Another night, another one of those bloody parties.

If it was up to me, I'd be home 'brooding', as my friends put it. I'd like to think of it as self-realisation.

I drain the glass and get up to grab a refill. At least the wine was good. An advantage of upscale parties.

The disadvantage was the requirement for civil conversation. Less conversation and more action, was what these two faced windbags needed to unwind a little. I mentally snort at the line I spontaneously stole from Elvis. A little fun was not out of context here.

Fun. Yeah, a little of that.

Before I can safely order a drink and drown in it, I feel a tap on my shoulder. Trying not to look peeved, I attempt a smile and turn around to see who it is.

Oh no, not now. Please?

My unspoken prayer is brushed off as the inevitably invitation to dance is thrown at me.

Always perfect, I gracefully accept and mask my irritation and regret in a perfectly coordinated waltz. Hide my reluctance and resignation in cleverly simulated laughter and witty repartee.

Always perfect, always gracious and always so bloody elegant. On the outside.

Thoroughly broken and unstable within.

The waltz is agonizingly slow, and it takes me all of my control not to run screaming from the room.

The smiles and laughter are grating on me.

Finally, oh finally, not a moment too bloody soon, the music fades into nothingness, and my cry of injustice follows it. A lull and the dancers move off the floor, the players take a break and I find the opportunity up for grabs.

Hastily, yet calmly, I weave a believable set of lies before another young one comes up to me. Work, fatigue, schedule; all words to use when you really want to be vague yet convincing.

My partner of fifteen minutes looks disappointed, and I want to laugh. Bloody hell. fifteen minutes and and they think they know someone well enough to miss them. Ignorant imbeciles. Of course, none of this bleeds through the flirty smile pasted on my face.

More excuses and ten minutes later, my chauffeur is called for, my coat is checked out and I am in the receiving hall, sipping on a 'one-for-the-road.'

I do NOT have a drinking problem.

It's raining outside.

I grin, and stamp down the insane urge to get drenched. Moving to the front, near the door, I enjoy as much closeness as I can to the rain, feel the tiny splashes on my face, forming beautiful little crystals adorning my very expensive clothes.

I probably look like a fifties has been with a penchant for shiny things.

It's precious moments to revel in the apparent purity of the rain, before the car comes to a halt before me, and I am ushered to sit inside, among the luxuries I can afford, but care nothing for.

It's all about the outside. All about the money, honey. Sod everything else.

The driver is a good man. Knows precisely how much I loathe these damn gatherings. I can hear the smile in his voice as he wishes me a good evening and raises the barrier between the driver and passenger areas. Good man.

I am now ensconced in dim light, surrounded by one way glass windows and comfortable leather. And of course a well stocked mini bar.

Dully, I watch the city lights blur past and it's a long time before we come to the final stretch of countryside leading to the Manor.

The Manor. Never home. Just the Manor.

Yes, it was where I lived and spent my time when I was not rubbing shoulders with the creme de la creme of society. It was just a fortress. It would never be my home.

Magnificent, luxurious. More space than I would ever need.

Cold, lifeless and more space than I would ever need.

I rest my forehead on the cool glass and am tempted to squash my entire face on it. It feels so damn good. For days, it has been as if a fever has taken hold of me. My body feels so heated from within, and there is nothing to cure it. The water fogged, drenched pane feels wonderful for all that it is worth.

And I intend to enjoy it as long as I can.

I don't know how long it has been, but crunching gravel and the car rolling to a halt signals we have arrived.

Of course the butler and the house keeper are waiting for me. Fully dressed and barely awake.

Master of one, slave to another.

I don't even bother to hide the fact that I have had one too many to drink. They all know anyway. I hate the looks of pity and sympathy they think they hide from me.

Idiots. The lot of them. I'd prefer they look at me like the waste of space I really am.

Not for the first time, and certainly not the last, I wish I was someone else.

If I had a nickel for everytime I said that.

Besides, the whole issue is moot point anyway.

I wave them away with a slurred goodnight. They take my coat and leave me be. Good people.

The study. My study.

My den, my lair. The only place I can find solace.

I let the smell of leather bound books, polished rosewood and brass wash over me. Glorious. Warmth from the fire and the alchohol is burning me up. I need to feel cooler than this. My skin feels like I want to rip it off. I want to claw it off.

Beads of sweat form on my brow, and I don't bother to wipe them off.

