She is cold now. It took a long time for her to cool. Longer than one would have expected. Her face is glorious. Contorted by the rapture of it. She will always be mine now. Even when they take her body from me and I am left with only the
memories of her skin and her compliance and her screaming rhapsody.
The room at the top of the house is mine. The stairs wind upwards almost forever until they pass through the blueness and open out into a wide landing. Here is where I live. My space. My domain. It smells of damp leaves and dust. And no-one else comes here. No-one else can visit. There is a small black enamelled box under the metal framed bed. It has been there since shortly after I arrived. I haven’t opened it. But I imagine fingering the contents often.
In the mildew-framed bay window is a straight backed chair covered in the same embroidered fabric as the heavily worn curtains that I rarely open.
Outside holds no attraction for me.
Other than that is where she is.
I watch her often. In the reflection in the glass. She doesn’t see me. I whisper to her but her attention is elsewhere. Paused in a dream. To spend your life trying to replace that which you once had is a falsifiable quest. What you see in others on the outside isn’t necessarily a reflection of their trueness. Or even your perception of the truth. I seek another constantly. I have the blueprint for the sublime. But replication is an ungodly chore.
I stand for some considerable time just watching her. Tapping my leather bound finger on the tea stained tower of now irrelevant texts. She sees me now. Translucent skinned and fragile featured. She has unfathomable strength. Her face is a shadowy sketch of disinterest.
She needs me.
She needs me.
I can taste the metallic tang of her on the back of my tongue. My mind floods with my perceived scent of her. I know the soft velvet of her malleable skin. My hands itch for her.
I assume a form that she appreciates. Her eyes spark when they meet mine. Her gaze drifts over my face, leaving a trail of warmth among the frost. This is how it has always been. Each time I have encountered she. This is how it plays.
At night I dream of our lovemaking. She is a marionette of flesh. A tangle of misshapen limbs. Each deliberate movement causing hyper-extension. Rending fibres. Grinding bones. Her skin is the finest rice paper. The pressure of each fingerprint leaves an abiding mark. I need to be her protector.
To keep her safe from the harm of others.
I need to sleep. The exhaustion brought by my constant condition binds my brain. Rational thoughts ricochet inside my skull. My naked hands sweat and burn. Tonight I am rigid. Throbbing. Unable to decompress. Finally I switch on the television and find relief in the manufactured violence of others.
Today she sees me on the street and looks away. Is this a new development of the game? Or did she cease to see me as her confidant? Her protector?
The face in the mirror is twisted with her pain. What should be my next move? This point in our joining is delicate. Once she suspects me of falsity the game will be done. I must play my next piece with impeccable skill. Pre-empting her intentions. This is what I desire. What my flesh needs. To watch her chest heave its penultimate breath.
To see her eyes roll backwards and her lips to contort in half smile.
This is what I want now more than ever. I speak to her and she answers. My prick twitches at her anticipation of my next word.
I fear I may spill more than non-truth. Her sickliness enchants me. I need do no more than taunt her with the macabre to fulfil my passions. Why torture the already pained. But her mind is open to me. Only slightly broken. Her face is sallow and the fine white skin on her chest, visible beneath the low scooped neck of her ugly shirt, is a map of deep blue veins. Her breath is sweet mint and her eyes are dull like a week dead fish. I feel the warmth of her thigh through the bedclothes against my leg. Her mouth hangs slightly open. Waiting for me.
Her eyes are locked on mine.
Belief is ravishing.
My heart is steady.
I pulse with the joy of the memory of her face. I have no control. No desire to cease spilling my pleasure across my tiny room. I throw back the curtains and proclaim my love outside. Showing the world the happiness she has brought to me. The semblance of the act of love is my driving force. Without this pretence I would be unable to function with apparently normalcy. To be inside her. To tear her open and watch her spew across white sheets. To capture her last breath in my ear. To strip away flesh and reveal the purity of the whiteness beneath. To become her as she ceases to be herself.
I long for outside. Not the air itself but simply anything beyond the wall. To roll on wild greenery. To stand waist high in thrashing waters. To touch people. The memory of these things consoles me briefly. But the knowledge that the memory will fade and reality will not continue with me in it is close to hell. Why did my devilment betray me so easily? What form of cruelty removes nature from one’s life without hope of re-emergence?
I wish for the black enamel box.
I wish to run my fingers through the soft grey powder that was my sister. I feel a pulse of electricity. Rigidity. Floating. Then simply air.
I was alive.
Above me the light flickers and I throw myself towards it. To be a moth. To desire nothing more than to meet the light. To be consumed by it entirely. This would be my wish. I follow their words down deep dark holes and relish the terrors that my brain inflicts upon them. With their perfection. Their normalcy. Their ability to breed and breathe and exist independently of one another. And I rip my flesh to strips and consume myself nightly. What am I? I write truth. I feel truth. But I am sure of nothing.