To My Father

What an awful person I'm becoming,
I'm terribly sorry.
I guess I'm just in the wrong.
Always stuck between who I am
What I'm feeling
and how people want me to act.
I guess since it seems like I have been doing so well
you have forgotten what has happened
what is happening.
"But you're adult." You say.
"You can't live in college dorms.  Too many awful things happen there."  You contradict yourself with.
"I'm going to get a house with a basement quite for you to live."  You contradict yourself with.
And no matter what I say
Act
Or do
I will never
ever
be
or have enough
to convince you
otherwise.
What a terribly awful person I'm becoming.
I'm stuck
and my heart hurts a lot right now.
And I don't know what to say
because my emotions aren't proper right now
and you get angry with me
and say how I need to act like an adult
because my disrespect
is unacceptable
and I'm stuck
and I don't know what to do
and it's really hard to breathe
and I just need to get away
and you're pulling my by reigns
and choking words down my throat
so quickly that I can't answer
so I stay silent
so you get angrier
so I close my eyes
so you exhale
and everything gets quiet.
And I don't know what to do
what to say
how to think.
And you mutter something that I could only imagine
and you leave.
And I know that you've left a part of me in this room
and you won't take it back
and this will happen again
and again
and again
until you have nothing left of me
and I am nothing
to
you.

Dreams Are a Strange Thing.

She stood in front of the mirror, but the girl who she saw was not her--- even though it was.
For her hair, it was much shorter.
Her nose, it was much smaller.
Her eyes, they were much larger.
Her lips, they were much fuller.
Her skin, it was much paler.
But it was her.
For, you see, as she lifted her arms-- so did the other girl's.
When she moved her mouth-- so did the other girl's.
But when the girl in the mirror spoke, the girl who was standing before it did not.
They girl with short hair said robotic-ally, as she poked her cheek "I am so much paler than you."
"But aren't we the same person?" Asked the original girl.
A large smile was planted on the short haired girl's lips.  "Oh no.  You'll never be me."

