They’d make some indie film all about your beautiful doomed soul. About your infinite sensitivity. About your too-good-for-this-world delicacy.
They’d dig out these old clips of you. Old baby photos. He seemed like a happy little boy. He was really talkative. Wanted to be the class clown. Then he got more introverted. Stopped talking. Lost his sense of humour …
There’d be your friends, giving sad monologues to camera. moody. As though something had died with you for them. As though they were mourning their lives, too. There’d be talking heads, explaining what your book meant to them. How it spoke for an entire generation, or whatever.
And footage of your fans, making little shrines for you. With your photo. With black candles. With bits of your book copied out on beer mats and fag packets …
Maybe you could kill yourself now, before you write anything. Wouldn’t that make it even more beautiful? No one would know who you were. No one would care that you died.
Would you be on the film? What would say about me?
I’d say he was a complex guy and I never really understood him. I’d say we used to meet in the afternoon and fuck in the afternoon. That we spent a lot of afternoons just hanging out, nude. In search of the ultimate orgasm, or whatever.
Your husband would like that.
Yeah, I’d really build your mystique. That’s what you’d want, isn’t it: a mystique? A dead boy mystique.
What about you? Would you want a dead girl mystique?
I don’t need mystique. I have a life. I don’t need some bullshit story about me. I’m happy just to go along with the flow of the world.
Oh please!
Work in Progress 