Lady Justice (short story)
By Luke Labern
That wound we call affection. How at times we are intoxicated by its painkilling qualities: the pure strength and passion of its nectar soothes the heartbreak which has filled our lives up to that point. But, of course, this high cannot last forever. When it has gone we are left reeling, with both body and mind crying out for more – but it’s no easy thing to procure. True affection is the child of compatibility, luck, timing and the right mindset.
What I’ve learnt over the past year is, even if you’ve got most of these necessary components, the alchemy from these into attachment is never a smooth and stable process. Above all, certainty is a description never rightly applied to human co-existence.
Who am I? I have a name, if that helps. I don’t think it does, however, so I’m not going to reveal it. Physically, I am whatever you are attracted to. (Whether this affects how you feel about me during the following events reveals more about you than me, I believe.) My eyes are your favourite colour in the most stunning shade: I have the most incredible piercing gaze. I am a young man, I can tell you that much. Attribute to me the generic features of my sex, if you wish: I try my utmost to place respect, compassion and human rights before my sex drive. That being said, I am human and by definition make mistakes. Lots of them. Of my personality, I can hardly surmise: whatever I am and however I change will become apparent through the following tale.
How does it all begin? Not with my birth; I find this superfluous to the point. You may assume that I have been brought up well, in the English manner (whatever that represents for you), with the same peaks and troughs in childhood as the average child. My family is neither particularly wealthy nor particularly poverty-stricken. I fit, from outside appearances, into the very definition of average. Whether I am any more or less important than any other individual is completely up to you. As far as society is concerned, I am just another token who can become a tax-payer or crime statistic: what does mathematics care of my personality? To its stoic eye, even Euclid was any other man. Only in the thoughts of man does my philosophical being matter.
It is early May and I am recently single, by my own hand. The world lies before me and I have an understanding of my own mortality: I am a child in a ball pen with limited time to frolic. It is best not to sit and philosophise about what to do for too long, and to quite literally get on with playing before my time runs out.
In my bedroom, I awaken and take time to adjust to the light before standing before my mirror and my critical eye. Hair out of place – that’s fine, I can re-work it. My frame is progressing nicely; years of dedication to the physical form and to sculpting the physique of Greek legend each morning pleases my rational self and affords me greater confidence that I will one day be emotionally fulfilled. I stretch my arms as wide as I can and enjoy the sensation of my muscles springing into action; they are tense and ready for the day, whether to engage in defence, to caress, to soothe, to aid or to simply carry myself to a place where I can find solitude and better myself. On the whole, I am satisfied with myself physically. No, my problems are in a far more obscure realm where the most abstract qualities are the most important. Perhaps fortunately, I am so thoroughly in tune with my own psyche that I can almost adjust the settings of my mind as if I were mechanical. Of course, this brings with it the great displeasure of being conscious, but helpless, in the case of emotional issues: I am simply locked-in and must experience the terrifying ride of envy, revenge and desire.
Here it is that the turmoil becomes apparent. My electronic pet chirps at me and shows me a text: and who else has sent me a short message but her. Indeed, let us get the clichés out of the way: she is indeed beautiful, and her very being in my room even through this virtual medium pleases me. So much so that a smile races across my face as I read her name to myself. Even the mirror of me smiles back. She has made two people happy.
The content of her message is simply to ask me how I am, and I respond that I am all the better for her contacting me. The precursor to further conversation, we are in correspondence throughout the day.
It is during the periods where I am alone that my mind truly resembles an engine. It is noisy; it is energy-consuming and not particularly efficient: but it works. I wish I could tell you that she is your definition of attractive, but she’s not. She’s mine. Her hair is a deep brunette, her face soft and delicate, her body can be described only as lustful and her smile could disarm a robber already in possession of his stolen money – she exudes that irrational beauty and essence which can bring the most intelligent beings to their knees in desire. Of course, she knows it. At the same time, she doesn’t know it. Therein lies the problem. She knows because her eyes work fine: but psychologically she has conditioned herself to believe that she is run-of-the-mill. It seems that the most gorgeous beings of all are restrained by severe modesty, and this in turn acts as a barrier to the most willing of suitors.