A Cigarette

I brought the cigarette between my lips, pausing for a second- a second so quick no one could notice I breathed outward, before inhaling deeply.  I clenched my teeth, refusing to cough.  I will not cough.  He wouldn't cough.  He smoked like it was as easy as breathing.  He would place the cigarette against his mouth any second now, inhale, hold, exhale, laugh, inhale, hold, exhale, say something about how my sunglasses have finger prints on them, inhale, hold, exhale, offer me one.  I'd say no.  I always said no.
I brought the thin white paper to my face, and just held it.
A few girls walked by me, and I felt their steady gaze on the hand by my face.  On the cigarette.  I inhaled deeply.  Do not cough.  Do not cough.  Jane I swear to god, do not fucking cough.
They were out of site.
I hurled over, choking up my lungs.
"God!"  I slammed my hands against the wall I was now leaning against.  The rough red bricks scraped my hand, I cursed while pinching the still burning cigarette.
"Is this what you wanted?!"  I shouted at the wall.  I could see him.  His head would be tilting ever so slightly.  His mouth would be slightly upturned.  The black leather jacket would be crinkled as he would place his hands in his jean pockets.  He'd pull out his pack.  He's pull out his lighter.  He'd bring both to his mouth.  And then he'd pause for a second.  A second no one could see.  But I saw it.  I saw it every time.  I saw his hesitation.
"Your hesitation should have lasted longer."  I spat at the wall, "You should have thrown out your pack.  Taken up some activity.  For God's sake--!"  A sob choked my throat, "Kept your nerves calm some other way."  I flicked the built up ash off the tip of the cigarette and leaned against the wall, slowly sliding down into sitting position.
I stared at the cigarette.
"Is this what you wanted?"  I flicked off more ash, "This was your plan wasn't it.  You do this with a lot of people.  You don't have to though.  You could stop this.  Stop hurting people."  More ash.
I didn't expect it to respond.
"You do realize that's an inanimate object, right?"  For a second-- only a second-- I freaked out because I thought it was talking to me.  To be fair though, I hadn't slept in the past month.  But I calmed down when I realized that one, the voice was right.  It was an inanimate object.  Two, the voice was female.  And I know this may be gender biased, but I thought a cigarette would sound kind of like a raspy old man.
I looked up, only to see a pair of green eyes and a quite noticeable chest that was being enclosed by a tank top.
I blinked.
She was brave.
She sat down next to me.
"Cancer?"  Her voice did sound kind of raspy.
I didn't look at her dark red hair pulled into a very high pony tail.  Or her  vibrant green, spider-like nails.  Or her stiletto scarlet pumps.  And I didn't even notice her very short jean skirt.  I brought the cigarette to my mouth, paused, inhaled. Don't cough, Jane.  I swear to- well, you already know who.
"You do know you aren't technically aloud to smoke in this area, right?  If you want to smoke outside a hospital, there are designated areas."  Her bright pink lips popped a perfect bubble with minty gum.
I inhaled.
"You might not want to talk, but I had to speak to ya."  Pop.
Inhale.
"You can't smoke here."  Pop.
Inhale.
"You may not believe this, but I'm a doctor here.  You can't smoke here." Chew. Chew. Chew.
I looked at her.  Her green eyes seemed so bright, and that's when I noticed the laugh lines by her eyes.
"Come on."  She stood up with ease, and offered me her hand. "Come on, sweets."  She tugged my free hand up.
We were walking around the hospital.  My limbs felt heavy.  I don't like smoking.  It makes my body feel gross.
We stopped suddenly.
"Here.  You can smoke here."  She smiled.  Her laugh lines were emphasized.
"Thanks."  I mumbled.  Inhale.
"She speaks," She said as she rose her eyebrows in awe, "What other words do ya know?"  Pop.
"Fuck." Inhale.
She let out a harsh, surprised laugh, "That was unexpected.  And crude."
"Aren't you worried about second-hand smoke damage to your lungs?"  I asked apathetically.  Inhale.
"Sweets, I'm a doctor and I've been smoking since I was ten. I know the risks.  I know how addicting it is.  I'm a walking oxymoron.  A doctor who smokes."  She laughed more heartily.  I heard the raspy again.
And for a second, while her profile was laughing, I saw him laughing.  He didn't have laugh lines though.  But I guess he always seemed permanently young.  He was supposed to stay young with me.
"So it took you a bit to speak, I'm guessing you're the same with laughing."  Her pink lips grinned.
Inhale.  Flick.
She exhaled slowly; calmly.
We didn't speak for a while.  My cigarette was almost out.
He would be putting it under his shoe, grinding it out.  He would be pulling out another one.  Pack, lighter, mouth, pause, inhale.
His hands eventually began shaking.
His hair was starting to thin.
By the time we found out, it was too late.
"Why did you say Cancer?"  I asked while trying to cover my cough.
She answered while looking ahead, "You'd be surprised, but working in a hospital you see a lot of Cancer patients."  Her smile was dripping with sarcasm.  But she still seemed happy.  Then she turned to me, "I saw you practically vomit.  You haven't been smoking long.  I'd say you started the past twenty-four hours.  And I realize I'm supposed to respect patients privacy, but I was Wesley's doctor."
My throat closed when she said his name.
"Wesley had been smoking for a very long time."
"Don't."
"But just because he died that was, doesn't mean you should."  Pop.
Inhale.
"I'm surprised you don't recognize me."  She said while chewing, chewing, chewing.
I rose an eyebrow.  I think I'd remember her bright pink lips and vibrant green nails.  Especially her doctoral dressing habits.
Inhale.
"Let me introduce myself to you again Ms. McKinley."  She lobbed her wad of gum into the trash can, pulled a tissue from her pocket to wipe off her lipstick, released her hair from the pony tail and folding her hands carefully in front of her.  Her posture suddenly changed, and her voice grew serious.  In my sleep deprived state, her name rushed back to me.
"Doctor Hansen."  We said in unison.
I groaned, "For--"
"God's sake.  I know."  She pulled a slender tube from her pocket, and she tugged the cap off revealing a thick bubble gum pink lipstick-- one that was well used.  She laughed, "Hey, currently I'm on a break.  Losing a patient is hard, and we had to sort out paper work."
I clenched my teeth.
"Oh I'm sorry, did I offend you?"  She suddenly sounded angry.
"Yes-"
"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize you could taste my words with nicotine staining your tongue."
I blinked, too shocked to say anything.
"Ms. McKinley, you don't have to take up his dirty habit."  She put a new stick of gum in her mouth.
I looked at the cigarette.
"There wasn't anything we could do for Wesley, Ms. McKinley.  But you still have so much potential."  I brought the last bit of cigarette to my lips and paused.
"He wouldn't want you to go down this path."
I laughed, "He was always offering me them.  He wanted me to be like him."  I frowned, "I finally am."
"Jane."  Our eyes met, "Do you honestly believe he would have asked you if he knew you would have said yes?"  We were silent for a moment.  The ask was building up.  "Well," she sighed, "My break is almost over.  Think about what you want, Jane."
And she clicked away in her red pumps.
Click
Click
Click.
I stared at the burning cigarette.
And then I felt it slip out of my fingers.
And I watched the ashes crumble against the cement.
And I brought my sneaker over it.
And I crunched it.

