The Love Poem

This has the be the most bipolar thing I've ever written. It started out as all fun and funny, and somewhere towards the end, I got sloppy and emo in my writing. I had to have it done by the next day, and it got waaaay late. So, here is my first short story, bipolarity and all.

The Love Poem

He existed.

It the strangest thing to imagine not existing. Where would he be? Or, more accurately, where wouldn’t he be? What is it like to not think, touch, know, see, or want anything? His head started to ache at the thought. He relaxed somewhat and sat down, massaging his temples. The headache didn’t seem to go away.

Why not? Shouldn’t it go away? But then, he couldn't recall having had a headache before. How should he know how long a headache ought to last? Or that massaging his temples might make it better? He groaned and massaged with greater furor. The floorboards were hard and uncomfortable to sit on, and so he stood again, which admittedly did little to alleviate the pain in his head.

Where was he, anyhow? Inside, presumably. Floorboards don’t just lay around in forests or deserts, or anywhere but inside places. Or don’t they? It didn’t seem right that they would, so he supposed they must not. Whatever forests and deserts are.

He opened his eyes. Everything was terribly dark. That wasn’t very helpful. More helpful, actually, was a scent he realized he had been smelling since forever. However long ago that had been. It was a smell that could perhaps be called sweet, and it brought thoughts he couldn't quite place. People, places, and feelings that seemed like they ought to be familiar to him. Oh, please, why was the headache necessary?

The smell was definitely a lead, though. It tickled his memory, and the more he dwelt on it, a bubbling warmth spread throughout his body from just beneath his sternum. It was a sweet, excited feeling. Interesting. A person, he thought — the smell definitely brought a person to mind.

The more he blinked, the easier it was to see. First there was a rectangle only slightly more orange than black. A rectangle it was, through which an orange glow seeped into the room. It was a window, he remembered! He was inside a room of some kind. A kind that had floorboards.

There was a form close to the window. Just an outline at first, a blacker black inside a less-black black. Black was quickly becoming his least-favorite color. Perhaps it always had been. The form became more defined: it was someone in a bed. His heart leapt. Somehow he knew this person. This was the person the smell made him think of. The feeling that had spread continued to ripple through him, growing more exciting. It was more happiness than he had ever known, for what that was worth. He walked over to the bed and knelt by it, looking into the face of the person. It was a girl, the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Her hair gathered like a halo around her head on her pillow, framing her heart-shaped face in ebony. Her breath escaped her plump lips in slow, relaxed rhythm; her eyes were closed in sleep.

He was caught between recognizing her and trying to remember who she was. He had seen her before, except for the fact that he couldn't remember anything up till a few minutes ago. Had he seen anyone before, though, it would have been her.

“Alice,” the name escaped his lips and shattered the silence in the room, giving him quite a start. Though he hadn’t spoken in much above a whisper, it was the first sound he was cognizant of hearing. He watched, body frozen and heart racing, afraid of whatever it was that happened when girls woke up to find people in their rooms. The girl stirred in her sleep, but didn't wake. All good and well, then. He tried to relax, but couldn't. For some reason, a part of him wanted her to wake up. He wanted to talk to her again. Or for the first time. Whichever it was, he wanted to talk to her. Something about her seemed to hold him captive, and his heart was still pounding.

“You love her,” came a voice from above his shoulder. He really did jump this time, and spun around with a yelp. The voice that addressed him came from a person, apparently of the female persuasion. This wasn’t immediately apparent, as her face was shrouded by a white mask over a black veil. This would have been alarming if he had known that masked and veiled people tend to be alarming. Apart from the odd head-wear, she wore a thick, checkered covering which was fastened shut by a row of double-breasted buttons, from her collar down to the floor.

“You startled me,” he admitted, and then remembered in horror that Alice was supposed to be sleeping. He turned to find her undisturbed.

“Oh, she won’t wake up,” said the woman-person, “But anyway, you love her.”

“I guess I do,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever loved anyone before, so it’s hard to say.”

“Well” she replied, “You are new to this world. You came into existence some hours ago.” He frowned. This was most disconcerting news. The whole concept of oblivion came flooding back, and with it his headache with a nasty vengeance, rather put off at having been forgotten about.

