Mixer

I make disaster. Well I made disaster, but now I don't. Not enough heart beats strong enough to risk it you know?

I made disaster from people. My recipe was different though. It was just people. Only ever people. It was better, letting them destroy themselves.

My friend made it from a single person and a few things she kept laying around. Disease, sorrow, depression. She kept those in special jars. Once she made disaster out of love and a naturally lonely person. It was the worst I've ever seen, something completely evil. So I begged her to never use that one again. She listened.

I haven't seen much of her, since I met him.

When you use multiple people to mix disaster they tear themselves apart. It happens naturally. Quickly. It was the only way I could bear to do it. Of course it would be the way I was destroyed.

I don't know when I stopped. I live forever you see, so I forget things sometimes. I don't remember if it was a gradual thing, or if I just stopped. I do remember why.

It was a boy. I met him in the street, with a cigarette between his teeth and sadness in his eyes. It was pure clean sadness not from a bottle or jar. It was him and I could see it, I could feel it in the circles under his eyes. He crinkled his nose when he laughed.

I never understood why he liked me.

I asked his name and he asked mine. Jasper and Marco a perfect pair. His smile was genuine and I had never seen one worn quite the same way. In all of eternity I was lost in this one man.

He created his own feelings. He was exactly what he was meant to be and I didn't know if that was a good thing. He was honest, and kind. He played piano and drank whisky. I met up with him in a coffee shop every week. He'd buy me hot chocolate and lemon cake. He was my first kiss if you'd believe you that.

His amber colored obsession was incurable and he was unable to be saved. I accepted this. I did. I was realist after all these years.

I showed him my memories. I showed him how to make disaster, and he didn't look down on me for it. I showed him the bottles I kept of people. Like wisps of smoke from his red lips. I showed him everything.

I remember his arms wrapped around me and the smell of his apartment. It was small and dark. He had fairy lights hanging around everywhere, and small colored bottles suspended from the ceiling. There was only a single piece of furniture, a mattress lying in the corner. He didn't have a television, he said he didn't need it. He read books.

I remember the sound of all the waves that crashed on the shore of our tiny beach town. The blue lighting streaming through his window. I remember every little thing and it's infuriating sometimes. I remember him saying "I love you." a first once again. I was never as interested in a person as I was with him.

I remember he offered to take me away to leave the town and see the world. I said no because if I ever left the city... I would die. A curse, something of payment for being immortal. It almost seemed worth it. I felt bad keeping him there, like a noose around his neck.

Slowly I was becoming more human. More mortal. I never said a word, but he knew. The sadness in his eyes grew deeper. The melancholy inducing liquid was emptied faster. Our hands stayed tightly clasped among the beating wind, the sandstorm. I and I alone was graced with his beautiful smile, his beautiful lips were for me. His eyes were my favorite thing. His fingers danced around my edges and his piano keys and his cigarette, and my heart.

My life was slipping through my fingertips. It was going quickly and every once in awhile I found I gray hair among the red. He noticed too. He always did. Apparently immortals weren't aloud to feel things.

The problem with him was that he cared all too much. He cared about me, he cared about who I was how I felt. One of the only ones. His tattoos were dampened by the passing of our time, but his eyes stayed the same. Bright blue, bright blue, bright blue, bright blue, blue.

Winter came and came again. He got my name written above his heart, forever. I got his written on the inside of my thigh. The sea seemed to freeze and then all at once it was over.

He must have seen how fast I was going. He must have seen my eyes and the gray that was slowly filling them. They never did go back to the vibrant green. He must have been crazy. I would have given anything to stay with him forever. What a shame, I think sometimes.

I wasn't ever meant to feel love for him. I wasn't meant to do the things I did. I was dying just like everyone else in the world0 and the only way out was... well. He crushed my heart, and left the tiny city. He packed his bag and left me with nothing but his name, his scent. His piano stayed in our, now, empty apartment.

I don't ever even remember moving in. I guess I stayed the night, and just didn't go back in the morning.

Melancholy. Alcohol. His piano.

I never make any disaster now. I felt like I could never make a person feel these feelings again. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemy. It was like poison was slowly burning me up from the inside out. He believed himself a walking disaster and I had no evidence to disprove him.

He died of alcohol poisoning ten years later. Sometimes I hope that he was happy, but then I remember his eyes and the way he left me behind. I knew the truth of him. His infinite and imminent demise was always staring me in the face, daring me to say something.

There was never anything I could do. He was unable to be saved and I accepted this. I really did. I learned to play his piano. I remembered. I drank his poison, and missed his skin. I sunk and rose like the sea he left behind. He was naturally a disaster. Born for it. Made for it. He'd rather leave than feel like he wasted my immortality. I would have given it up, but there is no changing the past.

Sometimes I wonder about what would have happened if he had stayed. Would we have aged together? Would he follow his dream? Sometimes I wonder, if I had the chance and knowing what I know now, would I do it again?

But then again, I can't exactly remember.