Why would I allow myself to love? For me love is both a selfish indulgence and an invitation to despair. It is destructive to the object of my affections, for if they return my love they make themselves a part of a relationship that will can only leave them childless and in their grave. One could cogently opine that for me to allow anyone to love me borders upon naked criminality.

In very condensed form those are the arguments I use with myself when I find myself tempted to fall in to that delusional state. They carry no small weight with me, both morally and intellectually and I wield them as a club to destroy any hope I might foolishly allow myself to hold when it comes to the subject of love.

But love is an insidious creature, determined to have her way, undaunted by the most vitriolic attacks and desperate defenses. Love is as much my nemesis as Time, seeking to draw me in to a state of madness from which I fear I may never escape, taunting me with the promise of happiness, then fetching me up upon my personal Scylla and Charybdis of reality and despair.

Love and Horror: opposing faces of the same bitter coin.

So, why? Weakness, selfishness, narcissism, jealousy, all those apply.

Weakness and selfishness are self-explanatory. Narcissism plays its part, as my vanity would demand that somebody could love me. But those are truly weak forces in comparison to the lessons of my life. They have little sway over me.

Jealousy, there is one monster that gnaws at me. It is difficult beyond description to live amongst you, to interact with you, to become part of your lives even in the simple, mostly tangential ways I do. To see your friendships, your loves, your crises, and your tragedies… and know that there is no way that I can ever truly be a part of them. To always stand apart, knowing that all of what you call your lives will flow past me and vanish in to the mists of what was but is no more. And I will remember, at least that small slice that I was permitted to share. And I will be alone, insulated from your fate, an alien in every meaning of that word.

And in those times when my heart is cold and my thoughts are dark and lonely, I will hate you for that.

Hardly sounds like a recipe for romance, yes? Yet that was precisely where I was when I encountered the last great love of my life. Forced to abandon my situation because too many years were piling atop me, lacking the resources to reach a place where I could tap what monies I had stowed away I found myself in a Mexican frontier port selling my body for food, whiskey and what coin I could muster to gather what I needed to make an attempt for the East. To say my mood was foul would be the understatement of the ages.

Enter Jeremy, facing arrest for not being Catholic and desperate to head in to the wilderness before the commandante’s men caught up with him. Hardly the time for a man to take up for a night with a young red haired whore with a reputation for surliness and a sharp tongue. Yet there he was, and because he was courteous I took him in. Because he was gentle and kind he touched that part of me that despised my own self-pity. Because he was a unique man, he ripped open my oh-so-carefully constructed armor of cynicism. And when he had done all that, and I lay helpless and defenseless, I foolishly let just the slightest glimmer of hope grow in me. Not love, not yet, just some hope of getting away from the hell I was trapped in. And in two days and nights together, Jeremy never laid a hand upon me.

“Your brogue is atrocious,” he commented, “any real Irishman would catch you out before you spoke five words.”

“Lucky for me then that I’m dealing with Mexicans and lost boys from Philadelphia, yes?”

We were packing to set out for the United States, cross-country via Mexico. We had pooled our money to purchase supplies, and one very sturdy mule. Jeremy impressed me by what he bought- shot and powder, blankets and canvas, spare clothing, tools, some dried and salted beef and pork- it was clear to me he was ably prepared to live off the land. I could feel his apprehensions about me- I was still an unknown to him, but his sense of honor would not let him abandon me, particularly not after taking my money.

I excused myself as he finished tying down the packs on the mule. Back in my little hovel of a room I gratefully stripped off my dress, petticoats, and corset essentially losing all the useless acres of clothing. I put on my last good set of undergarments (think a neck to knees linen garment, somewhat akin to a union suit) then leggings, over which I wore a simple homespun skirt hanging halfway down my shins and a loose blouse that tied high about my neck. My hair had to be unpinned and let down and I was a bit surprised that I had let it get so long- nearly touching the floor. Quick work with a knife brought it to just below my shoulders and I tied it in a ponytail. I finished off with a leather wide brimmed hat, thick stockings and a new pair of sturdy boots, then slung my own rickety pistol in its holster over my shoulder along with my powder flask and shot bag, stuffed my knife in my boot, fetched up my last two bottles of whiskey worth the name and strode out the door.

“My, my!” Jeremy exclaimed, “Let me see what we have here.” I turned for him, smiling because I could feel his approval and relief at seeing me properly accoutered for the wilderness. “You look like a boy,” he finally commented.

“Moi? I assure you I have had many comments upon my appearance, but never that!” but I was laughing because I could see the jest in his eyes.

“Have you ever fired that?” He asked, gesturing to my pistol.

“Umm, not recently, no.”

He took it from my holster and examined it with a practiced eye. “French,” he noted, “this was a nice piece of work. Have you ever fired it?”

“Once, last year,” I confessed, “It nearly broke my arm.”

“Well then, we will have to make a point of teaching you the proper handling of a firearm, once I get it back in to proper condition.” He handed it back to me and I returned it to its holster, then he swept his arm in a broad arc to the east. “Shall we?”

It was a long walk.

Posted on September 25th, 2003 by Zsallia
Filed under: Immortality, Love, Regrets, The Past