Dr. Hansen stopped at the door and looked at me.
And she smiled.

To a Friend

The first time I saw my father, I was already a twenty-nine year old man with an ex wife and a daughter.
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either.  It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke?  Only the best for my paps."
Oh no.  It was a bloodbath to say the least.

You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age.  My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for.  Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food.   Which is what he did.  By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind.  Literally.  I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard.  I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone.  They was howlin' though.  Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked.  And I knew it toos.  See, my paps was a drinker.  Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid.  A blood related one nonetheless.  But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on.  That was m' curfew.  And I had screwed the fuck up.  I know that.  I triggered him.  Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me.  I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset.  He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're!  You should've seen m'girl Nancy!  She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother.  I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing.  Short brown hair, large blue eyes.  Medium build.  She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though.  They've course were them gooey type.  Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians.  Fucken' Asians.  They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers.  Y'know, the sweaters.  Ughk.  Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything.  In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho.  I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me.  I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness.  It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school.  I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool.  That's kind of when things slowed.  Because then I found art.  HA.  It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore.  Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork.  I built everything I could've in those three short years.  And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em.  Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl.  It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when  I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed.  She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin.  It was a light brown.  Then her eyes, oh god.  They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray.  And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither.  No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes.  In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks.  And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit.  I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain.  It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me.  She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it.  I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated.  We had Lillian when we was a bit older though.  We was twenty-four, twenty-five.  But then Lucy kept gettin' sick.  She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time.  But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day.  Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more.  Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain.  Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed.  See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak.  I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest.  Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed.  I'd fear for Lily.  I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily.  If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset.  I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that.  But I never hit her.  I guess that's a lie.  Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her.  No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap.  I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.

I didn't mean to.  I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived.  Some place in Oklahoma.  I drove for a few days.  I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him.  I didn't want him to know she existed.  So I went up to the old, rotting door.  And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
     "I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy."  He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way.  Before I meant to I said,
     "Jacob Merth!  I'm Jacob Merth.  Your son."  He froze.  Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
     "Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
     I don't know why I went in.  I shouldn't have.  I know that now.  But, it's too late.
     All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places.  The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
     He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?"  I felt shocked.  Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
     "What.. do you mean?"
     "Apol-o-gize."  His iron stare made me uneasy.  Why did I come here?  "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
     "I didn't know you went to jail.  I was six and in pain.  I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
     His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
     It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back.  Suddenly I was scared for Lily.  Would she be adopted now, too?
     All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other.  And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand.  It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head.  I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose.   He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him.  With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch.  My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation.  The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more.   I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
     I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic.  I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor.  The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine.  It hurt more than losin' Lucy.  But I was going to jail.  I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now.  My conscious was wrong now.
     I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him.  But it was me.
     I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth.  I love you, Lucy, Lily.  Please forgi------------------

