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That Night In Liverpool
A Very Short Story (and a tribute to Clive Barker)
I’m so sorry, dear Clive.
I’ve made many mistakes in my life, but none makes me as sorry as that night in Liverpool.
I am tempted to write that I was at rock bottom, and here I am, giving in to temptation once again. It was a bad time, after the incident with your sister, after the troubles with S (remember?). I came from a tough year. I wish I could say I was not myself, that night in Liverpool.
But it would be a lie. Pain and fatigue had brought up a face of myself I’d rather not see, but a true face nonetheless (not the main one, I like to think). I was not drunk, when I led you into that club, I was not high. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, that night in Liverpool.
Twenty-eight years, dear Clive. Can you believe it? Twenty-eight years have passed since that night in Liverpool, and every day - every day - I have been thinking about the Ziggy Stardust poster on the wall, the insane fiddle, the fear on your face. That, especially.
Nobody is a monster, laughing and cackling while hurting people. There are always excuses, always reasons. I had reasons, and they all seemed good at the time. I have excuses, and they are sensible. But behind the reasons, behind the excuses, behind the thousand paths that brought you and me to that ancient cellar, that night in Liverpool, there is a simple truth: I wanted to be less lonely. I sacrificed you on the altar of me. It was unforgivable, what I did to you. And twenty-eight years later I’m asking you for a miracle. Dear Clive, do the impossible; and forgive me.
Forgive me for dripping the last drop of Ambrosia on your lips. Forgive me for ruining any chance for you to have the mindless, fat, happy life of those who do not know about the Pale Princes. Forgive me for teaching you the truth, that night in Liverpool.