My wine awaits me. In crystal glasses. Cost me a fortune, but worth it I suppose.

A good year, great taste. Sipping on the vintage brew, trailing my fingers indulgently on the smooth wood of the banisters, I find my way to the wing that houses my personal chambers.

Impersonal as they can be made.

The bath seems like a great idea. I can wash away the filthy feeling, I hope. I can try to stem the boiling of my insides. Gruesome images of melting interiors do nothing more than make me snort in amusement.

How inelegant. How normal?

Cold water, cool marble and I think I might not go mad yet. Mad as the hatter, ha.

Water sloshes out a little and forms beautiful sparkly spots on the marble. I take a minute to admire them before I use them to draw meaningless designs. I think I catch my reflection in the many mirrors. I look positively like shit. Or mad.

Or both.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I give in, though not too loudly. We don't want to wake the staff now, do we?

I wonder what makes the staff put up with my churlishness and my bouts of stupidity. Or my weirdness. Love, loyalty or money?

Who am I kidding? It's the money of course! Love and loyalty took the last train to the land of no return.

Did I mention, I have a flair for the dramatic?

It's still raining. I can see from the lovely wide windows away on one wall of the bath.

Water water everywhere...

I am so content at this point. In this moment of time. Could I stay like this till I die?

A clink and crackling, and tiny tinkling noises. The wine is gone.

But one shade of red replaces the other.

Fascinating to watch the crimson pour down my wrist to make art on the white marble. Stark and beautiful.

So beautiful that I want to see more.

A moment of pain, gone too soon to understand, and my wish is fulfilled.

Mingling with the water and the soap suds, crimson, red, maroon and pink. So many shades, so many streams of colour. Idly, I twist and turn to make them mix better. I like that.

So beautiful.

An almost childish giggle escapes me and I think it's alright. Who gives a damn?

I always loved colours. I never wore them, except on rare occasions, so people assumed I didn't like them at all.

Imbeciles. The lot of them.

I can feel the edges of darkness that cloud my vision and the numbness seeping in. I welcome them. It has been far too long.

I can see the drops on the white tiles that are slowly turning a red so dark, it is almost black. I love black too. It is a colour after all.

Too many thoughts, and I quiet them with a shush. Later. I'll think about them later.

Now, sleep calls, and I shall answer. Sleep is good.
I close my eyes, and I want to rest.

I will rest.

The last thought on my mind: I wonder who will find me first, before all goes black.

Blessed peace.

It's not over yet.

It isn't over yet.

It's his favourite place. Ours. I learned to visit the bookstores, just as he learned to sit through the movies. Somehow we blended into each other's choices.

And now, all I can hear is the quiet dejection in his voice as he said those words.

It's not over yet. Not now. He is wrong, I was wrong.

The crowds of Sunday shoppers and casually dressed tourists hamper me. I only hope that I am not too late. I only hope he has not changed.

A glimpse and I'm not sure if I imagined it. I follow anyway, hoping that I haven't.

It is him.

I'm sure; with that rigid posture, the hands tucked into his coat, as if protecting himself from the boisterous menace of Summer loiterers. Or maybe it is the world he wants to protect. From himself.

Maybe it is me he is protecting himself from.

I push past the gigglers and the imbeciles. His words, of course. I was never the one for creative insults.

For a moment, I am stopped by the memory of his retreating back, in that same coat, when he walked away from me.

From us.

Not anymore. It's not going to end now. Not like this.

In my moment of inattention, I've somehow lost him.

Again.

Fear, desperation and panic, all set in at once. I need to find him. I need him to let me find him.

For me. For us. Hopefully he wants to be found.

Bastard could be slippery if he wanted to.

Another moment, and I think he wants to be that Bastard.

I've lost him.

A man hurrying somewhere bumps into me from behind, and pushes past with a muttered oath.

I couldn't care less. My chest feels heavy without this added apology, anyway.

Mindlessly, I walk forward, cross the street and everything seems to happen in slow motion around me.

Horns blare and curses galore, but right now, it feels like nothing compared to the sinking feeling in my heart.

I'm not over you yet. My heart refuses to accept that he's gone. I tell my logical thinking to bugger off.

I've stopped at the window of the jewellry store where we bought those ring. My fingers twist the ring around my finger, and my reflection has a twisted bittersweet smile pasted.

