Sometimes I just feel fragile, My heart feels heavy, Sit and listen to The Smiths,
I’m not as strong as I pretend.
I am delicate, like china,
I know how all of this will end.
I try to remember the cure.
But everything in my head,
Comes out trite and impure.
All the world fades to dust.
Daydreaming of girls,
With hair the colour of rust.
You make my head hurt. And even though I know it won’t work out in my favour, I won’t stay away. You are in my blood now; a part of me that won’t wash out, or be willed away.
You make my chest ache. And every time my heart beats, it beats for you. I fear if you ever went too far away that it would cease.
You make my stomach flip. You make me nervous, and at the same time I am at my most comfortable when I’m with you. It feels strange to have that contradiction going on in my own head.
“You wanted what happened just as much as I did” He says firmly, his steely gaze fixed on me. That look would normally make me nervous, but now I am running on adrenalin and guilt. “That doesn’t make it right!” I whisper hotly. This quilt is consuming me. I pride myself on being a good person. An honest person. Now I feel dirty. He’s in a relationship. I should have known better, should have controlled myself. It’s this guilt, forever ingrained in me by my Catholic high school. I flinch in the tiny, cramped room. It feels like the walls are slowly creeping in as his cold eyes bear down on me. “Doesn’t make it wrong either” He says, his voice low and hushed as he moves closer. He looks so sure of himself. All his moves, his whole manner, are predatory. I feel like an antelope ensared by a shrewd lion. I have to get out. I’m starting to sweat, getting claustrophobic in the enclosed space. I know this is his design. Moving me into this small bathroom was strategic. He wants to make me uncomfortable, and he’s succeeding. He’s blocking the door behind him. He wants to sure I won’t spill my guts to her. Making sure I can’t repent my sins. This is what he does best; intimidation.
The need to exit this space, before my dissolution into panic, increases. I move for the door, our bodies brush against each other as I push passed him and I can’t help but notice the self-satisfied smirk obsuring his features. I push back the heavy wooden door, rushing out into the main room. I don’t stopping running until I feel the cool rush of air outside. I have flung the backdoor open so violently that it thuds loudly against the outside wall, but the sound hardly registers. I stop, standing on the lawn in front of the sagging old porch, and breath the brisk night air deeply into my lungs. Even in this state I can feel his presence behind me in the doorway. I slowly turn to see him standing there, he’s leaning casually against the door frame, a cigarette perched between his lips, fingers fiddling with the old Zippo his dad gave him before he died. He’s watching ever-so nonchallantly with those intense blue eyes. “Why are you doing this?” I ask. I try to stop my voice shaking but there is still the slightest hint of a waver in my tone. He says nothing, just flicks his fag on to the damp lawn and walks calmy toward me. He stops mere inches from me. So close that I can still smell the smoke on his breath. Cupping my face in his hands, he presses his lips against mine. The lighter is still in his hand, it burns cold against my cheek. My brain is willing me to react. To push him away, fight, struggle, something. But my body does not obey. He breaks away from me finally, flashes me a smirk and walks back in to the house, leaving me a spluttering, gasping mess.
I am sure this gesture is meant to prove a point more than to prove affection, but the taste of him staining my lips and the lingering warmth of his body push the thought from my mind. I want desperately not to be so entranced by him, but that’s not how this works. Suddenly the heaviness of my body makes itself apparent and I fall softly to my knees on the damp grass. The condensation seeps through the knees of my trousers making me shiver but I don’t care. There are more important things to worry about than the cold. My mind traces the events of last night. It all seems so vulgar now. Even with these images playing like a projector reel through my head, all I can think is how could I let this happen? But I already know the answer. I am weak, I let him mesmerize me. I could have stopped it getting that far. It could have just been a tawdry stolen kiss, but I let is escalate. Now it was more. It was sex. A one-night-stand. An affair. I am an adulturer. I’m no better than the trashy sluts that throw themselves at him at parties. This guilt is weighing against my chest, it feels as if I’m being slowly crushed beneath a ten tonne truck. There is no end in sight for this feeling. He will not end my misery. He’s too selfish. This is a game to him. This is sadistic, he is slowly torturing me. I rack my brain for what could have warranted this punishment but I can think of nothing. There is no rhyme of reason to his little games, he just gets off on the thrill of watching people squirm.
You lay, gasping, crying in a fit of pique.
I feel no pity.
You bloodless swine! She doesn’t give a damn.
You are to be discarded like a cigarette butt.
Worthless, used.
Nothing.
Her play-thing.
Once a source of amusement.
Now lacking in substance.
A useless piece of discarded filth barely worth a glance.
Her back is turned as you silently gather up what’s left behind.
She never acknowledges the quiet sound of crying.
In dark spaces I feel crowded.
As if a thousand creatures envelop my being.
Squeezing in to any space that’s left around me.
Tiny fingers wrapped around every limb.
Yet my voice does nothing but echo in the vast emptiness of this room.
In crowds I am alone.
The great hordes of bodies.
Many voices, not one registering in any form.
A vast chasm of nothingness has opened.
Sucking me out into the vacuum of space.
Closing all barriers.
The final curtain.
All is lost.
Blistering heat.
The streets outside melt in pools like thick, grey ice-cream.
The world shimmers in waves of fire.
Sunbeams burning great holes in concrete.
Nervous wreck.
Two-bit hack.
Friendless child.
Fractured mind.
Spoiled fruit.
Broke-down car.
She broke your heart.
Eyes flicker open. Dark eyes search the bright room, lingering for a moment over your naked body lying beside her in peaceful slumber under the cover of white sheets. Memories of the night before flicker through her mind like an old projector reel. Simple fragments; the feel of your smooth skin under calloused fingertips, the way your moans fell softly upon her ears. Lips upturn in a sleepy smile, as her dark eyes flicker shut once more.
Sleep loses its appeal. She stirs, lifting her blonde head to stare at the digital alarm clock. 11:11 – the wishing hour, she recalls. Blinking eyes force tears back. As they close tightly she silently wishes you didn’t have to leave. That this moment could last a thousand years and she could sleep next to you for the rest of her days.
or, the story in which I make obvious use of my favourite literary technique.
Blood spills, gushes gruesomely from a ghastly wound.
A cold cackle cry calls out, crescendos in the constricted quarters.
The rancid reek of the rifle wafts throughout the restricted space of the hallway.
A smirk, a settling of scores. Her serene swagger shows no sorrow as she swiftly slips from the scene.
This is torture. Silent air space. Wires that whirr and hum, but don’t let any transmission through. This silence is tearing at my insides. Anger would suffice. Hatred, disgust, disappointment, anything more than this echoing silence that claws at my eardrums and etches metaphorical scars in the fragile muscles of this vital organ. The symbol of the best and worst emotion. It always amused me that others took feelings and transplanted them on to this organ. Removing the mind, the true source. To somehow make it more romantic? I never figured out why. It’s safe to say it’s not my cardiovascular system you are wreaking havoc with. It’s my mind.
credit where credit’s due: title (c) Andrew McMahon.
