Delusions of a Poet
by Luke Tarzian
She is beauty; she is love; she is mine. Her eyes are azure; her hair is caramel. Her voice is heavenly; her lips are sweet. She is Isabelle; my darling; my belle; my everything. Nothing I write captures the extremity of what I feel for her, and I fear nothing ever will. Writing Isabelle on paper is like setting fire to water; stick the torch to the surface and the flame extinguishes; put ink to paper in her name and every feeling vanishes. She is simply not meant to be immortalized in words or rhyme, only in memory. It’s as though looking at her causes any man, any woman, any one person to go blank, forget everything for that one short moment when all your eyes know is beauty beyond anything mortally possible. She is my drug, my poison; she is my Isabelle.
My hand inches closer to the paper before me; words ache to be written. They beg me, and I oblige. But as my pen touches parchment, every word, every letter that makes them up, every vowel, every consonant, every little piece of grammar vanishes from my mind. It’s happening again. I can’t control it; no one can. My eyes have drifted as they always do when she enters the room. Her sweet smile, her glowing eyes, and the tantalizing vanilla smell that she gives off captures my attention and draws me from my seat at the table. My words are left unwritten, forgotten to time. I pull Isabelle to me and kiss her, smiling as I do.
‘I’m off to the city for a while, darling,’ she says.
She walks to the door, her black dress whipping about her knees as a light breeze passes through our home. She smiles at me and walks out into the dusk, leaving me alone to my thoughts and my pen. I sigh as I sit down once again; I no longer remember what it is I wished to write. I sit for hours in motionless silence. Finally, I growl in slight frustration and stand up; perhaps some fresh air will do me well. I leave the paper and pen to mingle on the table and follow Isabelle’s example and walk out into the evening, leaving my home to itself for the time being.
The demons and illnesses of one’s mind are not always present; they tend to lurk in darkness, growing stronger with each day, until they are ready to make themselves present and known to those around them. As night falls over Thae’Nuit, I find myself venturing down one of the many alleys etched into the quaint, peaceful town. I walk slowly at first, enjoying the temporary peace of mind I’ve found. But as quickly as I discover the wonderful sensation that is the absence of stress, it vanishes. Somewhere within the labyrinth of houses and shops and the dark passages they create, I here a soft voice laughing merrily, the joy egged on by a deeper tone. I delve into the maze that is Thae’Nuit until I come to a small house at the edge of town. In the window, I see the silhouettes of a man and a woman as they talk. The man I know not; the serene words of my Isabelle are too familiar to question, though. I inch closer to the house until I’m just under the windowsill.
‘It grows late, dear Nouel,’ she says softly. ‘I must be going. I’ve kept Adrien waiting for hours.’
‘Goodnight, sweet Isabelle- you’re visit was much appreciated,’ says the man called Nouel.
I hurry away from the window, though not quick enough as I witness her silhouette place a kiss on his face and fall into his arms. I think for a moment; I’ve heard that name before, so many times it seems. My mind races and fits of silent rage consume me as I slither back through the shadows. How could she do something like this? How could she betray my love, my trust? Why would she betray me? My thoughts gallop in circles as I immerse myself in anger. Does she not wish for us to be together? Am I to fail in immortalizing my belle in words, fail to conceive one lasting memory of her exquisite beauty? I cannot fathom such a thing, no matter how poorly my mind tends to work at times.
I wander towards the tavern light at the end of the street as the veil of night increases its hold on Thae’Nuit. Isabelle will surely have arrived home by now; at least that’s what I tell myself as I walk; what I hope. I’m never one to pry into another’s endeavors but such a sight…I cannot bring myself to pass it off as something so random, so innocent. I thought I could trust her, I truly did; but it seems with the radiance of Aphrodite, so too comes the deceitful, cunning ways of a thief. I hang my head low as I enter the tavern, erupting with fits of laughter and sloppy, drunken piano playing. The words of the drunk and stupid are muffled and incoherent. I ignore them all as I step up to the bar and seat myself in a stool. I call for an ale and sip it slowly, letting myself drown in misery. I take minutes between chugs, thinking out my words, planning them as carefully as a quarter drunk man can do.
