Summary: George Geismar is a man with Borderline Personality Disorder. Tortured by his dual characters; George, the pathetic one, and Geismar, the sadistic; George Geismar is rescued by his good friend Will who arranges an intervention to The Tip.

Where George Geismar becomes acquainted with Sophie Plath and the rest of the story makes the Tip a nostalgic, depressive, romantic and haunting place.

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She was watching me from a distance. Not too far away and not too close either.

In my rapid glance, her constant stare broke out with licked lips as she looked away.

Onto the panorama of the endless horizon.

She was probably hoping that the wind would be too powerful and I would be blown away; catapulted by God's breath and die when my body flies down the cliff and George Geismar will be no more.

I didn't know what kind of fucked up things Will told her about me and if Will didn't, I'm sure she would hate me anyway.

Will couldn't and he didn't because he loved me. More than I could ever love myself.

Will ordered me to getaway.

The sickness started in my mind, then migrated to my heart and the body let go too.

"No!" I yelled, screaming that I'm a workaholic.

He said something spiritual that involves 'cleansing of the soul' and I cursed back.

This was the thing about me with Will.

Whatever he said I'll sneeringly protest.

When you are so adopted with not being loved, you don't have one damn clue how to act when the affection is handed to you.

"It's a summer home. On the beach."

Instantly, I snarled that I hated sand and liked mountains.

"Even better. There's a cabin. Called the Tip."

I was cornered and Will trapped me too well.

If he offered me the mountain before, I would take the sea.

And, the same would go the other way around.

"You won't be alone, George. I promise. You'll be fine. Come with me?"

***

Madness is fire in the hearts of men. Inside me, the fire burnt and left nothing but the coal and the pessimistic, nihilism of my character.

I was the poison, seeping in everyone's heart. Being incapable of keeping relationships. Stuck in the house, wanting to be loved but never loving.

Two weeks of groceries, a pack full of cigarette, my handful of prescribed medicine un-prescribed ones, new blanket, briefcase full of books and radio were all I took.

And onto the Tip, near the cusp of California.

Will, the voice of God's reason, knew that loneliness and a cliff with a 358 feet drop weren't a healthy mix.

She was walking on the beach in bare feet and behind my back Will struggled to convince Wayne to live with me.

Wayne was stubborn and I wanted to be alone.

Maybe to get well by myself or kill Geismar by throwing myself down the Tip.

I kept looking back at Will and Wayne so that Will would smile at me and the debate would end.

By the bonfire, Will pulled me closer when he said, "I'm staying with you."

I barked, saying he was crazy and he said he wanted me to be well.

"Will, don't argue now. The salty air's got me tired."

He paused to look at her and back.

"How about Sophie?"

***

Her name was Sophie. And Will sold her the idea of me.

From the Tip, I could see them and when I saw her fully she only said hello.

No one talked on the first day. Except for the wind. And from the silence with the sun, the June wind and a book; I had the faint hope of being human again.

Then I saw her watching me; like the pair of God's eyes watched you. Searching for the sinister things.

I dived back to the book, trying not to think then I read the truth.

'George is the good, sad one but Geismar is the misanthrope. A fucking killjoy.'

And I was Geismar since I was cooking up all the bad things about her.

Maybe she's a third-rate nurse from some septic hellhole and couldn't get a proper job so Will brought her to babysit me.

Or Wayne was a pimp and this was his pleasure piece walking around me all day.

Never could I imagine her, as someone like me; beat up by life that she ran the furthest distance to escape. And for a second I glanced at her from the cabin, the arch of her sad face might have revealed just that but I was Geismar and Geismar don't love nobody.

***

I tripped on the gravel road and the fall blessed me with a limp.

She saw me limping on the beach; as the little waves desperately tried to kiss my feet as if I were some sad God.

It was almost sundown, incarnadine lines were mixing with violet hues and giving birth to something divine in the sky but still, I didn't want to go back to the cabin because it was awfully lonely at night.

She sneaked up on me, with a shade of responsibility on her sad face and asked, "You okay?"

I knew what she would imply, so Geismar quickly answered, "I'm not staying at the beach house. With that prick Wayne!"

She looked at God's painting and said, "Give me your shoulder. I'll walk you back."

***

Roasted potato, canned Frank & Beans were warmed as the fireplace roared whilst we had dinner.

I was George that night because I didn't mind her presence.

I told her she shouldn't but she made dinner anyway.

"You're a writer?" She inquired.

I said that I taught philosophy. "I don't want to think about me. The books help me escape."

We had a moment and we both knew who or what each other was and we were silent.

Just the fireplace talking.

"Well, you should get a doctor. For that leg. If it's nothing, we--could go trekking."

George wanted to say yes but suddenly Geismar said, "I think it's time you got back to Wayne."

The beach house was two miles away. Then, there was the steep gravel road, down to the roaring sea, screaming like the depth of hell in the darkness of no moon nights of June.

She had realized that the storm was in its adolescence after dinner.

So Sophie stood at the doorway, confused.

Geismar was angry.

I yelled, asking if Will had put her up to this, babysitting me. She halted to lie that he didn't.

