The Writer's Forum

Before the weight of all the long years crushed my spirit, there was a time that I greeted each new evening with boundless enthusiasm. The playgrounds of the rich were my range and the foppish and futile denizens my flock. I cared for them as well as any man cares for his only source of sustenance. Each night would see one or two clamouring to serve at my table. I was always gracious, accepting the offering with solemn gratitude. Even when the pandering turned my stomach I turned no offer away.

I was always the most diligent of hosts, following fashion so that none would find my hospitality in anyway lacking. I have supped at my table in soft candle light, in flickering hissing gaslight, and under the harsher glare provided by electricity. Though it hurt my head I have supped to the accompaniment of Mozart, Elvis Presley, the Beatles and Metallica. I have been popular culture’s whore, pandering to every fad.

None who navigated night’s darkened corridors with me ever complained, all professed to enjoy our sojourns. But none loved me. None came, stayed, returned, solely for the pleasure of my company. All who came sought only to better their standing by association with me. None untill Shevona Bertona Vitessa Bloggs. I jest not, that was her name. I’d have cheerfully dismembered the oaf who named her, had she asked. All that she ever asked of me was to call her Vonny.

I never understood why that was so. I possessed so much, garnered from every corner of the globe. She possessed so little, yet she was content with my company. Anytime, anywhere, and always at my convenience. Announced or no, I was always greeted with a dazzling smile. When the time came for us to part it was always with the slight glisten of tears in her eyes, as if she believed that I would not return. How could I not? Her quiet devotion became as essential to me as a nursing mother is to an un-weaned child. I lived in her presence. I merely existed outside of her company.

Of the very few who guessed my true nature she stayed by my side, stayed knowing my bitter truth. The others fled, became loose ends to be tied up as swiftly as practicable. But her love remained unchanged, and her acceptance made my love all the deeper. Her love more necessary to me than ever. I began to view my affliction as a gift, a gift I wished to share with her. Despite all my arguments, my pleading, my imploring, she refused the gift, saying that she was unworthy. No matter how hard I tried I could not convince her otherwise.

Then came the fateful night. We walked home from the theatre one wintery evening and she slipped on the icy steps. Shaken, she allowed me to gently help her to her feet and we continued on to my home. We reclined in quiet contentment, neither speaking. After an hour I realised she slept, another hour later I attempted to rouse her and could not. She slept for four days before gently slipping into death. I sat at her bedside every hour I could and watched as my reason to exist slowly drifted away from me. I had known her barely a year.

After that I could find no enjoyment in anything I did, my life soured in my mouth. I would have given her anything, even my heart’s blood, but she always refused all but my company. I look back over the long years of my existence and know that I have lived only one year. I look ahead to the long years ahead and find that I have no enthusiasm for them. Each night I ask myself why I bother to go on. Each night it becomes harder to find a reason to try.

As the dawn breaks, I must debate with myself again whether my long night’s journey will finally continue into the light.