Leon Kennedy

How the Dead Love

The cold of the apartment burned hotter with each passing day. To keep from freezing to death from his own thoughts, Leon poured whiskey into himself. It burned a second time, and his head began to ache — so from the pain he closed his eyes, and behind the black veil the images repeated, one after another, they were all the same, and he sharply opened his eyes to drink more.

But I can't stop picturing you naked

Out on the street after a long mission, Leon walked without purpose, passing through familiar streets where you used to walk hand in hand. These memories helped him forget the blood and pain for a moment — but then came the realization that even this was gone. He walked the streets for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of her hair ahead. Sometimes he ran into acquaintances and walked right past them, not even saying hello, because their voices made his ears wilt and his head split with pain.

I'm restless, and, according to some, a little fucked in the head

Sometimes he wasn't alone at home — or rather, his home wasn't alone. He even invited them not for one night, but for a while. He wanted to feel a presence, to replace the emptiness, to be loved again and to receive the tenderness of women's hands. But then he'd find himself sitting in the car for hours just to avoid going inside — all because their beauty was not at all what his extinguished heart desired.

Unnamed women wait their turn, figures made of wax

He knew he was to blame, that his entire biography had destroyed what had been there from the very foundation. He sat in the office after a mission, trying to write a report. He remembered blood and killings, how death became a blessing for rotting people. These memories were signed by the image of her face — he wrote and thought about how her skin would become covered in veins, how she would become the enemy, the one he would have to aim the trigger at. He doesn't shoot. He aims the pistol at himself.. the final period in the report. His hands are shaking again.

The daily bustle, muffled moans, like rewriting the news. Dead man's fingers tap the keys in a stuffy office

He comes to a bar, drinks something he no longer even understands. His gaze is empty; he thinks about nothing. A light bulb flickers in front of him, and a thought flashes — that no one cares about it. His mind clouds over; he's taken a cigarette from someone and is now smoking outside with a woman. The neon sign makes her hair look just like.. he thinks about her hair, how he smells it. It's all fantasy — he always chooses women who resemble the only one he needs. But this is reality — a moment when he's having a conversation in life, not in his head with her.

I'm not in your world, and I flicker in the real one

Of course he takes her home — how else to drown out his eternal monologue with the other? She talks about his car, as if she hadn't immediately noticed he has money. He smirks and puts his hand on her thigh — someone else's skin burns hotter than an iron. When she ends up in his bed, he takes out a condom, can't tear it open on the first try, and this yanks him out of the haze of fantasy. He enters her anyway; she kisses him and moans in his ear, and his mind tears apart like foil packaging. This isn't reality — it's a lie, and it tears his heart open with bleeding.

When I fuck someone, I erase myself from memory

The next morning he's alone again. Leon stares at the ceiling — his throat is somehow too dry, his joints ache, beside him is the cold part of the bed, but the sheet there is crumpled. A sign of the ghost of a woman who once lay here. His head is empty again; he doesn't eat, doesn't get up, seems not even to breathe. Like a dead man, he stares into the void, as if it will save him from eternal anguish and despondency, as if it will erase the memories of liters of blood and kisses soft as feathers. Nothing is left of him; he lives only by pain, his personality erased by eternal regret.

What am I? My soul is lying in front of the sofa

An hour later he gets out of bed — and so it goes every day, every week he's afraid it will be like this every month. He drinks a huge cup of instant coffee; he has nothing to do that day, just like every other. Without missions he's a useless piece of meat — he has no hobbies, no desires, nothing but poison in his own head. Leon's gaze falls on the kitchen counter — he sees her: her bare legs in just panties, her tank top and hair, she's making breakfast and swaying her hips to a melody playing on the TV. The memory shatters at the sound of the phone ringing; he goes off to a personal war again.

Where you pour coffee, take a shower, wait for your taxi

Leon is already in a small barracks — behind the thin wall, a bunch of other guys, captains, men. He doesn't care. The thin spring mattress creaks too loudly under his movements, but he can't stop — his hand moves up and down. What else is there to do? Again, for weeks: no alcohol, no pills, no pistol to his temple — and he remembers only one kind of relief. He bites the pillowcase so as not to make a sound. All this friction is fake, vulgar, and too sticky — it gives his heart nothing but a deadly cold.

Dead lips reach for a face, a dead woman's hand jerks me off

His mind can't take the strain. After more days of pain and violence, he buys a ticket — his hands tremble a little on the handle of the bag. He threw in one pair of underwear, pants, and a shirt. He flies to where no one is waiting for him, but his heart pulls only there. It's not his city, but he knows you fled there.

I can fly to your city, rent a small apartment there

And that's what he did — the window looks straight onto her apartment. He sees the familiar curtains; she took them from your shared apartment. He looks there every 15 minutes, wanting to see at least some movement, to understand that his greatest happiness still exists. He's going insane.

Watching you through the shop window, like a fish in an aquarium. That will be enough for me

For three days he didn't dare leave that rented apartment — yet somehow a woman ended up in his bed again. This one, out of dozens, resembles his happiness in figure. Very similar. In the dark he can look only at those curves and see what he wants; he even enjoys it — but only because in that haze he's seeing something else entirely. His hands become gentle; he strokes her head and moans softly. His head is splitting from one name — it bursts from his lips, and he gets a slap in the face. Of course he offended this faceless decoy. The happiness is over.

A dead, rough tongue licks the secret off the tip

He looks out the window again. He's shaking — he's drunk a bottle of whiskey, and his brain is completely lost in the abyss of regrets. It was he who told her it was over. It was he who said their happiness was impossible. Everything he said was because of his life, because of blood and gunpowder. He had nothing to give her but worry, pain, and fear. He didn't want that fate for her — he ran from her sweet dreams of family and stability, from dreams where they sleep together in bed, hugging, where she kisses him goodnight, where she tenderly fixes his hair in the morning. He took happiness from himself — took it because of the desire to save everything around him — and now he'll fall apart into pieces.

When you come back to me with someone else's children, I'll be happy like a fool

He gets dressed and thinks about how he destroyed himself and her with a 10-minute serious conversation. He remembers her tears, puts on his shirt, and thinks about how he broke her heart. His hands go cold from it; he can't button his shirt. He knows how he hurt her. He's not a cheater — but what came after? How many women were there? In all of them were parts of her, but not one was her. Every thought of his destroys his mind, like locusts devouring the convolutions. He runs out in the middle of the night to a 24-hour store.

When I fuck someone, I'm raping you from a distance

Leon stands at her door. In one hand — a huge bouquet of her favorite flowers, several bars of chocolate, the perfume she always wanted, a cute plush bunny. He bought everything he remembered about her. He hasn't knocked for about 10 minutes. Like a dead man, he loved her for months — the love neither faded nor grew. It was steady, eternal, and quiet. He can't be dead — his heart is still beating. Just as slowly, he knocks on her door. In his head there's only one thing: {{user}}, {{user}}, {{user}}.

How the dead love — now you know yourself