Somehow, I had made my way into her inner-circle of acquaintances. What the space is between friends, I have no idea: a conversation could range from playful teasing to in-depth soul-searching to varying degrees of flirtation. Where I am confused, I assume she is not. Maybe that’s the problem.
The only way to properly describe our relationship is blissful: whether I have had a day filled with misery or mediocrity, to find her and simply hear her idiosyncrasies instantly soothes me. What is a banal conversation between others is almost ecstasy to me, when shared with her. Where such strong emotions find their root I do not know: and I do not wish to, for to strip back life to formulaic description seems to me tantamount to existential suicide.
This relationship continued to blossom for some time: perhaps weeks, perhaps months. The time itself is unimportant, for the emotional intensity is all too clear. During this time my affection and affinity for her increased, and I assumed that she felt likewise. Explicit, “heart-felt” statements are supposed to reveal the truth, are they not?
* * *
‘I do, I like you too! You’ve made my year!’ she replies.
How my face is lit up: the Olympic beacon is a damp match in the rain compared to the thorough glow I feel within. Finally, after doing the mature, the “right” thing and releasing myself from previous ties and through plenty of waiting and seeming exile from human company, have I found the partner who feels strongly about me. Acceptance is always a pleasant experience, but it is transformed to sublime levels when she who accepts you is your favourite person to be around. With these words uttered, I had passed a valve of affection through which I could not return in any way but a violent mess.
Before I could think about the details of this arrangement, my subconscious had sunk its claws into the upcoming union with the fervour of a volcano. I was ready to erupt: spiritually, emotionally, philosophically…
The day I attempted to strike for what I desired the most (and succeeded), she told me that she wouldn’t be able to speak to me for a day or two. A minor worry, considering the intensity of emotions involved. I turned my attention to solidifying my optimism: I was going to be in the position I had so long desired. I was ready, and with each hour I felt my spirits rise to uncharted levels.
I told my closest friends, at length, of her virtues and her absence of vice: how she delighted me and could perhaps make a funeral bearable with her very existence. Superlatives spilled forth from me like the poison of a confused snake.
The day in which I was told to expect to be alone, I again returned to the comforts of my own mind and re-traced the influential conversations which lead to my seemingly incredible acquisition of requited fancy. I was proud of myself, if thankful for the luck I had been blessed with.
The hours began to slow and take more from me as the night wore on, but the promise of her companionship the following day was all I needed.
And so I waited, for three days without word from her.
* * *
The flux of my emotions is almost too great to transcribe into words: the languid anticipation, the ebb and tide of loneliness, the desire rising and floating like the tip of a wave. What can be said of my optimism other than its utter deconstruction: I cannot deny that, the longer the time since our last and most influential conversation, the less well I felt.
Eventually, after the days which became emotional months all faded into one long period of confusion, I heard a chirp from my rectangular pet with its LCD eyes:
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you…’
* * *
Must I spell out the details? It pains me so: I’d rather spell them wrongly and live in a fantasy world where it never happened. My deflation requires no description; rather, I will allow my tone to speak for me.
Anticipation is the greatest pain of all: to be strapped in a chair, muscles tensed and veins alight, head fixed in a forward position, staring at a dirty vanilla wall. At least the doctor comes into view with the needle in his hand. Please, just inject me. The mind is the most lethal place of all, and the acceptance of defeat is far worse than the mechanical execution itself.
Indeed, my success had been strapped to similar apparatus: I had a committed a crime which I did not understand, but what did it matter? All I remember is staring at the wall of my bedroom, paralysed as she came toward me with deadly tool in hand.
Alone, once again. As I said before, the time didn’t matter at all: for it was all wasted.