Alas, it is pointless; the moment I see her- set my eyes upon hers- I’ll forget everything I was going to say. Perhaps she is part siren. It seems that even spoken words cannot be contained when gazing at her.
‘If you can’t have her, no one should,’ says a dry voice from behind me.
I turn from my ale to confront the owner of the voice. A ragged, green eyed man stares back at me, his hair disheveled and brown. He looks nearly identical to me. Through my increasing drunkenness, I make out the face of my brother, Francois. He seats himself upon a stool next to me, looking at my green eyes with his own equally intoxicated.
‘If you can’t have her, no one should,’ he says once again as he takes a sip from his mug. He seems to have read my mind, for he knew what troubled my thoughts without myself having to say a single word.
In such a state his words make sense, but I cannot bring myself to listen to them; I love Isabelle too much, no matter what I saw. He sticks out his hand, as if waiting for something; he does this every time we meet.
‘I’ve nothing to give right now, dear brother,’ I say as coherently as possible.
I give Francois a pat on the shoulder and stumble out of the tavern and into the night. The sky is cloudy, moist and cold. Small rays of moon peek through the mass of gray and black as I head home. Francois’s words echo through my head like the screeching of a bird mauled by a cat. What little reason I had for not listening to my brother is dissipating with every step I take, with every drop of ale that swims through my blood. If I cannot have Isabelle, no one can.
The house is dark when I arrive home, save a light from the bedroom. I slither through my kitchen, concealed by darkness. I grab a blade from the drawer and slip it into my belt. Isabelle welcomes me home as I plod through the hallway before our bedchamber. I enter the room; she lies in bed, her eyes tired, and her lips drawn into a smile as she waits for me to join her. The mirror behind me reveals the knife while the one at the end of the room conceals it still. Isabelle looks at me; she can sense that I am troubled.
‘Adrien, darling,’ she calls, ‘what’s the matter, love?’
I stare at her as my blood boils. Francois’s words grow increasingly louder and commanding with each second that passes. I fight to keep the knife concealed for as long as I can but it’s too difficult. I pull the blade from my belt and point the silver tip towards Isabelle. She slinks back in fear as I step towards her, consumed with rage and madness.
‘Adrien…’
She winces in pain as my hand connects with her cheek, leaving a red handprint across her beautiful face. Tears roll down her face as she stares at me, befuddled.
‘Where were you today?’ I spit. She stammers but cannot find the words to explain her day. ‘Who is Nouel?’ I ask her. Her eyes widen.
‘Darling…it’s not what you think,’ she stammers. ‘Nouel, he’s…Adrien…you know who-’
Smack.
I cannot stand this torment anymore. If I cannot put her unfathomable beauty to paper and cannot speak of it without losing train of thought, I’ll do it another way; I’ll make it a memory I shall never forget for as long as I live.
I put the blade to her throat, watching in sick delight as my love of six years trembles with fright I’ve never seen. I find it quite amusing in some twisted manner.
‘Am I the first to experience your deceit, Isabelle? Am I?’ She keeps quiet, too afraid. It seems I’ve gone mad, driven into lunacy. My brother’s voice echoes in my head still, egging me on. ‘It matters not; I’ll be the last one. I loved you, my dear, I truly did. Francois is right; if I can’t have you, no one can.’