Their eyes were battling each other, the rage sent waves around the empty room,
with nothing in it except packed boxes.
He came home when she wasn't finished packing.
When she wasn't finished saying goodbye.
And he stared at her with anger flowing through his veins, "You've had enough time.  Get out.  Now." 
He flicked his white cuffed wrist to the elevator door, venom dripping from his mouth
like a savage dog.
And she stared at him with disdain, tears flowing freely as her mumbled words made her sound as worthless as she felt. "I'm not ready yet."
This time he began shouting, feeling his heart welting with the frustration that filled his heart
every day
for the past
few
weeks.
"I don't want to see you, Anna!  Get the fuck out, now!"  He stepped closer to her now, taking in the deep brown hair.  Instead of it being neatly pinned back, it was now wavy and full of frizz.  Her once full eyes were empty and heartless.  He felt heartless too.
She gripped the edge of one of the boxes, sputtering, "Please, I can't go yet.  How do you know--"
He gripped her arm, dragging her to the elevator door.  And with the press of the button, the elevator slowly drifted up to the suite.
She cried out, falling against him.  Feeling deflated. 
And he held this woman.
The woman who he felt in love with for the past seven years.
The woman who showed him the world.
Who showed him love.
True.
Love.
He held this woman, feeling her embrace one last time, before she would drift off like the ocean.  Being free.  Truly free.
She looked up at him, her hollow green eyes meeting his with heartbreak.
And he brushed his fingers down her face so gently,
she could've mistaken it for rain.
And then he tugged his finger against her lip, ever so slightly.
"But," her voice was hoarse, "How do you know when it's love?" 
His eyes widened, with reality.
What was love?
Was this terror of a relationship not real?
A facade?
Her pleading eyes bore into his.
But his anger still boiled.
Her rage was still inflamed.
As so when the elevator dinged, he moved Anna into the metal box.  And left before she could watch him as the doors shut.
And he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
And took it as a shot.
And as he curled up in bed
his face was burning hot
from the tears that stained his cheeks
and the pain from the weeks
he was now being torn
from what she said
about the confusion
how love felt dead
and when he woke
he had some gin
mumbling what she spoke
the chance of sleep was slim
each day carried out
little shut eye
many tears
one day
he couldn't try
so he took some pills
and lay his head
after downing some whiskey
his limbs like lead
and he wrote
I quote
"My dearest Anna,
love
is a fanatical word
because people have assumed
that it can sum up a mess
of emotions
but
do not use it in vain
do not
utter it
with uncertainty
I love you
and when I say love
I mean
you make my heart stop
when you look at me
even if you don't
it feels as though I'll vomit
and my shakiness is terrible
and won't stop for hours
even when
you're long
gone.
And I love you
because
when your name is said
my stomach
it flutters
but the problem is
I love you
to the point
where
it
physically
hurts
when I'm not around you
and when you see me
but don't speak to me
I'm getting torn a part inside
and I pray you don't see my corpse
lifeless
loveless
but
I need you to see this
because I was
angry
I still am
but it wasn't with you
it was with my pain capacity
I was broken
I am broken
and I
can't
be
fixed
because
I'll just crumble again
and Oh, Anna
dream well
live well
live free
of strain
and sadness
and anger
and restlessness
watch the ocean
I see it in your eyes
watch the ocean.
With more emotion than you could possibly comprehend,
yours,
but not yours,
Evan James Parker."