* * *
I stare in my mirror once again and stretch my arms: the same feeling of readiness for the day ahead, but I feel that my mind is not the same. Despite this, I philosophise as much as ever, when I’m disturbed by a chirp…
A smile crosses my face, as before: but do I reply?
What I’ve learnt over the past year is, even if you’ve got most of these necessary components, the alchemy from these into attachment is never a smooth and stable process. Above all, certainty is a description never rightly applied to human co-existence.
Who am I? I have a name, if that helps. I don’t think it does, however, so I’m not going to reveal it. Physically, I am whatever you are attracted to. (Whether this affects how you feel about me during the following events reveals more about you than me, I believe.) My eyes are your favourite colour in the most stunning shade: I have the most incredible piercing gaze. I am a young man, I can tell you that much. Attribute to me the generic features of my sex, if you wish: I try my utmost to place respect, compassion and human rights before my sex drive. That being said, I am human and by definition make mistakes. Lots of them. Of my personality, I can hardly surmise: whatever I am and however I change will become apparent through the following tale.
How does it all begin? Not with my birth; I find this superfluous to the point. You may assume that I have been brought up well, in the English manner (whatever that represents for you), with the same peaks and troughs in childhood as the average child. My family is neither particularly wealthy nor particularly poverty-stricken. I fit, from outside appearances, into the very definition of average. Whether I am any more or less important than any other individual is completely up to you. As far as society is concerned, I am just another token who can become a tax-payer or crime statistic: what does mathematics care of my personality? To its stoic eye, even Euclid was any other man. Only in the thoughts of man does my philosophical being matter.
It is early May and I am recently single, by my own hand. The world lies before me and I have an understanding of my own mortality: I am a child in a ball pen with limited time to frolic. It is best not to sit and philosophise about what to do for too long, and to quite literally get on with playing before my time runs out.
In my bedroom, I awaken and take time to adjust to the light before standing before my mirror and my critical eye. Hair out of place – that’s fine, I can re-work it. My frame is progressing nicely; years of dedication to the physical form and to sculpting the physique of Greek legend each morning pleases my rational self and affords me greater confidence that I will one day be emotionally fulfilled. I stretch my arms as wide as I can and enjoy the sensation of my muscles springing into action; they are tense and ready for the day, whether to engage in defence, to caress, to soothe, to aid or to simply carry myself to a place where I can find solitude and better myself. On the whole, I am satisfied with myself physically. No, my problems are in a far more obscure realm where the most abstract qualities are the most important. Perhaps fortunately, I am so thoroughly in tune with my own psyche that I can almost adjust the settings of my mind as if I were mechanical. Of course, this brings with it the great displeasure of being conscious, but helpless, in the case of emotional issues: I am simply locked-in and must experience the terrifying ride of envy, revenge and desire.
Here it is that the turmoil becomes apparent. My electronic pet chirps at me and shows me a text: and who else has sent me a short message but her. Indeed, let us get the clichés out of the way: she is indeed beautiful, and her very being in my room even through this virtual medium pleases me. So much so that a smile races across my face as I read her name to myself. Even the mirror of me smiles back. She has made two people happy.
The content of her message is simply to ask me how I am, and I respond that I am all the better for her contacting me. The precursor to further conversation, we are in correspondence throughout the day.
It is during the periods where I am alone that my mind truly resembles an engine. It is noisy; it is energy-consuming and not particularly efficient: but it works. I wish I could tell you that she is your definition of attractive, but she’s not. She’s mine. Her hair is a deep brunette, her face soft and delicate, her body can be described only as lustful and her smile could disarm a robber already in possession of his stolen money – she exudes that irrational beauty and essence which can bring the most intelligent beings to their knees in desire. Of course, she knows it. At the same time, she doesn’t know it. Therein lies the problem. She knows because her eyes work fine: but psychologically she has conditioned herself to believe that she is run-of-the-mill. It seems that the most gorgeous beings of all are restrained by severe modesty, and this in turn acts as a barrier to the most willing of suitors.
