SCHLACHTFELD
by
Andy Matthews
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Andy Matthews on Smashwords
Schlachtfeld
Copyright © 2010 by Andy Matthews
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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SCHLACHTFELD
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My Hands On Her Back; Slipping Into Sleep
Sleep hides from me, and I chase her. Through rivers of golden silk, pouring over the folds of my beloved, through drapes of veiled flesh. I love a woman twice my size, and she captivates me utterly, taking every ounce of my own quiet self and draining me of strength with her passion. I crave the emptiness; it makes me more full, and thus fulfilled.
Have you ever been in love? Has the richness poured over you, imbued each atom of your being with something more than the sum of your physical whole? Have you ever seen past the pure simplicity of what is physically present and glimpsed the faceted jewel of another, flawed and imperfect being? My love has flesh to spare, a myriad folds of un-needed store, and I adore every excess handful, for inside this prison lies a stone of kinds.
Sleep torments me. It twists near, then far, then leaves me entirely alone. I nestle close to my beloved's back, sneak my hands as far as I can reach around her belly, then breathe in her heavenly scent. My tribute to her beauty is a pillar of stone, lying flat against the cleft of her buttocks, as sleep ripples gently across her frame, denying me but finding full satisfaction in her easy rest.
I am scared. Earlier this evening a group of youths, happy with their place in the world, decided to displace ours. They promised to return, and so I am scared. I sleep alone, and yet my beloved, her bulk rising and falling with a beauty measured only in pounds, sleeps beside me. Sleep runs from me; it will not come.
I pray for sleep. Let it come.
Stormcoming
We'd seen the storm coming. Far out to sea, black clouds had gathered, waiting patiently for the final straggling wisps of ink to join their mass before softly whirling inshore. Occasional snaps of electricity would crack open reality between cloudscape and sea spray as these vapourous behemoths approached, permitting the light of God through for only an instant at a time. We ached to feel that power, but fear kept us locked in place, rooted in silent worship of the storm's power. We delved into pockets, and wished our scarf knots well.
Behind us, the sun glowed, half-concealed by the horizon but still coating everything that faced us with a warm, marmalade glow. There was no heat in its light, but we imagined ourselves warmed by its radiance, even as the storm approached. Cold wind rushed from the narrowing gap between the storm and our tiny patch of land, and we shrugged our collars higher. That was when my beloved thrust her arm through my own, sliding her hand down to meet mine. We blessed the wide pockets of my coat, that day, and vowed always to check that future garments would allow us this simple, strangely romantic act.
As the sea swallowed up electric blue and spewed forth white foam, we sipped from polystyrene containers of coffee, and my beloved bought a greasy burger from a sea front food vendor. I remembered my childhood and suddenly wanted candy floss, but knew that when the rain came the fluffed cloud of spun sugar would all turn to clots of dark pink; it hardly seemed worth it. My beloved ate, and I sipped, and we both kept one hand free to keep hold of each other, for fear that the intensity of the weather would mirror real life, tearing us apart with so little ceremony.
And then the rain fell; hard, so hard, like silver nails intent on pinning down the last glimmerings of orange light, fading now as the sun slid completely out or reach, leaving us to the storm. It is at times like this, standing alone in the face of something majestic and terrible, that I feel closest to alive.
Stellar Regions
I am blessed by starlight, here in this bed. We had the ceiling removed some years ago, replaced with toughened sheets of glass that we might enjoy the night to the extents of its potential. Each morning, for the first month or so, my beloved or I would climb to the flat roof of the kitchen and reach out over the glass with a soaped mop, cleaning the glass to an elegance of expansive crystal. Now, in autumn, the dry leaves have worked their way into the corners of the glass, for neither of us makes the effort to keep out the rot. We still have the stars, blessing us in our sleep with silent beatific rays, but their glimmering genuflection is framed by decay. It's somehow more real. Occasionally, we dwell on this.
