My Little Ethereal Girl

His hand wrapped around my wrist and I flinched in fear. The wounds hadn’t  I was still the beautiful painting of bruises, splattered across milky skin.

“My little ethereal girl.”

The raspy voice came close to my ear, his breath spreading across my cheek. Stronger than my trepidation was the stench of alcohol, drowning out all my other senses. Something cold pressed forcefully against my lips – I tried to dip backward but just pressed into a hard chest. As he tilted the bottle up the thick liquid I’d come to despise washed into my mouth burning my tongue.

“Come now,” he rumbled, delicately stroking the front of my neck. The abrupt tightening of his fist around my already-aching wrist was all the encouragement I needed. I started to gulp, face wincing at the tang as the alcohol washed down my throat.  

“There’s a good girl.”

When he finally took the bottle away, I was swaying on my feet, blinking slowly. I could barely feel his hand around waist, slowly moving up under my loose shirt. My body began to tremble, remembering the last time all too well.

“Now, now.” he cooed, digging his thumb into one of my bruises. “Nothing to be afraid of.” I stifled a gasp of agony, my vision going blurry for a moment.  A chuckle echoed through the air, the only sound in the empty house. “Let’s paint a picture, shall we? You do look so lovely in violet and blue.”

I couldn’t  resist anymore. I was too busy erasing the memories about to be made.

He picked me up in his arms like a rag doll, and headed to the bedroom, eyeing me hungrily. I was so cold…but soon my senses faded. I no longer was myself and never would be again.

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The Forest’s Secrets

We stood among the spindle trees; letting their frozen fingertips tangle in our figures and the soft earth from which they fed to line the rough soles of our feet with bashful kisses. As we crouched low the strands of our hair caught and were held aloft, creating a spiderweb of russet and caramel. We watched one another through the tickling light, the shadows of our faces only growing stronger, till like the moon, craters of darkness completed our complexation. Yet despite the omniscity of our bodies our eyes were fixated. Across matching pale cheeks and sunken eyes they traveled, as the air shivered with the mingling thoughts of intimacy. The trees sighed their withered songs of the future, watching as fingertips met. Two hands, identical in hidden matrimony. Each grew colder than the other, until their blood became so icy that it began to burn. Like fevered passion it swept up their arms and up to their faces, which twisted in the light and gleamed speckled smiles. As their hair brushed, intermingling with a whisper of osculations, their faces tilted. They fell together then, until finally two lips met and their tainted eyes shut, blocking out the prying sun so that they were alone and just another secret that the forest kept.

Click

Click. Click. Click.

 

The fingers blurred together. Dancing with the black and white, pressing them down deeper into the dark holes where they belonged. Deep burgundy laced up hands, a reminder of the previous days. Or months. Or years. Time was lost upon the soul who sat, back straight as a pole, arms splayed out in front. From the eyes the tears spilled, splashing out a beat that wove between the clicks. A symphony of sorrow, lost to the ears of the others. Rolling down cheeks a pallid rose, slipping in streams across a neck and disappearing into a muted shirt. Grey eyes, grey hair, grey skin. A grey person with grey fingers tapping on black keys. Achromatic figure of overflowing diction, lacerated by the beams of aspiration, pieces sent scattering beneath dusty couches and closed doors – away from the clicking monotone which filled the room to bursting. It kept coming, till every echo seemed to bounce off the next, a rising cacophony born from only fingers as words formed on a white page on a reflective screen. When the clicking finally stopped, the sound kept going. Continuous in a burning mind, alive with the touch of power from writing, and smoking from the acid darkness that had rolled forth. But it was too late, for the tears had filled up the small room before the water could drain beneath the crack under the door, and so the soul sat. Hands splayed out in front, hair an ebbing pattern lifted by the current expelled by the dying breath. Still all so grey – except for the words. They seemed to tibulate and pulse, capering in freedom as they glowed in brilliant hues, expelled from the lifeless body. And so they froliced to the music, still resounding off soggy walls, and called to the next willing victim.


Click. Click. Click.

Her Tormentor

Lukewarm water slid over freezing skin, soaking into open pore only to find icy blood. It flowed in icy rivulets, trapped inside a broken body. An arm rose, causing a thin curtain of water to cascade beneath and through the waterfall pale skin radiated an eerie glow, while malevolent shadows danced on white tile walls: their forked tongues licking up stray droplets. Long fingers traced along the brown-streaked bottom of the bathtub and overhead artificial light flickered unsteadily, periodically letting darkness take control. The room was deathly silent and yet roared with the ethereal cries of suppressed thoughts.

