He came back last night. It was unexpected, but welcome. Well, mostly.
We talked a while, or argued at least. Who knew that I could stand up for myself? I certainly did not, but there is something about that man that begs for it. Let us face it, there is just something about that man.
He tells me things; things that show me he understands. I do not feel the need to hide from him, to cover my shame, because he already knows. He knows far better than anyone else.
What he went through is what made him what he is. The same can be said of me and yet he and I have taken such different paths. Perhaps it is as he thinks: perhaps it is because he found his freedom long before I did. But, has he?
He is a slave to his fears, as am I. They made him act this way. They make him do as he does. It is defence, defiance, a driving need to beat them and overcome what was. He does not realise that he is still a prisoner to his past. It is only freedom of the body that he possesses. Freedom of mind, emotion and spirit, these things elude him still I think.
He took me from here earlier. He picked me up and carried me away to a cliff. He hung me over the edge and asked me if I was afraid. To my amusement, he did not understand when I told him that I was not. He laughed, thinking it hillarious that I can be so afraid of so many things and yet the prospect of being dropped from such a height does not concern me. I tried to explain but my stutter makes it so difficult.
Death is not the issue. It never was. I have long since lost count of the amount of times I lay in my bedroom or upon the cold ground and wished for just that: a release from such a miserable existance. Release from the pain, the betrayal, the fear. So many years I have spent believing that such was to be my only way out and I am not entirely unconvinced that it still holds true. It was never dying that I feared. It was the next day.
As for him...
He may return again. Or not. We shall see.
His company I welcome. Indeed, I find myself looking forward to his visits. He scares me, yes. I admit that freely and yet... and yet I find myself more comfortable in his presence than that of the others. He intrigues me, he frightens me, he pities me and loathes my weakness, but he still keeps coming back. I can only surmise that there is something he needs from me beyond my understanding. What it is, time will tell.
It is a waiting game. I wait for him to return. I wait for him to answer. I wait for him to show me that which he cannot or will not tell. I wait for him to take from me what he needs. Most of all.. I wait for him to leave. They all do sooner or later, when they have what they came for.
There are lessons in this. There are lessons in each of our meetings. What I have yet to discern is whether these lessons are for me... or for him.