The clerk in the store, smiles at me from behind the counter, and it annoys me so much that I want to wipe it off. With my bare hands.

How dare they smile as if everything is alright?

"The world does not revolve around you. Get over yourself."

Those words, so harsh and cruel, because they lacked his anger. They lacked even his customary bite and snark. Because they were true.

At this point, I am my own worst enemy.

No matter what my friends tell me, they are lying anyway. Because he was right. I was too full of myself.

I'm so hysterical, I can see an image of his face in the glass, behind me, interrupted by passers by. I want to laugh, or maybe cry.

Or maybe drown myself.

Only it isn't. My mind playing tricks on me, that is.

He is standing behind me. Watching me.

Watching me watch him.

It's as if the sun has risen on my face, while his remains expressionless as ever.

I'm so nervous, it's a miracle I haven't fainted dead away. The same uncertainty is reflected in my smile as I lock gazes with his reflection.

The world around us is forgotten as we stand there for what seems like eternity, my eyes pleading and his stony.

It's not even been a few moments. Strangely private moments in such a public place. It would not affect me even if we were in the middle of a street.

All I care about is that he has not walked away yet.

I turn, and almost cross my fingers to hope that he won't vanish. I can almost hear the sneer in his voice as he calls me a fool.

I am, I was and I will be. A fool to want him, a fool to need him and a fool to have lost him.

Twice.

I hold out my hand. It is batted by a woman rushing by, laden with shopping bags. I doubt I have heard the curse she utters, or the grimace she sports.

He obviously has, judging by the curl of his lips, a perfect smirk.

At least he's not wearing his mask. More than I expected. Really.

I'm offering my hand, my heart.

I'm offering myself.

In another endless moment, my breath caught in my throat, I wait.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, he takes my hand in his.

The simple gesture says so much. It shows hope. It means another chance.

It means he's forgiven me.

And that's all that matters for now.

I pull back my hand, and him with it, till we are close enough. The softness of his face and the openness in his eyes is all I can remember, or think about.

We head back home, hand in hand.

It's a promise we make. A promise I make.

I will not lose him again.

Your hell, your life..

With every passing day, there is despair. A warring within oneself, between the lure of security, flawed, or none at all. At the same ring, every morning, pleasant dreams or incessant nightmares let go, yet linger somewhere in the corners. Not always is there gladness in leaving the demons behind, to the darkness. For at times, sunlight is harsh and hides no flaws. Perhaps it is better to dream of disturbing ideas. They seem so much more predictable.

Sitting in those indistinguishable compartments, rocking back and forth, in a soothing yet not entirely comfortable position, you wonder at where you are. looking around, into faces of varying ages, colour, ethnicity, you wonder: how different are they from you? Some came with hopes of new lives, and yet others to escape tyranny, or all that they left behind. You wonder which category you belong to.

A fleeting look, catching a stranger's eye, exchanged polite smiles, mumbled apologies and rarely a "good morning," and a connection is made. That face is burned into your memory, that voice forgotten. The name, you never knew at all, nor will you now. That's what binds you to them, and them to you. The possibility that they are also nameless, numbered identities in this country so praised for it's open arms and capitalist regime. A country whose flaws are hidden behind colourful banners of fast food joints and brilliant displays of money they don't have.

You still worry. A longer than necessary look from a cop, a glint of, perhaps, imagined suspicion, and you think twice. Is it something you are doing? Then your stop arrives, and you disappear into the throngs of first, second, third, Nth generation Americans, and your only friends in the city. You wear clothes that are so common, it looks forced. Maybe the complexion, the curve of your nose makes you stand out, in those factory produced, mass manufactured designer clothes.

Life, you live as the others live theirs. A mix of cultures. In the end, you wonder where you really come from. Time passes and borders blur. Your English turns less refined. All those words you crammed through sleepless nights are pushed into oblivion. Smile at the irony. Your language was more fluent and refined when you used it as a non-primary means of communication. It was practice, to polish the grammar, when your parents and friends spoke in native tongues. Somehow, that use seemed more natural before it became your only link to millions of people washing up on this country's shores.

Whatever your reason, you came, gaped at the skyscrapers, the bright lights, the blatant misuse and wastage of energy and money, distanced yourself from everyone claiming lack of time, and now, the utter despair that grips you each morning forces you to continue the act that you put on, that you call your life. Because now, there are strings attached: most that you attached by yourself.

Because it is your life now.