I plunge the blade into her throat, bathing in the hot scarlet that pours from the wound. Isabelle remains silent, dead when the knife penetrated her flesh. She falls back against the bed as the crimson soaks the sheets. I plunge the knife into her repeatedly, releasing my sick rage upon her lifeless corpse. After what seems like eternity, I step back to admire my masterpiece; it’s hauntingly beautiful, tragic; it’s poetry without the pen. I lie on the bed next to Isabelle’s dead body, pulling her close to me as I let the blood cover me. I lick the red liquid on my lips; so fresh, so tantalizing. I shudder in macabre contentment as I gaze at Isabelle’s face; her lips are frozen in a silent, anguished scream that never came; her eyes are still and calm, as eerily blue as they were in life. I feel tears of my own as I let the feeling of loneliness sink in.
‘At least…at least I’ll always have this memory,’ I say softly. ‘Our last night together…’
I rise from the bed and walk into the living room, then out the front door of my house, leaving drops of blood and crimson footprints in my wake. I glance behind me for a moment, staring at the sin-filled tomb I call home. I shall see her soon, so very soon. I set my sights on Thae’Nuit and wander into the city, the night air as dead and unwelcome as it was when I left the tavern. I’ve silenced the siren, done away with the alluring creature born of lust and deceit.
I plunge into the maze of houses and shops once more, retracing my steps back to Nouel’s home. I find him sitting on the steps in front of his house, lazily smoking a pipe. He looks at me in alarm as I wander towards him, covered in blood, knife held in front of me.
‘Adrien,’ he says, ‘what are you doing here…what happened to you?’
I glare at him as my anguish takes further hold of me; he’s to blame as well. I cannot think properly anymore. I can only imagine what it will be like when this is all over. I’ll see you soon, dear Isabelle, so very soon…
‘Savor the breath you take, Nouel; it shall be your last,’ I hiss. ‘I know what you did…you and that damnable whore I called mine.’ He looks at me with puzzled eyes. ‘Do not toy with me! I know of your sin…sick, pathetic fornication…’
Nouel steps back towards his front door as if to retreat inside; it seems he’s put two and two together, for his eyes flash fearfully. He deserves death as much as Isabelle…treacherous, deceitful, pathetic excuse for a human being. I’m now teetering on the brink of complete and utter insanity.
‘Adrien, have you gone mad?’ he shouts at me. I dash towards him, pinning him to the wall before he can grab the door handle. My rank, drunken breath escapes my lips as I seethe. ‘What nonsense do you speak of? Who fed you such lies?’
‘The only lies come from your filthy lips,’ I reply. ‘From your lips and that scarlet woman…’
‘Murderous fool,’ hisses Nouel as I put the blade at his neck. His words are tiresome, irrelevant. I slash and let the blood spill onto the pavement, the grass, my clothing and his. ‘I’m Isabelle’s brother, Adrien…you’ve known this for years…’ he rasps as life leaves him.
I stand frozen in shock, unable to comprehend what I’ve just been told. I’ve been deceived, not by Isabelle, but by my own eyes and brother. I fall to my knees as Nouel slumps to the ground. I feel the weight of failure and misconception as my horrible mistake becomes clear.
‘It was…my brother, Francois…he’s responsible, dear Nouel,’ I say softly as he slowly fades. He shakes his head.
‘No, Adrien: That’s the reason…the reason Isabelle and I have been seeing each other so much…she was afraid, said you’d grown worse; you have no brother; you never have,’ coughs Nouel as he falls dead.
His words are the last I shall ever hear. Nothing has ever filled me with so much dread, so much fear and pain. How could I have let this illness take hold of me as much as it has? How long have I been so terribly driven by lunacy? And who is Francois? Was he ever real, or was he just a malevolent voice in my head? I don’t care. His name is just another I’ll never hear, never mention again.
I take the knife and add another life to its collection as I plunge the silver tip into my heart. I die now, a delusional poet tormented into madness by the voice of a man who never existed. My darling Isabelle, please find it in your kind, gentle heart to forgive me; Nouel, my friend, I pray you too can forgive my misguided actions. I hope you both find peace and solace wherever the hands death take you. I shall see you shortly…or never at all.
©Luke Tarzian, 2011