Dancing Girl

Her thin blond hair was twisted into a limp ponytail as she shimmied around the bar counter with obvious bags under her eyes.  Her bony frame made her look sunken, but her head was raised high with a flirtatious smile pasted on her lips.  The music was sultry, aiding in the dancers on stage.  Men lined the sides, tossing generous amounts of money onto the stage and into the women's suits.  The woman with the long ponytail leaned against the bar casually, with her sparkly blue lingerie twinkling with the dimmed pink lights as they spun.  She was given several drinks by different men, but she only took the one with a cap still on it.  It was cool against her throat, and she held it against her pale skin so her sweat could subside.  Her smile then faltered slightly.  Just for a moment.
     She knew what was coming.
     She gracefully placed the chilled beer back onto the counter, and just as she shimmied around the bar, she twisted into the bathroom.  As she closed the door, she checked to make sure no one was in the bathroom so she could lock the door.  She then walked over to the bathroom mirror, staring at her now yellow skin due to the cheap lighting.  The lights flickered every so often due to the expense of the stage, and the lighting in the bathroom didn't make anyone look the least bit attractive.
     As she studied herself in the mirror, she felt bile rise in her throat as to what she was wearing.  The blue bikini like outfit had many long fringes on it, making it look almost cow girl like.  She bared her teeth as she leaned into her made-up face.  Thick foundation and bright blue eyeshadow made her look more like a doll than a human.  And the bones that showed disgusted her.  A few wrinkles creased by her eyes and mouth, showing signs that she was ageing.  That also disgusted her.  In a few years, men wouldn't want her.  And if they didn't want her, then she couldn't feed her son.
     Who was going to be disgusted by her.
     And then, what she was waiting for came.  The tears.  The sudden feeling of sadness that crept up on her at the oddest of times.  She stood by the sink crying silently for a long time.  Until someone knocked on the door to wake her up.  She dabbed her eyes as she stared confidently in the mirror, and adjusting her bra, she twirled out of the bathroom back onto the stage.
    It didn't bother her, the attention she got.  What bothered her was who was giving her attention.  She could blatantly see pudgy men staring intently, and it gave her chills to know that when they go home they'd be jerking while thinking of her.  That bothered her.  It wasn't difficult to find a man willing to sleep with her for money after her shows.  It was hard to leave their place with a sense of dignity.  It was hard coming home in a wreck of an apartment to her son.  Who was old enough to know what she was doing by now.  To tell his friends she's a whore.  A slut.  A hooker.  But he didn't know that she was doing it for him.  So he could live.  Even if it meant to sacrifice her own life.
    And so she danced on the stage, accepting the coos and caws given from the men.  And none of them would see her cry when it felt like everything inside of her was being torn apart.  Because this was her life.  And even if she wasn't living, her son was.  

To a Pessimist

Her ashy ringlets bobbed as she skipped her tiny legs across the sidewalk.   Her little hands gripped the cottony rose bag that held her school kits.  As she made her way by each brown house with the same muddy windows and deceased grass, she hummed the new nursery rhyme she learned in school.   She stepped on cue to each syllable, giggling when she came across the tricky beat scheme.    Her bright emerald eyes scanned the sky, chasing the birds that glided through the air.  She gazed at the planes that carried hundreds of people, hoping each one of them felt like a bird.

     Her thoughts walked home with her, until she reached the large wooden door with a brittle wreathe that hung melancholy.   But her humming didn’t cease as she stepped through the door.   She slid off her small black dress shoes, tucking them safely by the door.  She turned, taking in the dust filled cabinets and sheet of cat hair bunched throughout the laminate floor.  Although she barely blinked as she hobbled into the kitchen.  Pots and filthy dishes filled the sink and counter tops, mold brewed in a stale pot of tea, broken glass was dotting the floor and the fridge was bare.  All except for a rotten apple. 

     Her feet danced over the glass as she pulled down an old box of cereal, popping a few dry pieces in her slim lips.  She spun into the living room, holding her box of cereal affectionately as she sighed into the fraying, worn couch.  She sat there for a bit, listening to the dead clock that hung on the wall.   The big hand stuck on three.  She imagined the clock ticking joyously, greeting her with every click.  She crunched the cereal melodically, humming as she kicked her feet.   Her eyes scraped the pattern on the curtains before her.  The damaged material wasn’t as pink as it used to be, instead a creamy yellow filled the shades.  She placed the box on the floor of the couch and leapt to the stereo.  She adjusted the antenna, flipping it to the current eighties mix.  She twirled and jumped, sang and belted her heart out to Michael Jackson.  But as she jumped against the ground, the stereo silenced.  Her cheeks flushed as she attempted to fix it, but she simply pulled out her homework when it became clear that the technology was fried. 