Somehow, I had made my way into her inner-circle of acquaintances. What the space is between friends, I have no idea: a conversation could range from playful teasing to in-depth soul-searching to varying degrees of flirtation. Where I am confused, I assume she is not. Maybe that’s the problem.
The only way to properly describe our relationship is blissful: whether I have had a day filled with misery or mediocrity, to find her and simply hear her idiosyncrasies instantly soothes me. What is a banal conversation between others is almost ecstasy to me, when shared with her. Where such strong emotions find their root I do not know: and I do not wish to, for to strip back life to formulaic description seems to me tantamount to existential suicide.
This relationship continued to blossom for some time: perhaps weeks, perhaps months. The time itself is unimportant, for the emotional intensity is all too clear. During this time my affection and affinity for her increased, and I assumed that she felt likewise. Explicit, “heart-felt” statements are supposed to reveal the truth, are they not?
* * *
‘I do, I like you too! You’ve made my year!’ she replies.
How my face is lit up: the Olympic beacon is a damp match in the rain compared to the thorough glow I feel within. Finally, after doing the mature, the “right” thing and releasing myself from previous ties and through plenty of waiting and seeming exile from human company, have I found the partner who feels strongly about me. Acceptance is always a pleasant experience, but it is transformed to sublime levels when she who accepts you is your favourite person to be around. With these words uttered, I had passed a valve of affection through which I could not return in any way but a violent mess.
Before I could think about the details of this arrangement, my subconscious had sunk its claws into the upcoming union with the fervour of a volcano. I was ready to erupt: spiritually, emotionally, philosophically…
The day I attempted to strike for what I desired the most (and succeeded), she told me that she wouldn’t be able to speak to me for a day or two. A minor worry, considering the intensity of emotions involved. I turned my attention to solidifying my optimism: I was going to be in the position I had so long desired. I was ready, and with each hour I felt my spirits rise to uncharted levels.
I told my closest friends, at length, of her virtues and her absence of vice: how she delighted me and could perhaps make a funeral bearable with her very existence. Superlatives spilled forth from me like the poison of a confused snake.
The day in which I was told to expect to be alone, I again returned to the comforts of my own mind and re-traced the influential conversations which lead to my seemingly incredible acquisition of requited fancy. I was proud of myself, if thankful for the luck I had been blessed with.
The hours began to slow and take more from me as the night wore on, but the promise of her companionship the following day was all I needed.
And so I waited, for three days without word from her.
* * *
The flux of my emotions is almost too great to transcribe into words: the languid anticipation, the ebb and tide of loneliness, the desire rising and floating like the tip of a wave. What can be said of my optimism other than its utter deconstruction: I cannot deny that, the longer the time since our last and most influential conversation, the less well I felt.
Eventually, after the days which became emotional months all faded into one long period of confusion, I heard a chirp from my rectangular pet with its LCD eyes:
‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you…’
* * *
Must I spell out the details? It pains me so: I’d rather spell them wrongly and live in a fantasy world where it never happened. My deflation requires no description; rather, I will allow my tone to speak for me.
Anticipation is the greatest pain of all: to be strapped in a chair, muscles tensed and veins alight, head fixed in a forward position, staring at a dirty vanilla wall. At least the doctor comes into view with the needle in his hand. Please, just inject me. The mind is the most lethal place of all, and the acceptance of defeat is far worse than the mechanical execution itself.
Indeed, my success had been strapped to similar apparatus: I had a committed a crime which I did not understand, but what did it matter? All I remember is staring at the wall of my bedroom, paralysed as she came toward me with deadly tool in hand.
Alone, once again. As I said before, the time didn’t matter at all: for it was all wasted.
* * *
I stare in my mirror once again and stretch my arms: the same feeling of readiness for the day ahead, but I feel that my mind is not the same. Despite this, I philosophise as much as ever, when I’m disturbed by a chirp…
A smile crosses my face, as before: but do I reply?
A Short Story,
Published 26 January 2012
Published 26 January 2012