“What does that even mean?” was all he was able to ask through the pain.

“Let me show you,” she said, and she walked over to where the girl lay sleeping. In an instant, he was back on his feet — the woman-person was too close to Alice for comfort. No one was to come that close to her except for himself. This rule was to come into effect immediately. He opened his mouth to tell the woman-person so, but she was already away from the bed, now with a piece of paper in her gloved hand, which protruded from a slit in the covering she wore.

“Read this,” she said, handing to to him.

Though the room was dark, letters were visible on the paper, as if they were on fire, burning red and, if it could be said of letters, passionately.

The first set of letters spelled out DRAKE.

The rest of it seemed wholly unrelated to these five letters. They spoke of strong features, first and foremost, and handsome ones at that. They spoke of kindness, politeness, cleanliness, of handsomeness again, and then of perfection. They then took a weaker stance on the perfection aspect, admitting a few human faults that were most likely present (although the letters took care to explain that their writer hadn’t yet observed these), but then they spoke of a willingness to overlook said faults due to intelligence, respect for women, a hard work ethic, and so forth. They mentioned how happy their romance had been thus far, and they ended with a suggestion that the subject of the writing might perhaps become more permanently romantically entwined with the author, and that they might pursue a future together. Finally, the fire in the letters died, and all was dark.

“What’s this?” he asked, aghast.

“That’s a love poem,” she said.

“What does that have to do with the letters DRAKE?”

“That’s your name.”

It was like a slap to the face, only pleasant. It was now so clear, he felt stupid for having not made the connection before.

“She wrote this poem about me!” He said excitedly. “That means she loves me back, then, doesn’t it?”

“After a fashion,” said the woman-person, “She loves a boy named Drake. She wrote a poem about him. Around the time she finished writing is when you came into existence. You are her poem.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“I am her poem,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

In his vague understanding of the world, he didn’t really think too much of poems as living, breathing things like himself. He held up the paper.

“Isn’t this her poem?” he asked.

“No,” said the woman/person, “That is a piece of paper with ink sloppily arranged on it. You are what that piece of paper represents.”

“I don’t quite follow,”

“I don’t expect you to. Alice described you as smart, not a metaphysicist.”

“That’s not even a word.”

“It is so, and don’t you dare contradict me.”

They sat in another awkward silence for a moment while he considered what to say next. Finally, he said,

“So, if I’m her poem, then who are you? How do you know so much about it?”

“Knowledge is power,” she said, “and the tome that represents me is hidden away somewhere safe. No one person should have that much power.”

“You’re that powerful?” he asked out of curiosity rather than cheekiness, though her mask regarded him coolly at this. Something flickered in the darkness behind the eye-holes, and then it was gone. She reached across the room.

Her arms were far too long.

One stretched from where she stood over to the window, which shattered at her touch. The other stretched toward the door of the room, which her gloved hand opened, and continued stretching beyond it. She grew terribly tall as well, her masked head looming over him, until it reached the ceiling. Her back curled at the ceiling as continued she stretching, her head now bowed and leering ever nearer to Drake’s face. Her mask was an inch from his face, and her veil touched his face. He took a step back in shock.

“I’m very fond of you, Drake,” she said, “But don’t test my limits. I have few.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he managed to say.

“Good.”

Her mask retracted away, and she shrank down to her previous height. Her arms retracted to back within her covering, and the shattered window reassembled itself.

“Humility aside, however,” she said in a lighter tone, “you are the newest addition to my realm. I just thought I’'d welcome you personally before I left you to your own devices.”

“Very much obliged,” he chimed.

“Yes,” she agreed, “you are. Before I leave, I must leave with you one rule.”

“What’s that?”

“We can’t interfere with their world.”

“Whose world?”

“The humans’ world. Alice’s world.”

“Why?”

“My dear, that’s just how things are.”

And with that, she was gone.

He wondered vaguely what he was to do now. He looked back to Alice, who lay perfect oblivious to his presence, to the exchange that had just taken place between him and the woman-person.

