I am a slave to my own heartbeat as the darkness behind my eyes vibrates. The rain plays a dolled-up symphony behind my curtains. The trees scream their refusals at the lights of the city and the lights stare back, dumbstruck. Sometimes, the road across the street opens its talons and invites me to come play with its painted white lines.
It was a Sunday evening she went. It would have been easier if she hadn't said goodbye – for now the memory of her walking away is forever ingrained in my memory. If only she had left without a trace – disappeared – wiped away any memory of her from my home, from my head. Taken the photographs and the empty mascara tubes with her.
When we'd finished, I could barely remember her name – now I scrawl it on bus stop walls and office desks as though it is my aphorism for life. As though somebody will see it, and refer me to her.
I have lost her, and I am forever searching for her. Searching down the back of the settee, behind the microwave, on top of the fridge in the back room. As though I will grasp a finger or a hand and be able to pull her back into my world.
I move, now, from office to office, from job to job. I'm not looking for anything – something is looking for me. Now that Longing has been let into my life, he stands in the corner of my bedroom with his hood up and his knife out, waiting to carve a letter into my gut, waiting to gouge streams of stop-lights into my arms. Longing's scent is the perfume all the girls buy. Longing's taste is every lip-gloss. Lonn-gihng.
The idea is what I miss. Not her. Not her frog-like face or her slight double chin. Not her constant reminder of my inferiority. Just her concept – her ideology.
Now exists a process of iconoclasm. Though I attempt to bring her back, attempt to reassemble what she stood for, I must destroy her. Must destroy Veritas.
She was no tarnished magnum opus; rather, the tarnish on the piece. She was the breeze shaking the curtains; the muddy footprints rather than the floor; the strap holding the cup.
Did my daughter know? Of course my daughter knew. How could she not? She was too old to be naïve and too young to be fooled by my untruths. She used to gaze at me with Nero eyes – eyes which glazed with the knowledge of thousands of years of torture and pain, pain which she caused, eyes evolved through a world of outré fantasies and daisy-chained dreamers, eyes of the blessed. Eyes, more than anything, of love.
When she was a child, she used to adore me. Adore me more than anything – more than the heart-shaped necklace her mother bought her, more than the warmth of her mother's milk. And her mother was jealous. It was obvious. The ends of her thumbs would stain yellow with envy and her teeth rotted out of her no-good head. The red marks in the creases of her arms taught me all I know about jealousy. And their subsequent absence – that teaches me all I need to know about love.
I relish the cherry-juice-stain on my trousers.
(Based on this Story Jam)
Fruit from this Jam:
339 by Nemon
Child Design Inc by Nemon
Brendan by Conor O'Sullivan
Pain and Comfort by Aleks
Forever in Love by JuliaTannenbaum
My Wife the Zombie by
Badger Road by ryguy25
False Positive by patrick holloway
Let it Grow by sophierose
Darkest Result of Love by Tim
Love by sausau
Confession by MichaelThompson
The gaze by Ines
Paraselene Love. by Persia-Lili Moharerr
key to life by
Tea by aravio
The crazy friend ship fall out. by
The Desire to Feel by