     Slight creaking sounded from the wooden staircase, and she pulled herself to her feet as she padded to the base of the stairs.  A woman who looked older than she was placed her frail hands against the railing.  Her sunken green eyes met the little girl’s, and a shaky smile formed on her mouth.  

     “Lynn dear, how was your day?”  Her legs shook as she stepped down, but she pulled the child into a weak hug.  Lynn smiled widely, pulling the woman’s hand to lead her excitingly into the living room.

     “Oh, mama I learned a new song today!  And little Jimmy—the one down the road, he tore my music sheet into confetti.”  The woman’s smile grew sad, but Lynn continued, “But don’t worry, mama.  I used the confetti to throw into the air.  Everyone was having so much fun with the tiny bits of paper that they tore theirs up too.”  Her tiny lungs exhaled, waiting for the woman’s response.

     Her bony legs moved to the couch, as she sat down the couch sunk with her.  She patted the cushion next to her, “Lynn that was terrible what that boy did.  He ruined your song and didn’t apologize for it.”

     “But he did-“

     “How could you know he meant it?  No one means anything now a day.  They’re all just a bunch of liars.”  The woman pulled her fingers lovingly through Lynn’s curls. 

     Lynn chuckled as she poked the woman’s ribs.  Her mother frowned thoughtfully.  They sat there with Lynn’s head in her lap as the woman stared at the ragged curtains.   Finally her mother spoke.

     “Sweetie, I spoke to the doctor’s today.” 

     Lynn jumped up with joy, twirling off the couch.  Her mother’s lips didn’t twitch though. 

     “They told me I’m getting worse.  We are going to have to find you a foster home soon.”  Lynn tilted her head.  

     “But did they tell you when you’d be at your worst?”  As her mother shook her head Lynn gripped her hand affectionately, “It’s okay then mama, because we still have time.”   Her mother dropped her head, the room filled with echoed sobs.  But Lynn still gripped her hand tightly, “Mama.”  She spoke firmly, “I know you’re dying.  I know we won’t be together for much longer, but with the time we do have… we can make everything special.”  Her eyes glowed as her mother raised her head to look at Lynn.  Her face was solemn.  The wrinkles creased around her eyes and mouth as she parted her cracked lips.  Lynn’s mother took in her daughter.  She furrowed her eyebrows as Lynn watched her curiously.  Usually when her mother spoke, she couldn’t stop listing off everything negative.  She expected her mother to say something about there not being a point to do anything if she was about to die anyways.  But instead, her mother lifted herself slowly off the couch, her legs shaking with all the effort.  She shuffled down the hallway, her feet never fully leaving the cold ground.  Finally, she reached the door.  With all her strength she pulled the door open.  She lifted the wreath carefully, allowing no more pines to break off.  As she turned back into the house, her eyes caught Lynn’s.  Lynn watched her mother move more than she had in the past six months.  She watched her mother limp into the kitchen, open the garbage bin and place the wreath in it thoughtfully.

     And then she smiled at Lynn.  Ever so slightly.

 