Just what was he to do? How cruel it was to leave someone to his own devices who hardly had any devices to speak of. What sorts of things did people do?
He wandered about the room, pacing back and forth protectively over Alice for a good half hour. When at length it became apparent that no attack on Alice was forthcoming, he relaxed, and found himself overwhelmed with sleepiness. Waves of exhaustion lapped at his eyelids and the base of his neck, and he descended into such a blissful feeling of rest that he toppled gently to the floor, meeting again his old friends, the floorboards.

The light was intense. Drake’s eyes opened to the blinding world of daylight, probably. It was brilliant! The room was a shade of the pinkest pink imaginable! On many of the walls were posters of a young man wearing a reddish mop on his head, with the words JUSTIN BIEBER written in straight letters beneath each. Those would have to go right away. A really quite large chest of drawers lay opposite the four-poster bed upon which Alice had been sleeping, and it was open, clothes spilling out of it. Across the room was a massive mirror, in front of which was than Alice. She turned around, and began to leave the room, taking no notice of Drake.

She was even more beautiful awake. Her hair now fell in shimmering locks about her shoulders, and her smoky green eyes shone with a sparkle that sent a thrill down Drake’s spine; even her hideous nose-ring could be forgotten in the ensemble. Her rosy perfume filled his nostrils as she disappeared out the door.

Out the door.

Away from him.

He leapt to his feet and ran after her. She must be protected. And so it was he found his way to her high school.

The place was altogether dodgy. It was dirty, the cement ground cracked and covered in old gum. The buildings were concrete and cinder-block structures, bleak and cold. The lockers were scratched and dented, some apparently relics of a more ancient time. It was hardly a place where someone like Alice could fit in. The sea of people closed in all around, but Alice wove through the crowds with no trouble. No one could see Drake, but Alice didn’t seem to escape anyone’s notice. Everywhere she went, a pack of girls called out to her (in their ear-piercing shrill tones), or a boy with a look of ill-intention (to say nothing of clothing style) would greet her. To all she would smile with bared teeth and wave her slender hand, her nails painted red. Every wave was like a slap to Drake’s face.

This was so unfair. She had written her poem about him, not these people! Especially not the one with the stupid hair! Not like he could really pass judgment — he had quickly discovered that he couldn’t see himself in mirrors; for all he knew, he could be wearing a Teletubby suit, and in any event, he didn’t exist yesterday, so what did his opinion really count? — but if Alice’s poem were any indication of the sort of men she liked, what was she doing with these idiots?

“Can’t you see that these guys are all horrible?” he yelled at her. To his surprise, she frowned and inclined her head in his direction. Could she hear him?

“Alice!” He cried, “Alice, it’s me, Drake!”

She looked straight through him, her face vacant.

“What’s up, Alice?” one of the losers asked her. “You okay?” Drake couldn’t stand the sight of him. He wore a tiny little beard just under his lower lip, and his short, spiky hair was a shade of orange that seemed incredibly unnatural even to someone whose reckoning of the world dated less than twenty-four hours back. His shirt was immaculate, and his jeans were tight around his skinny legs. He gave off a sickly sweet, musty smell.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she said in her glimmering voice, “I just thought someone was calling my name.”

“I am calling you!” Drake shouted as loud as he could. At this point, he wasn’t worked up about her not noticing him; he was very worked up about the possibility that she might be able to. She shook her head and turned back to her friends.

“I could have sworn someone yelled my name.”

“You’re just paranoid,” said the boy.

“You’re just a jerk,” she said with a grin and made to punch him playfully.

He grabbed her arm.

Drake’s breath caught in his throat.

The boy pulled her in closer to him. She kissed him.

No. Why would she kiss him? Drake’s heart was trying to wrestle its way out of his chest.

The boy kissed her back.

Drake raised one shaking fist, and let it fly.

The boy reeled from the blow and let out a yelp. So Drake could interfere with the world after all! He was trembling all over, but now it was from excitement.

“Drake, what happened?” shrieked Alice. Drake?

Was this Drake? This couldn’t be Drake.

