morning was mocking us, blood hit the sky; i was just happy, my manic and i
A small, simple track phone lay on his knee, and Niko found himself, for the first time in his life, struggling to let go of the memories that he associated with a simple object. America had made him a strangely sentimental person—not outwardly, of course. He found himself most attached to visions of the future, really. These were things that he could never abandon or lose. However, there were several moments where Nikolae, the boy who had shown himself to be so detached and cold, found himself clinging to little things: the messages on a phone, the key on a string, a mailing address scribbled on a torn out excerpt of The Illiad; the plane ticket to Italy dated back to December. Sentimentality, he had always told himself, was pointless and silly.
The flight had been delayed twenty minutes, but Niko was neither delighted nor discontented by this obstacle. Of course, it offered no extra time for him to spend with Denver, but it did allow him a few more moments of reflection. The plane ride itself would be one of profound reflection; he was prepared for this, thus the slow ease into sentimentality.
Flipping the phone open, Niko carefully traced his fingers along the keys, slowly but surely dialing a number he had memorized; he had always fumbled with English numbers, but these numbers came to him easily each and every time he dialed. The phone rang several times, and instantly, Niko knew he would not receive an answer; the two had agreed upon their parting that no further conversation would be exchanged between the two of them. Niko decided quickly he would not be bothered by the lack of answer.
You’ve reached Vincent Harvey; please leave your name and number, and I will get back to you as soon as I can. Thank you.
Niko paused, unsure of whether or not it would be appropriate to leave a message. He decided easily. The Italian moved from his lips instinctively as the beep traveled to his ear, as if flipping a switch on.
“Good evening, Vincent. My Vincent, my love. I would just like to let you know that there is a slight possibility I may die if the plane crashes. Should this be the case, please feel free to request my family pay your expenses to attend the funeral.
I know we spoke, however briefly, before I left. I suppose I said everything necessary. Though sometimes the gratuitous comments turn out to be the most beautiful, and I do know how you love beautiful things; oh, you love them like no one has ever loved anything before.
I apologize now for requesting your company in Italy. We had a plan, I am aware. I have bought my plane ticket, and I will remain in Romania for four days before departing. I’ve gotten a flat in Venice, just above a gallery. It is beautiful, I have to say—I wish you could have seen it, even in the pictures.
I do not know what you will do now that I am gone. Sometimes I fear you may carry on without difficulty; I tell myself that I will do the same, but this is foolish. I will pine for you, you must know. I will pine, I will yearn, I will lust. This will be my inspiration. I will paint as I never have before; my work will be bloodier and crueler than ever, yet somehow infused with more love than I ever have been able to harbor in my mangled heart. You were my muse for a year, now you will be my muse for a lifetime in your absence.
I love frequently, I love deeply, and I love purely. But never will I love another person as deeply, purely, and wholly as I loved you. And I thank you now for this. Goodbye, love.”
A beep sounded, and the call was over. Vincent would listen to it, Niko knew. In fact, he would likely listen to it now. If he knew Vincent, he would listen to it once more in the morning before erasing the message from his phone. Vincent was not a dweller, certainly not, and oh, how Niko loved him.
Lowering his gaze now to the floor, Niko held the phone, clutched tightly in his hand. Without a moment’s hesitation, the raven-haired boy stood from his chair and approached the trash can. He held the power button until the phone shut off with a flashy display, then tossed the piece of plastic into the bin.
Niko then returned to his seat, casting a hard glance to the clock that hung just above the gate. Twenty more minutes. With a long, low sigh, the young man reached to his neck once more. His fingertips traced the key, reminding him of each flake of paint, each groove. He brought the rusted metal to his lips, holding it in a gesture of affection for a few moments, eyes half lidded in a cathartic haze.
Then, with a definitive, but somehow jaded look, Niko lifted the key up to tuck it into the collar of his shirt; it was warm as it touched his chest, tracing the place where paint had stained his skin so many times. He cast the window—the view of America— its last glance, then resolved to save his reflection for the plane ride. After all, Niko knew there was only so much time for remembrance; for solemn reminiscing.
The rest of his life was ahead of him. He would paint; he would become something. He would start in Italy, open galleries in Spain and Germany and France. He would own a home in Romania, where he would fill a library with classic books in their dusty covers and read them adamantly. He would paint for royalty and celebrities alike. He would be a beacon for art.
There was no time for remembrance. Nikolae Väduva had great things in store for himself, and nostalgia played no part in this, not even in the slightest.