Slowly, the figure rose, intricate designs shimmering as they rushed down angular bones. Her delicate feet exited the water, the bathroom rug tickling her arches and the water evaporated on her shivering frame. Yet, like always, she noticed nothing. Her eyes were glazed like glassy frosting upon an uneaten cupcake. A finger twitched. Then her eyes closed, as she tried to shut out what was burned into her mind. The truth in the mirror – distorted by a silent tormenter, endearing only to the innocent.

As much as she tied, her captor would never go. Flowing with rivulets of purple, it left a inky trail to dissipate between white bones and dark tissue, gradually filling her broken body.

Her arm rose once again, but this time no water streamed beneath. In her clenched fist was glinting silver –  and once again the girl tried to rid her body of the poison left behind by her tormentor.

Window Girl

Small fingers traced over dirty glass and across the smudges of old fingerprints pressed there by another. Over the frame they went, the rough wood pickling smooth fingertips, and above the cold steel of a padlock they skimmed. Dark brown eyes peered out from sunken sockets, and twiny auburn locks fell limply on hunched shoulders. Defeat took it’s place upon the girls shadowed face, which angled up towards the waning light as if it could give her release. Eyes tracked the empty street below, watching for anyone. She counted each brick in the crumbling house across the street again – knowing what the number would come out to. A sliver of movement caught her eye then, through a broken window on the upper floor of the old house. A spark lit in her usually subdued eyes.

He was back.

Muscles rippled as he pulled off a stained shirt, back turned towards her shivering frame. She watched closely, nose pressed against the glass, breath causing misty clouds to form on the frigid surface. He continued with his routine she knew only too well. A cup of coffee, one spoonful of sugar, a sip, then another spoonful. Then a short walk to the fridge where pictures of were taped. When he reached into the fridge she already knew what he would be getting. A small cup of chocolate mousse, a treat to end his day. Sweetness she herself had never experienced. Then he sat down on his computer chair, taking a slow, elongated bite of his chocolate. Feet tapped a rhythm against the floor, light-hearted but full of purpose.

She knew what was coming.

His chair creeped around, turning his body to face the window centimeter by centimeter. His eyes found hers immediately, and a hitch caught in her throat. He could see her. Every time he looked out of that window and caught her eye, she felt the jump of surprise. For how many months and years  had she heard that she was no one, a nothing, a mirage that did not exist – worthless. Yet here he was once again, and now his hand was at his cheek, tracing a light line down from his ear to mouth. She knew what he was saying. Her own fingers reached up to touch the new wound. A dark line of red, puckering at the middle. She didn’t flinch – she couldn’t put anymore sadness into those deep blue eyes. His lips formed words then ones she could never decipher, and his palm rose to press against the glass of his opposite window. Resting her grimy forehead against the windowpane, she replicated his gesture. Then, like always, she sucked in a deep breath, pretending to be breathing the same air as he, and closed her eyes, imagining that it was just a cold palm her hand was touching, and not a boundary that she would never live to cross.

Shade (1)

I make you who you are. I’m your friend and I’m your worst nightmare. I’ll haunt you till your days are done, and you’ve finally sang your song. Till you’re laid in black coffin and put to rest. I’ll lay my cool hand upon your breast, and follow you into the deep unknown. I am the one to bring you to tears, to make you scream in fright and feel as if to die. To find your fears and so that I may tear apart your inside. I am the one who whispers taunting words in your ear, so close but too far to reach. I’ll lead you to your destruction, obliterating your will and taking what I desire. I’m your subconscious and I shall be the one to destroy you. I’m the one to starve you, to draw blood. To strip away the cover of sweetness so only the rotten remains. I help you hold that knife as it slides through your skin, while crimson rolls down pale arm and drips to the floor. I’m the one who sees pain as a release and starvation as a goal. I force you to follow my footsteps as I lead you on the path of demolition. I’m the one who keeps us hidden, and urges you on. I’m the one to watch you gag and cry in desperation. I’m the one you call out to when you need help, knowing what I’ll bring, but too far in love to care. I’ll force that smile on your face, and make you go on one more day. For I am your Shade. I am you, but you are not I.

Ravenous Roulette

Everyone’s heard of Russian Roulette.

Beep.

The clicking of the barrel as it spins.The awed silence of the crowd as the gun is raised. The snap as the safety catch disengages.

Beep.

Then the pressing of the trigger ­ a moment where everything could go horribly wrong. Laughter rises, clapping, betting with one’s life is an amusing ordeal.

