This, re-reading it, comes off a little stalker-ish. Perhaps that is why it was never published. If you have a hard time, I don’t know, figuring out that N isn’t in any danger from me, well, you don’t know me well at all.

(more…)

I wrote this several months ago, but never published. I didn’t think I could add anything else to it. -D

She cries for me, for things I don’t understand and can’t grasp. She cries for my lack of understanding, my inabilities, my blindness, she weeps for them openly, unashamed. That I look at her with such detachment, that furrowed brow she’s soothed so easily before only hurts her deeper.

She’s on her knees, her arms crossed over her chest as she tries to contain herself, keep it from spilling on the floor and staining my shoes, wetting my feet. Contain herself within her chest, her heart, but it’s bleeding, leaving her in spite of her will and I can only watch her, blind.

I blink and hear her sobs. They wash over me only an echo, a ghost. Her forehead touches the floor, her body shaking. I step back from the puddle of color that stains the wood, spreading outward. I don’t want her grief to touch me. Her fingers fall to the floor, but she can’t push herself up. Somehow I know, her head is too heavy to lift, but the stain is coming closer and I inch back away from it.

I can taste her need of me. I feel the liquid on my shoes, my feet, feel it crawling up my legs. Her fingers wrap around my leg, her face upon my stained shoes, my legs, but I am brittle and crumble slowly away from her touch. Ash.

Only the stain remains.

(Ha. Obviously, I started this and gave up. The only part of this entry was the title.)

I want to see her suffer.

I realized this sitting in my chair, looking out over the peaceful expanse of big sky my home offers me. I can make out the curve of her lower back in the clouds and almost will a jet to rip though the white, vapourous cloud to tear it asunder. This isn’t the heat of passion speaking, indeed my voice is the other, colder side that makes its appearance when I least expect it.

The reality is that she suffers for me quite enough, but standing there, gripping the glass filled with ice and amber liquid, I wanted more. I wanted it all. I wanted her twisted so badly she would not be able to extricate herself. I wanted her beyond tears. I wanted her fear, her anxiety. I wanted to taste it in my mouth - take it from the beads of bloody sweat that form when she is under extreme pressure.

I looked at my hand, turning the palm skyward to observe the white, dead skin left over from my blisters and I felt nothing. I watched the battered flesh as a doctor might, distant, detached. I saw only the result of my action and felt nothing that might have driven me there.

I saw her, curled in the chair and walked back inside, sliding the door shut. She was asleep, or was pretending to be. I wouldn’t disturb her - I didn’t care if she wanted to hide from me, or if indeed, she was resting. There was something inside that spoke of emotion when I viewed her, but its noise was so feint I could not make it out over the soft, cold breeze echoing in my head.

I started for the stairs and heard her voice softly. ‘I’ll be up soon.’

I turned and caught a glimpse of her eyes before she hid them again behind a sweep of hair. I nodded, arched a brow, but I wasn’t sure if she could see me. Still, I walked up the stairs and went to bed.

—— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— —— ——