“Drake, what happened?” came a voice over his shoulder. He spun around to see the masked woman-person directly behind him, towering over him. “Did you just harm a human being?”

“But he —”

“We do not interfere with the human world.”

“Why not? I just found out we can.”

“Remember what I said about testing my limits?” the woman-person asked. And with that, she turned her back to him, and walked away, shrinking down to a more human height. She disappeared quickly into the crowd.

Alice escorted Real Drake to a place that smelled oddly clean, for a school like this one, with pale-green tiles and newer-looking paint. Drake watched as a woman in white took Real Drake away into another room behind the desk. Alice took a seat in one of the many chairs that lined the walls, and plugged buds into her ears, while she tinkered with what he knew, somewhere inside of himself, to be a phone. Drake sat down next to her and watched her intently. He was calmer now, but he couldn’t rid himself of the sense of betrayal. But really, he reasoned, whom had she betrayed? Not him, certainly. It was only because of Real Drake he even existed. Still, he wanted to be the one to protect her, to care for her. He reached a hand out toward her, and it was all he could do not to let it rest on her free hand.

Of course she didn’t notice him sitting there.

He pulled from his pocket (he realized now he was wearing the same tight jeans as Real Drake) the original Poem.

Strong, it said. Caring. Kind. Chivalrous, respectful, and loving. That was what Real Drake was to Alice. And what was he, Drake the Perhaps Not So Real? The longing he felt was pretty real to him. Still, Alice had written her poem about the Real Drake. He alone could make her feel so safe and loved. He, Drake the Perhaps Not So Real, could not. Even after all that thinking (he was quite good at thinking by now; there was little else he could really do), he still felt betrayed. She didn’t even know he was there, and still he felt like she had tossed him aside. But then of course he would feel that way. The Poem said he was faithful and protective (and maybe a little bit jealous). Just like Real Drake, about whom it had been written. Perhaps he had misjudged Real Drake.

Real Drake emerged from the door behind the desk, a bandage on his nose and cotton balls in his nostrils. His expression was cold. Alice popped the buds out of her ears, her beautiful smile in place.

“How is it?” asked Alice.

“It sucks,” Real Drake glowered. “Nose is broke.”

“Broken,” Drake instinctively corrected. He frowned; surely Real Drake would know the difference between a preterite verb conjugation and an adjective. Neither of them seemed to have heard him.

“I’m so sorry!” said Alice.

“Wasn’t your fault.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah. I’m going home, actually. Going to take it easy.”

“Okay,” Alice said, though she looked dismayed. “I’ll miss you in class.”

“Sorry,” Real Drake replied in a flat voice. He headed for the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” she said. He paused and regarded her, and walked over to her. He kissed her again. Drake clenched his fist, but kept himself under control. Well, he tried, anyway. Something about Real Drake really did bother him, the more he watched him.

Alice kissed him back. And Real Drake was out the door. Alice sat back down, and replaced the buds in her ears. Back to the phone.

“Are you feeling unwell?” asked the lady in white from behind the desk in a loud, pointed tone.

“You have no idea,” muttered Drake.

“I’m really tired,” said Alice, not looking up from her phone. “I need to rest a bit.” The woman sighed, and sat down, busying herself with whatever it is women in white are always busy with at desks.

Drake considered what to do next. It was very likely Alice was going to be true to her word, and stay here for a while. He still wanted to protect her, in the absence of Real Drake, but it was just that: something about Real Drake was not as it should be. He stood up and peered out the door and down the hallway. Real Drake was still visible at the end of the corridor. He looked back at Alice, and then began to follow Real Drake. Perhaps the best way to protect Alice would be to find out more about Real Drake.

“Hey, Drake!” came a girl’s voice from the other side of the road. Real Drake stopped where he was, and smiled broadly at the girl. She was pretty (Drake supposed), but she could not compare with Alice.

“What’s up, Amanda?” Real Drake said. Amanda crossed the street and gave Real Drake a hug. They clung together for a moment too long.

“I’m just headed to school,” Amanda said. “I overslept way too much, but I have a Spanish test fourth period. Can’t miss it.”

“Hey, come by my place after school,” Real Drake said, “We need to hang out again.”

