she didn’t waste so much time with Josh. And she would have cured cancer. But that would have merely made her successful, not happy. Very few of us can live satisfied exclusively by our accomplishments. Even fewer can do so with solitude as a companion. Hillary had proven to be neither. Somebody else will have to cure cancer. Then there’s Dawn. The all-too-human member of our club. She’s the one living and feeling and loving and falling and hurting and longing and caring and worrying and not knowing any better. Always existing to an extreme. And because she has had more cumulative experience that the rest of us together, she always knows our outcomes better than ourselves. She still has no clue about her own. That’s the curse of those who seize the world. Uncertainty remains their only constant, thus their limitless advantage and unfathomable threat when seizing the world. Dawn will always be the one never second-guessing herself. And always suffering the consequences of living to a full extent. Clarissa used to be the exact opposite. We used to claim brought balance to the club, but that was just plain wrong. Living in her head had trapped her. Even after joining us. Then college life exposed her and we finally had the chance to free her. Now she always smiled, always talked, and loved herself nonstop. Gone are the days when we would chat while she kept silent. In her mind, Clarissa prayed and begged to feel and deserve to be normal—whatever the fuck that meant. Hillary and Dawn suspected Clarissa’s problem. But I knew. I could see what she was hiding, what had been locked inside her that peeked out only when she drank too much and thought too little. And since I knew, I gave her a hand to find her way out. It was college anyway. The one-time, written-off opportunity to find yourself through others. The experiment wasn’t easy, but it was pleasant. Raw feelings, curious discoveries, naked truths, deeper touches, virgin territory, and the ecstasy found at the end (or the beginning) of the rainbow. There was no wildness involved. It wasn’t tender either. Where would be the fun in that? Ultimately, that experiment was a friend breaking out a friend from an inhumane and dark prison. Clarissa was now out in the light, free from the cave of her mind, living her life in a way that some still call abnormal but that Clarissa simply tags as positively special. Meanwhile, I’ve felt no inclination to relive the affair further than as a story to share with Teller and our graves. “M. never wants our help. She just wants the attention. That will always be her biggest problem.” Clarissa wasn’t as underhanded with between the lines as she was between the sheets. Crap. M… Mallory. The missing member. The lost lady, drowned in her lake of self-pity and rapids of neglect. She had tried to become our drama queen without realizing that we ran a republic in which traumas, dilemmas, and regrets get fair and equal representation through us, the incumbents. It’s still not clear if we had cast her out or she had exiled herself, but she ceased to curse us with her presence all the same. She was too busy luring and confusing suitors, getting abused by her non-lover of the month, and generally wasting the talents she never fully grasped. Can you consider unfulfilled talent “wasted”, or was it ever really there? Hillary couldn’t forgive Mallory for her lack of prudence and overabundance of cleavage around Josh. Dawn condemned her for stalling life with her heavy sleeping and crippling indecision, always dependent on somebody else’s choices. Clarissa, though unspoken, resented M.’s disregard for her own freedom. And for me, Mallory’s most heinous crime and capital sin had been that, when she could have become a goddess with her talents and gifts, she allowed herself to be turned into a doormat by those around her—the Sunday Brunch Club included, I guess. Worst of all, she had the knack to drag Teller down with her, every time. I’m afraid that he will end up with her, or worse, writing about her, trying to turn her into his Zelda. Crap. “You know, this guy Scott, he really sounds like Notebook material.” All three nodded and silently judged me for my impending sabotage. Crap. Yes. They were right because in the end, there was me: Val, the quasi-femme fatale who brings despair upon herself by her own volition. How many times had I done something because I had been told I shouldn’t, or worse, that I couldn’t? How many guys had I gone after precisely due to their lack of interest or flagrant unavailability? How many other guys had I rejected and emotionally destroyed, with prejudice, because they had expressed genuine good intentions and the disposition to do anything to win me over? How many times had I been left with only me to blame for getting exactly what I wanted—to be my own person in spite of myself? Too many times is the appropriate answer for all those rhetorical yet painfully accurate questions. “You two have had such a good time together that you’ll ruin it soon.” “Your bad habit won’t die.” “You’re a ticking bomb. You’re aware of that, right?” Twenty one days until I derail my life back into normal. There’s no tinge of doubt. Crap. 30: Inspirational How do you even start The Great American Novel? Seriously. How can an author even dare to begin writing a masterpiece? What holy combination of words can cast the spell? Sing to me, oh muses… There’s the blank page, every writer’s eternal foe and strange friend, since there can’t be a writer without it. A painter needs a canvas, and a god needs darkness before creating light. Yet, defeating the blank page sets apart the auteurs from the amateurs, as much as power separates the demigods from the mighty Olympians. An author must write. Double, double, toil and trouble… There’s nothing to writing for one who’s a writer. You just write. You have to write. It’s like breathing. Or breeding. It’s an organic need that kindles and boils from your insides, lodged somewhere between the liver and the lizard brain. The stories play in your head over and over again. The characters