When winter comes, wild geese circle overhead, their cries made faint by altitude, but resonating, throbbing with poetry - a longing for the marshland's soft ooze, the bitter taste of green chard crushed in a spoon-like beak, and the necessity of maintaining a distance just so from the flock-mate ahead. Sometimes, when winter is truly here, we wake inside an ice floe, bathed in chill and milky light. Crystal tendrils spill over the expanse above us, and we begin our day somewhat humbled by this glacial water's beauty. We dare not think of the heating bill.
Summer brings pigeons, and with them their filth. A black cat prowls over, and observes our sleeping forms: a man-mountain and his beloved, spooned together, squeezed into this. Here in this bed, I am blessed with starlight, surrounded by decay. In this bed it is warm, and my beloved gives out the heat of devotion. I am happy here; for now, at least.
Sometimes fate intervenes: terribly late or wonderfully in time
I hated this place. Over there, by the window, that was where I slept. Slept, and laid, too - an agony of waiting for each hour to pass before the next round of medication. Five days in total. But you remember, because it was the second day when you came. I'd tried to eat something: cold toast, fresh from the breakfast trolley, followed by a dispensed chunk of porridge without enough salt. I followed that with a shave using a hospital ‘welcome pack’ razor, which wasn't sharp and did nothing to soothe my battered skin; some welcome, I grimly joked with you later. Every tiny cut the doctors had sealed up with that glue, whatever it is they use nowadays instead of stitches; every tiny sealed-up cut ached afresh, and one or two saw fit to shed bloody protest. And this was right over there, just there, by the window.
But on the second day you came to visit. I can't imagine what it was like, a whole night with no news, no knowledge of anything save that I went out at five to pick up the take-away meal, and didn't come back. You wouldn't think two blocks was enough to get lost in, and it's faintly ridiculous that you crushed the twenty into my hand as I left so I didn't have to change back out of my gardening trousers. 'Save you getting your wallet,' you whispered as you pressed it into my hand, then a brush of lips followed, after my short-changed protest, by a proper second kiss. No keys, no wallet, and to the ambulance crew, no home. That kiss kept me going when the morphine couldn’t hack it, or so I romantically pretend.
I saw the car come at me with perfect detail. One woman, she just stepped away from me, staggered backwards, her hands outstretched in horror, then lunged forward to grab me, too late. It all went dark then, and all I remember is the feeling of dried blood in my throat, and dark bruises on the back of my hands from the needles. Someone shone lights in my eyes, but I didn't understand they were helping. They told me afterwards that they get sworn at all the time by patients, dazed and confused. I slept all night, apparently, aside from these tiny intrusions where they shone and I swore.
Strange to be showing you this. But fate plays these games; plays silly buggers with us all.
He's down here, they tell me, and they've finally caught up with him after a second hit and run didn't go quite so far in his favour. Funny to see him in that bed. Brings back memories.
Tree Cutting
This piece of card is folded perfectly, its edge smoothed down so crisply and neatly you'd suspect a machine were involved. It was not. My beloved uses a bone to press the leaves of card together, drawing it swiftly but firmly down the fold with the precise confidence of a year's practice. She's not been doing it long, but she's doing it well.
My tiny silver trees are mis-shapen and wrong. She accepts them anyway, puts them into the pile that grows before her, and when she thinks I'm not looking carefully puts them to one side. It's sweet at the moment, so I decide to test her. My trees become increasingly wrong; this one has four branches on one side, and three on the other. This one's missing a trunk, and the final one she accepts has a Charlie Chaplin hat sticking out of the top. She laughs as she finally works out that I know.
'You shouldn't do that, you know,' I say, surprised to find that I mean it. 'You can't compromise yourself for someone else. If I'm doing it wrong, tell me.' I feel my lips go into a pout, and realise that I'm actually cross. I make a conscious effort to breathe in, and shake it away with a quick exhalation. 'It's only card-making,' she says. 'It's not important.' 'This is only card-making,' I say. 'Next time, it might only be love-making, might only be wedding vows. You have to be more careful. We could go through the next twenty years with you only pretending to come.'