Geismar was screaming that he didn't need no pity from her. From anyone.

She mumbled and Geismar went off.

"Well, if Will said then that's that. Hang around, don't die in the dark. That's what I'll do tonight. Huh!"

I snarled; the fireplace making me look like Geismar.

"Try and stop me!"

That's all I said before sleeping, not caring how she would go back or what she would do now.

Then it happened after midnight.

***

The screeching window woke me up, not her. And the first thing I saw by the camping light was Sophie.

Shivering in the shoal over her tight cardigan, seeking warmth.

It was dark outside, revealing nothing of the abyss.

She must have waited for the storm to stop. Then sat by the fireplace.

Her last shelter was me.

Not George or Geismar. Me.

Just only me in my big, 49 dollars plush, fit for all Americana's cold blanket and she's shaking in her shoal.

I lobbed the other end towards her like a fisherman slings his net to the sea, hoping to draw her in.

Only thing was to do was let her inside the pleasantness of the cocoon.

Momentarily, I thought she looked at me and muttered, "I'm sorry. Geismar's a bad man."

And she was somewhat awake as she tightened herself inside the blanket, pressing against me.

Her husky voice, freshly tortured by the recent cold murmured, "Shh. Let's just go back to sleep."

And we didn't make love or talked in symmetry but I stayed awake; huffing her sea scented hair, my most favorite drug.

Occasionally her nails rustled my hair deeply before pulling out and leaving me hungry, then nudging her head more towards mine.

It felt like someone else's life. As if we were man and wife, eloping away and escaping 'Life'.

She woke up to Sad George who cried, failing to say anything comprehensive when she asked what's wrong. So she spoke the basic language of affection. Hugging me whilst George mumbled about his fucked up head.

And, she's not protesting but calling him darling and adding the name sweetheart.

"I won't leave you. Just focus on my heartbeat."

"Tell me you'll stay."

And, she held my big stupid head in her slender fingers; rubbing away the tears from my nose and saying, "I will."

And we were man and wife after the first kiss.

***

There were Sophie and the new George.

Us, walking down from the gravel road hand in hand, squeezing palms and exchanging kisses.

Us, collecting the sprinkled rocks and making our own balancing towers.

Us, kissing, giggling into each other's mouths, having a nap in the afternoon sun.

Her, dragging me to the sea like Will's 'Cleansing of the soul' was finally being conducted.

Me, swinging her around with hand in hand as she was the center of the Universe.

Us, sitting on the border of the Tip, reading her my Schopenhauer, stroking her hair till she fell asleep.

Us, making love as the fireplace crackled and fizzled. Then watching the stars in the abyss.

For the first time, he was loved and Geismar was gone forever.

But Geismar came.

***

It was Geismar who said the wrong thing, "You must be fucked in the head for loving me."

Sophie was distant since we strolled on the beach, walking just a few steps forward. Still in hand's reach but not in hand.

Then she's running away from me, to the sea and coming back wet and silent.

Then there was the silence again.

I became her, and she became me.

Together in the cabin, but still stuck in the loneliness.

I told her that we should get to bed and she said no.

I was already feeling Geismar.

I told her that we won't make love and she said nothing so I asked what's wrong.

"It's just my head that's wrong. That's all."

I wanted her there, under that plush blanket pressing against you, was the beating heart of another broken soul and you come to realize the meaning of life.

The meaning of life that all the Schopenhauers and Nietzsches discussed in difficult terms.

"Please. I need you."

If she wasn't there, Geismar would come out.

I could already feel him, talking in my head. "No love for poor George. She's smart. You only want that body. You only see yourself, you selfish, needy depressive, old whore."

And George's looking needy.

She's not saying no loudly and Geismar's laughing in my head.

And Sophie's walking out of the cabin. He's chasing her, limping in the dark; asking what was wrong and telling her to come back.

And the sea, God's tears were too loud for hear to those needy, polite lines.

Geismar continued, "No love for George."

She must have said what was wrong but Geismar's scream hid the words. "Go away, Sophie. Go back to your fucked up head! Just go!"

And she was mist and George was Geismar.

***

It was borderline ten when I woke up.

Something happened last night.

The slip was sitting beside me, pressed by Schopenhauer's 'The World as Will and Idea'.

I sat reading it, already George's tears making everything hazy.

'I'm going back to God though I don't believe in him. I loved you, George.
Over the Tip.

-S. Plath.'

I could tell myself that it wasn't true.

Then I sneaked a peek over the Tip, past the 'Caution' sign.

There's a little dot. Ruining the gold colored with a crimson shade.

George was running, crying, tripping.

The dot was growing into an image.

Sophie Plath flew from the Tip and to God.

Poor George, now kneeling beside the body, crying.

Geismar wasn't silent.

"Look what you went ahead and done! Poor George killed poor Sophie. Think what Will would think, what Wayne would think. Think what you would think. They want you, George!"

Poor George didn't know nothing anymore so he's listening to Geismar.

"Go, George. Go!"

And I looked back to her pretty face now bashed in by the rock, God's teeth.

I did what was left to do.

A few steps as the sea's spitting on me.

No cleansing of the soul.

And George Geismar was no more.