play with your head, whispering lines and yelling their desires into your ear. Inspiration is needed—damn right it is. But it’s never the origin. Writing surges from within. An author just has to let it bleed onto the page, spilling ideas, drop by drop. In a place of La Mancha, which I wish not to remember… Where should I start? In media res, right? The middle of the action—amidst the reality of it all. The classic beginning—literally. The story must start where it allures and captures the reader by revealing an entire universe in one scene. Start with a bloody battle, or better, start with a party full of intrigues, humor, and unforgettable characters. Or start with a murder, a crime, a victim, a body, then follow the mystery and build upon the mayhem. Throw characters in the middle of the world and let them survive. Be a good god and allow your creatures to have lives of their own—that’s the beginning. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times… Damned be the man who knows how to do something and still fails to succeed at it. Even worse, damned be the writer who knows the plot but doesn’t pen it timely. Worst of all, damn me for not writing. Here I am, rambling a soliloquy without an audience and holding no skull but my own, instead of putting my inklings in the form that they belong. Blessed be those who accomplish things without knowing. Idiot savants, right? They may be idiots, but the savant counts for a lot more. Blessed be the writers who write by instinct, drunk with inspiration, and sobered by intellect—no excuses, no blocks, no unbeatable blank page. Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice… What’s my conflict? How do I find my climax? Am I one of those writers? I should be writing rather than wrestling with all these thoughts that serve no purpose to my story. Will the lovers live happily ever after? Will the world as we know it be saved at the end of the day? Will the hero defeat evil and get the girl? Fuck—did I really just consider a boy-gets-the-girl plot? What a cliché. I must break that. No hero. No girl. Instead, a heroine. Yes, that would work: a heroine I can bring to a climax, I’m confident. A heroine with an origin worth telling. Today, Mama died… And still, no conflict in my mind to write down. So many issues I could pick, from heists to illnesses to war—why can’t I just write? So many great themes available: hate, love, death, pride—why can’t I just write? I have no excuse. I can’t even come up with one. Perhaps I should just choose. Perhaps I need a foundation or a template or a spark that ignites my creative fire. Perhaps I do need a little inspiration and a lot of research to find my heroine and let her tell me her story. People are always asking me if I know Tyler Durden… Perhaps I just need a drink with Val. That always works. Talking to Val always breaks my block, even more so than drinking itself—always. There’s a story I know too well: relying on Val’s effect to become an actual writer. Such a writerly cliché. How can I feel so damn proud of it while being so ashamed? I lie—there’s no shame, since it’s an authorial imperative to have a great source before writing a bestseller or a classic. Even gods need raw material in order to create. Writers owe their best stories to someone else, to characters that belong elsewhere, be that life itself or someone with a face and a name not to be published in the manuscript. And I shall be no exception. If I want a heroine, I have her—Val. If I want an antihero, I have him—me. I may not know what story to tell, but I shall let my characters come to life in the page and let them figure that out themselves. Now I remember—writers must write what they know, right? We tell ourselves stories in order to live… As for my conflict, talking and drinking with Val will fix that for me. I guess this is how I dare to begin. 31: Walking Counseling Teller: check. Drinking: check. Not drunk-driving: check. So awesome to have a favorite bar four blocks away. And the night is perfect for a walk. “Watch your step. You don’t want to get those boots all muddy.” “Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?” His new face had soothing familiarity. I liked that. “Just a good Samaritan by-stander.” His smirk reminded me of smoke and mirrors. “Well, I like my boots muddy. I don’t mind getting dirty.” “You seemed like a lady who might. At least tonight.” Wow. Courteous and flirty: check. “Why don’t you walk with me and found out?” Months of dating Scott, but I still remembered all the tricks. “You’re a walker too, huh?” “My boots are made for walking, boy. Aren’t yours?” “Yes. Walking towards something. Not walking away.” Charming and smart: check. Why am I playing along? What about Scott? What’s wrong with me? “So, you live in the neighborhood?” “I wouldn’t be walking if I didn’t.” “Same. Besides, the night’s perfect for this.” “You mean a walk?” “No. Meeting a beautiful stranger.” Why am I saying these things? “That certainly makes two of us enjoying the night.” In another life, this would be a dream. The dream. A life before Scott. Or without him. Making bad choices: check. “Why did you care about my boots getting muddy, anyway?” “Because I don’t like mud stains on my bedroom carpet.” Bold and beautiful: check. That smirk. Where have I seen it before? “That sounds intriguing.” I can’t believe what I’m about to say. I never have. “But I have a boyfriend.” “Well, you won’t be getting mud on his carpet tonight, then.” “No. My carpet. My boots.” “Can we still walk together? Tonight deserves sharing.” “I’d say yes. But there’s no more walking for me. This is my building.” Dammit. Only four blocks away. “Good night then. And have a great life.” “You’re not going to ask for my number? Or tell me your name?” “That would kill the magic, wouldn’t it? The mystery’s better.” And he was gone. But the thought remains. My bad habit. Bad thoughts: checks. Beep! Text message. Teller: Are you home yet? Are you OK? Dammit, Teller. I’m not. What the fuck is wrong with me?
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