Beep.

The gun passes hands, the second one places the cold gun against their temple. Then a third, and a fourth. Again, and again. Luck being their only hope.

I didn’t have such luck.

Beep.

Then again, I didn’t play Russian Roulette. I made a bet with something else. Something much more dangerous than a loaded gun. Where no luck will grant you a quick death.

Beep.

For me, when I lost the game, it was much more painful. It started with the dizziness, which began to lace the edges of my vision. An embroidery to the pain which soon blossomed inside.

Beep.

Mind constantly torn in two, hatred pouring out from every sweaty pour. Heartbeat racing, stopping, then jumping back with the rest of a tortured body.

Beep.

I decayed slowly, from inside out. The mind games destroyed my sanity first. Then went my outside. Dry, pulsating blue veins appeared on my skin. An ugly pattern, creeping across me, encasing me, keeping me from shattering into pieces.

Beep.

“There goes the snowangel,” they used to say. A heap of bones, blue­lipped and silent. The personification of death.

Beep.

Their stares burned into me every day, until finally, my organs gave out.
Beep.

It was a quiet day, my body resting in the white hospital bed. Wilted roses sat on my bedside.

Beep.

My heart just kept stopping. They could do nothing.

Beep.

And I’d finally found out that I’d lost the game.

Beeeeep.

Silhouette Girl

The girl wept. Her body, a mere silhouette, shook with the anguish that lay trapped beneath her porcelain skin. The oval drops glimmered in the pale light as they slid down her freckled face. Wisps of dark golden strands of hair caressed her cheek before being swept away by a trembling hand. Her lips parted slightly in a small sigh, expelling a hot breath of air that spiraled upwards in the freezing room. She knew she’d brought this upon herself, but it was too late to change. Her life was set. Her destiny was clear before her, unclouded in her usually murky mind.
A boy, with straight jet black hair and a grim expression stood by the door, his ears catching the faint echo of her sobs. He fingered with his worn belt as he listened, his face growing dark with the turmoil of emotions rising within him. As the minutes ticked by he slowly started to turn away, before heading back down the hall.
The girl, oblivious to have being heard, curled into a tight ball on the muted blue colors of her bed and shut her eyes, trying to make the thoughts go away. Peace, silence, that was all she wanted, all that she had ever wanted since this had started.
….
She was back again. That ghostly silhouette of what would be hard to consider a human form. All sharp angles, bones protruding. So this is what beauty has done to the world, the man thought quietly to himself as he waited for the bus. The girl only a brief thought in his crowded mind, a second glimpse into a world of suffering. Then she was gone once again, forgotten. A whisper from the wind, that brushed ones senses, then moved on. No one would notice, savor a thought from the business man, when the girl stopped coming. And then he would board his bus, and continue home, his world still revolving, when the girl’s had already stopped.

If Only I’d Told

If only I’d told.

The memories are still so fresh. The feel of chapped lips brushing against my sunburnt ear. The soft exhaling of hot breath which tickled my cheek. Her voice, raw and hoarse, as if she’d been screaming. The sweet scent of mint carried on her breath which did not properly conceal the stench of something long rotting.

If only I’d told.

I can still hear my own voice promising her I wouldn’t tell. Her azure eyes holding my own, somehow portraying dignity and calmness when I knew that she was broken inside. “You’re the best,” she’d told me. A chunk of something that had been chewed and swallowed was caught in a strand of her hair, my eyes couldn’t break away from it dangling there. If only I’d taken a closer look at her face. Those hollow cheeks, deadened eyes, and soft coating of fine hair over every inch of her body. Yet I didn’t. I couldn’t notice anything else. Wouldn’t.

If only I’d told.

Two hours ago she’d been alive. Her deathly dry hand, blue veins throbbing against her coating of transparent skin, holding my own. I should have known something was wrong when she told me that I’d been the best friend she’d ever had. Yet I couldn’t see straight. I still saw that same girl from a year ago ­ happy, healthy.

If only I’d told.

Maybe things would have been different if I’d told. Maybe then I wouldn’t be staring at the picture I’d took of her when she’d come over earlier. A smile laced her sunken face, clearly not real. Her back was hunched. She was withered, as if a hundred years pressed down upon on her. A tight tank top revealed her emaciated body ribs, and white shorts showed off her frail legs. “So people can remember me when I was at my best,” she’d told me. I’d been so confused. Now I’m not.

After all, with death, comes abhorrent clarity. But still…

I can’t help thinking..

If only I’d told.