She smiles at me, and I know she's joking when she says: 'It's worked so far.'
I take over the folding, and she cuts the trees. I'm slower, but the trees come out better.
Creeping Toward Bethlehem
It was in the summer of this year that we finally realised I was having some sort of breakdown. Life's a lot more peaceful now, and like some sickly child that couldn't handle too much reality too soon, I no longer watch films that contain violence. My beloved could never bear to watch, and would sit beside me on the sofa, peeking through pink sausage fingers, trying not to look but needing to know it had ended. I'd try hard to tell her when it was safe to look, but I wasn't always accurate. I never told her wrong on purpose, though; these little moments of mistrust are the death of any serious relationship.
Summer 2007 - July, to be precise. I took a highlighter pen and went through a Gary Rhodes cookbook highlighting every instance where Mr Rhodes had used the word 'eats' in reference to an inanimate object being consumed. For example:
"This creamy lentil risotto eats very well as a winter dish, or can accompany several fish or meat dishes."
"A good basic Yorkshire pudding eats so well with a rich gravy, and also eats well with fish. (...) They eat almost like a home-made naan bread, but with a lighter texture."
"...this dish not only looks good, but eats even better."
I'd used up six highlighter pens by the time my beloved returned home from work, and I'd only managed the first book and twelve recipes from the second. I remember she took me in her arms, and her body shook as she held me close, her tears making the shoulder of my t-shirt wet. They weren't warm; each tear felt like a tiny droplet of iced water falling onto me. Looking to the side, there on the table, on the open page of the open book, I saw one phrase, mocking me. "We've since found that the relish eats well warm with the hot patties, as well."
I held her close. We sought help together, and although it's hard, we're coping. Television is different now; we no longer watch whatever we like, instead my darling TiVos it and hunts through for cookery slots. I can no longer take them, and you can get it to skip over them. It's all part of the therapy, I'm told.
Wear And Tear
I can count the number of times I've made her cry on one, full hand. Five times. Each one a different kind of tears, from wrenched-heart anguish to spilt liquid joy. Two times make me sorry, once makes me proud, and another time makes me think of when things were new. The last time I don't feel anything; it's blank and plain.
That was the time she found me in the grip of some sort of breakdown, scrubbing out words; the pen scrawling out help without spelling, just thin, inch-long bands of ink. She cried then, as she held me. I count this time as neutral, though I feel sorry it happened, in the same way you might feel sorry that there's famine in the world, or that your neighbour experienced a break-in last week. You can't do much about it now, and you're not directly responsible. That kind of feeling.
Another time we'd just emerged from a registry office. In a way, although these are the tears I feel most proud of, I know that I'm no more responsible for them than the pen incident; I just happened to be there. But they're tears for me, and that makes me feel something akin to pride. My mother used to tell me it came before a fall, but one day I thought long and hard about that. I told her that everything falls one day, whether you're proud of it or not. I may be Ozymandias, but so are you. It'll all turn to dust one day, so you may as well be proud of it while you're able.
One night, after too much beer, we came home arguing about music. Wanting to end the conversation quickly, I asked her to fetch the CD we were talking about. I stood near the music player, as though I were going to make some point. When she handed me the CD, I threw it in the toilet. She slapped my face, hard, and then hugged me. I hated the sound of those tears, but I know I deserved to listen. 'Don't leave me, I'm sorry,' she sobbed, and I felt as bad as I ought to.
The doctors were kind, one day, after her test. It gave us both a bad feeling, but we were wrong. Turns out that doctors are usually like that. We felt stupid, later, as we talked. The tests were clear, and tears of relief gathered in the corners of her eyes, just enough to glisten but not enough to fall. We felt glad, but stupid.