“Isn’t Alice going to be there?”

“Nah. I’ll tell her I’m sick.”

“Okay, then! I’ll bring the Coke I owe you.”

“You better.”

Their heads came together, and their lips met. Drake stood dumbfounded. This was not him.

“Bye, Drake!”

“See you later, Amanda,” Real Drake said, resuming his slouching gait home.

No. This could not be Real Drake.

There came a buzzing from Real Drake’s pocket. He pulled out his phone, looked at the message it had received, and stuffed it back into his pocket with a huff.

“Yeah, miss you, too.” His tone was not dripping with sincerity.

Drake felt like he might throw up, if he had ever eaten anything before. Alice had been wrong about him. Disgusted, Drake left Real Drake to mosey on home on his own. He’d seen enough.

He found Alice in her room, laying on her bed. She was writing something in a notebook, earbuds firmly in place. A buzz from her phone gave her a start. She pulled it out, and smiled.

“Time to pull the cookies out the oven,” she said to herself, and hopped out of bed, taking her notebook with her. Her walk was half-dance, gliding on the balls of her feet toward the kitchen, making hardly a sound with each footfall. Her rosy scent hovered in the air behind her, and Drake let out a sigh. He followed her and watched as she removed a tray of chocolate chip cookies from the oven, placing them gently on the counter to cool. As they did, she finished what she had been writing, and pulled it from the notebook, leaving it on the table as she placed the cookies on a plate. Drake stepped in to investigate.

On the paper was written the Poem, with “Get Well!” written at the bottom.

“Drake,” came the voice he now recognized as the woman-person’s.

He turned, and there she was.

“What am I?” he asked her.

“You really have lost your spark.”

“Well, can you really blame me?”

“I really can’t,” she said.

Alice was wrapping the cookies in plastic wrap.

“Who am I?” asked Drake.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the person the Poem was written about is so different from it. I’m not him. Who am I, then?”

“But you are him,” the woman-person said. “To Alice, he is everything you are.”

“He’s nothing like me!” he yelled. Alice looked up, a bit startled. She had just taped the “Get Well!” note to the wrapping over the cookies. “He’s treacherous, cold, unloving ...”

“Yes. He is.”

“And all I can do is watch while she delivers cookies and my Poem to someone who won’t see them as anything more than free food.”

“Well, not exactly.”

“No?”

“No. Drake, you are the one she means to deliver those cookies to. The Poem isn’t about Drake, it’s about what Drake should be. That Poem, in many ways, is more real than he is. That’s why things like you and me exist.”

“That honestly made no sense.”

“Like I said, you’re smart, not a metaphysicist.”

“So what can I do, other than watch?”

“Tell her the truth. It will remove the delusions she has about Drake, and she’ll be able to move on with her life.”

“I can do that?” he asked. “I thought we don’t interfere.”

“I can make you visible and totally audible to her for ten minutes, yes, but there’s the catch. Drake, when she realizes what the real Drake is, the Poem will be dead. She’ll know it’s not true, and it will become a meaningless piece of paper.”

“So, in short, if I tell her the truth, she’ll dump Drake —”

“If she has anything between her ears that wasn’t written by Radiohead, she will.”

“— and I’ll cease to exist?”

“Sort of.”

It was strangest thing to imagine not existing. What is it like to not think, touch, know, see, or want anything?

“Will I ever see her again?”

“Drake,” said the woman-person, “There is one thing I can tell you: consciousness has matter. Matter can’t be created or destroyed. Of all the dark matter and hypothetically impossible elements that make up the universe, the ones that chose to answer Alice’s call in her poem are right in front of me. I can promise you you’ll see her again: you’ve already decided that you fit the description of the one who loves Alice unconditionally.”

He didn’t try to fully understand what she said. Alice tested one of the spare cookies.

“Will it hurt?”

“Not a bit.”

He took a deep breath, trying to shove away the headaches that were already coming back.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Then you had better get explaining.”

Alice looked up to see Drake suddenly standing there with her in the kitchen. He drew her into a tight embrace, tighter than Alice had remembered him ever hugging her. Then he began to speak.