Storyshard 14

I write down this memory in an attempt to somehow solidify it, make it realer. I have realised, while preparing the memory once again in my head for its recording, that I have already forgotten many of its details, some important, others less so. I shall try to convey it as accurately as I am able, but there are parts of it where I must sadly resort to a general description of what happened. Instead I will attempt to make clear the emotion which these details, now lost from this world, evoked in me then, and still do now. It is my hope that this can help the reader to understand their significance, and perhaps imagine new details for themselves, to fill the gaps.

The elevator took us from the top floor of the car park, and when it reached the bottom, we exited directly into the park. It seemed a strange way to design its layout, almost dreamlike in the way you were in one instance in a concrete and metal world, and in the other in green nature, although it was also constructed.

Almost immediately after leaving the confines of the elevator, as the other four dispersed somewhat, I embraced her from behind, resting my chin on the softness of her jacket’s synthetic fur collar. She turned her head slightly towards me, and although I could not see her face clearly, I knew she was frowning.

“What are you doing?” She asked. “Isn’t this nice?” I asked her in return.

I let go of her, not wanting to push my luck, but I could see her frown soften. I could tell there was a hint of a smile there, a faint residue of something like reluctant enjoyment. I think deep down somewhere, she liked it.

I found her infinitely fascinating. She was ignorant, unlearned, seemingly by choice. Dumb in the way that she did not care for anything of importance. She had never reflected upon her own existence. There had never existed anything resembling a philosophical thought in her head. She cared so little for politics, or literature, or science, that she scarcely even knew what those things were. As far as I knew, and had been able to gather in my time with her, about the only thing she did care for was herself and how she looked. And she did look perfect.

Her hair, which was, as far as I could tell, naturally bright blonde, was barely neck long. It was tightly pinned in the front, drawing a perfectly straight diagonal from the off-centre parting on the left side of her head to behind her right ear. The shape of her face was soft. She was athletic in build, but her facial features were rounded and easy on the eye. Her nose was small and cute, and her large, radiant blue eyes sat beneath eyebrows almost constantly locked in a frown or other disapproving expression. She was so perfectly gorgeous; there is no doubt in my mind she is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.

She puzzled me greatly, because she was so unintellectual, yet so unhappy. She was always serious. Her range of emotions I was sure contained only those starting with “dis”; disapproval, disdain, dissatisfaction. I could not for the life of me understand why she was always so serious. It was my experience that people with her level of… recreational mental activity and… shallowness, were happier than those of us burdened by existential questions, intellectual ambitions, and concerns of fulfilling societal obligations and expectations. Stupid people were supposed to be happy, because they didn’t know any better. She was perhaps the least happy person I have ever met, and I couldn’t understand why. Strangely this gave me hope. I figured that somehow, somewhere deep within, there had to be a spark inside her – a tiny fraction of potential and intelligence locked away and neglected, understimulated, repressed.

I would have explained to you how I came to know her if I could. The truth is I no longer remember, but I’m not sure I even knew then. No matter how it happened, I found myself walking through the park with her and the rest of her family – her mother and father, and two younger siblings. To be perfectly honest, I was not sure what our relationship was. I’m sure her family considered me her date, but more important was what she thought, and of that I had no idea. I felt like I was at all times walking through a minefield, or was trapped in a cage with a lioness. I was constantly worried that whatever I did next would infuriate her to such a degree that she would not permit me to ever see her again, an idea I found unbearable. Still, I risked things such as embracing her gently, and she hadn’t pushed me away yet, though her stone-faced expression revealed nothing about her inner thoughts. I was fighting an uphill battle so steep I was at any moment on the verge of tipping backwards and rolling down into the coldness of her rejection. Although I thought it would be exhausting, I was not exhausted. It was obvious to me that even though I had no idea of where our relationship was heading, or even where it could go, I had hope – and the battle was worth it.

We came to the restaurant where we had decided to eat. Her father opened the doors, and her family all went inside. As I was about to enter, I looked back to see her standing by the large, street-facing window of the eatery, scowling through it at the tables and chairs inside. I paused, and looked back at her father. He gave me a sad, almost apologetic look before entering the restaurant. Obviously this was not an abnormal situation for them, and I wasn’t exactly taken by surprise myself. Faced with her confusing display of rebellion (or whatever it was she was trying to communicate), her family seemed… tired. I had no doubts that she was loved by her family, and they afforded her any comfort they could, but they had surely been fighting this fight far longer than I had.

I approached her. In a spontaneous and ridiculous attempt at some sort of humour, I bent my knees slightly to bring my face to her level, and slowly side-stepped in between her and the glass, obstructing her view of… well, whatever it was she had been scowling at. I realised I was now prodding the angry lioness with a pointed stick, yet somehow I found the courage.

I can no longer recall exactly what I said to her. I remember wanting to tell her how simply laying eyes on her invigorated me. I wanted to tell her I was so infatuated with her, the thought of not being near her terrified me in a way I had never before felt. I did not say those things. I said something about the interconnectedness of people, and all things. I said something about her family. I said something about her and me.

Despite forgetting other things, I distinctly remember her reaction after I had finished my appeal to her. Not one little flinch was made in her visage. Her piercing stare was as disapproving as ever.  She maintained eye contact with me as she turned her head slowly towards the door, until she seemed to finally reach a decision and headed inside. I followed close behind, and took the seat opposite her at the table. Next to her sat her father, giving me a look of surprise, and he subtly gestured, the slightest celebratory fist pump, as if something exceptional had just happened.

Some time went by uneventfully. We ordered, the food was delivered, we ate. Then – it might have been in response to something said, or it might have been out of the blue – she spoke. Again the actual words escape my failing recollection, and this is perhaps the greatest and most tragic loss in this memory. I can only tell you that what she said was somehow a reflection on what I had told her earlier, outside. A reflection – an original thought, personal to her, coming from her.

I swear to this day that she looked at me and smiled. It seems such an improbable prospect, I’m not actually certain she did, but it is what I have chosen to believe. I can still imagine how she had sat there all that time, staring at her food, eating it slowly, chewing, all the while her mind racing, grinding, reflecting. I felt as though that tiny little spark within her had exploded and forced her to share her thoughts with the world, for once, perhaps for the first time. I loved her then even more than before. It seemed to me a miracle. Not a miracle of a god or deity, but a miracle of humanity, and it was more powerful and beautiful than anything I have experienced since.

Thinking back on it now, it seems perfectly logical, and indeed inevitable, that this is why it ended.