Amelia

Alas, it was not Jonathan, but Amelia who telephoned. And now I have to interrupt the story flow to try to explain something which is neither Here nor Now, per se, but is certainly neither There nor Then. Amelia… Amelia, Amelia, Amelia…

I have explained her once, and yet I have never explained her at all. She is standing in the corner even Now, as I type. She is thin and dark, like a shadow. There is only a single light on in the suite, and it is in the bathroom, too far to light this room. Only the glow from my iBook breaks the darkness. Amelia looks out through the drapes, and the lights of the city fall sickly on her sharp cheekbones. If the definition of Mystery were to take life and form, I am convinced it would look like Amelia. If one were not careful, she could vanish as you looked at her, like a beautiful half-thought. She is silent as I type, arms crossed, black eyes knowing but untelling. They have much to tell, too.

Amelia is an unknown age which we (Eleanor and I…drat, I am introducing too many characters I had not meant to introduce for entries yet!) guess to be several thousand years old. She has lived a hundred lifetimes, if not more, and she has died as many deaths. For this reason, she is my Death Muse. Whereas my life is a continuous stream of life, Amelia’s is punctuated by death of every kind. You see, she accomplishes what I have yet to, and that is to die. To die, and yet be born again. I would not mind so much, being born again, but there are moments I would very much like to know what it is to die. Once might well be enough for me.

Amelia, though, Amelia. I know not how she came by her name. She tells us she was cursed in her girlhood in Egypt, by a priest who hated her father. I know it sounds like madness, but all of it is madness. Each and every one of my two hundred and one years is a madness, so what are a few thousand extra years of insanity?

I met Amelia at some point in the 1840s or 50s. I was still confused about my ageless condition, but she insisted…she insisted that she could smell the Timelessness on me, even then. I shook her off then, thinking her a raving gypsy, for I believe she is always born a thin, dark creature, with those bottomless black eyes. Anyhow, I do not think I ever lost her, and I eventually sought her help as my…Timelessness, so to speak…became less and less avoidable. It is easy for me to think that Amelia has seen it all, but only because I feel as though she has lived through it all. –“Lived” being used very loosely, of course. She has rather, I suppose, “died” through it all: poisoning, sickness, stabbing, shooting, hanging, burning, drowning, beating. I asked her once which was the worst, and she said that they were all the worst. That when they happen, each one is the worst, but when she is resurrected, the pain is just a memory, like all our memories of hurt. We remember that there was pain, awfulness, but we cannot feel it, let alone with the intensity with which we felt it in its occurring moment. So each death is the worst, but at the same time, none of them are. I think, that of the Timeless of us, it would be worst to be Amelia, but she just smiles, her special, ambiguous smile.

Ah, she has just turned to me, sensing, perhaps my thoughts, but likely just cognizant of the pause in my typing. Not anxious to answer any more of her questions tonight though, I quickly recommence with this entry. Amelia can send me into astonishing acrobatic acts inside. I love her in a way in which I am actually quite afraid to love her. It is the most unique sensation in the world. I ask her Now, absently, if she will accompany me to Washington, DC.

“Will you see Catherine?” she asks.

“Yes, I suppose so,” I answer honestly.

“Then I shall come.”

And it is settled then, I guess. I’ll have to let Jen know that she’ll have two guests, not just one this week. It will hardly be a problem, as she and Dave are all alone in that Georgetown row house, but still: Amelia is heavy baggage for a hostess unprepared. I wish she would not stare at people sometimes, as she does…

Je t’aime, Amelie, mais tu es difficle.