The Most Important Day For Any Woman

Her hands shook.
Not slightly.
She shook so much that you could tell from the church entrance that she was terrified.
Or humiliated.
Or angry.
She sat alone, with thousands of white ruffles cascading down the marble steps.
She sat alone, gripping the bouquet of scarlet roses as though her life depended on it.
She sat alone, not bothering to wipe the blood in her hands before it destroyed her gown.
The blood from the thorns of the flowers.
The beautiful pain that enveloped her.
That cloaked her. Her face was bare, perfectly clean of makeup to show her naturally porcelain composure.
Placid.
Her soft pink lips were parted
ever so slightly.
But no sound came out.
Emptiness rang out from the crying stained glass.
Thunder shook the building, making the crosses on the wall clatter to the floor.
But she sat on the steps
waiting
ever
so
quietly.
The clock rang then, singing with the thunder.
Her body merely shook
waiting.
She could hear the marble floor's breath as the building towered over both of them.
Protecting both of them.
She brought her head up then,
staring at the large wooden doors that lay what felt a hundred feet away.
But she knew it would take mere moments to place her cold, bloodied hand on the sterling silver door handle and push out into the storm.
Never looking back.
But she waited.
She couldn't leave.
Her heart hurt.
Her heart hurt.
Her heart hurt.
A cry escaped her lips as the bouquet slipped out of her hand.
A sound that spoke so truly
as though she were giving up
and the petals crunched against the ivory
and the blood dripped into a pool
and the leaves were limp
as were her hands.
Why were they limp?
She couldn't do this.
She couldn't give up.
She brought her hands to cradle her face.
To cradle her now free flowing tears.
To make her tears become red.
With anger.
She staggered to her feet.  Her bare feet.
The room spun
and she felt disorientated.
Why was she giving up?
Her feet stepped onto the roses
and she stood there
staring at the oak doors
whom seemed to be staring at her
mocking her
mocking her
mocking her.
Her eyes became sunken as she stepped slowly off the delicate petals beneath her feet.
As she stepped away from the beautiful red that was embedded in them.
As she stepped away from the altar.
As she stepped away from the storm inside of her.
The ruffles danced behind her as she took conscious steps to her exit.
Her hair kissed her shoulders as she rose her head
higher.
And as she reached to the gleaming silver
the storm suddenly filled the room.
The thundering shrieks
and water spun darts
attacked the marble floor
attacked the stone benches
and she saw his pleading eyes.
He saw her fear.
They stood there gaping at one another.
And he pulled her close, kissing the blood off her hands.
His gray eyes were damp
from the tears
he
was
now
shedding.
And her eyes were as dry
as the way
her
heart
felt
like
sandpaper.
And as though he was a stone
she couldn't break him down
to open
to speak
because he wasn't there
he wasn't there
no
he was
here
now.
With her in his arms
he was here
but her heart tugged
so solely to one feeling
in which would be to leave
to not hurt
but she couldn't pull away
from his tight embrace
his cologne filled suit
his pale damp hair
his sullen gray eyes
his eyes
made her sad
and she couldn't
pinpoint
why.
Until the echoing chill of the clock struck her mind.
The time.
The time.
Was gone.
She stiffened.
He let her go, asking if she was okay.
His soothing voice
silky
soft
against her thoughts.
But the time.
He asked again
with the head shaking response from her
and the simple phrase
"It's too late."
His eyes clouded.
Distraught filled the room
his distraught filled the room.
It filled
her heart
as she left
padding so quickly
that she could have tripped
over her
thousands of ruffles
but they were being dragged by the rain
the rain that had started to stop
and the thunder that turned to sparks
of light.
But she couldn't look back
because his sorrow
was hers
and it hurt
it hurt
so much
as though someone
was wrenching her heart
and there was a person doing that
it was her
she was hurting herself
why
she loved him
she loved him
and she left
why would she leave?
Because she loved herself too.
And she couldn't let her heart hurt anymore.
She couldn't let her head cry.
She couldn't let her feet feel heavy.
She wanted to fly.
She wanted to laugh.
She wanted to live.
And she couldn't
when her
entire self
hurt.

My Love For You

It is the act of not doing to save others happiness
that feels as though you are stabbing your own heart
but instead of falling into your grave
you live through the ever growing anguish you created.
So why, why harm someone you adore so ravenously
when the answer isn't as simple as you care.
It is done because my love for you goes beyond
anything I could possible imagine.
My love for you and your joy is something
that I don't even manifest for myself
because my love for you is indescribable.
Even if it seems as though I'm hurting you,
oh sweet,
If I act on anything I will bring sorrow to your heart
and you will live through it
as I live through my knife wound
and that,
is something I can not allow happen to you.
I apologise in ways you don't see
each apology runs down my face
and all I can do is let the dampness become
absorbed into my sleeves
as I wipe them away.
Because my love for you,
is something I will not let you fret about
I will not allow you to be desolate
in my hands
so I will not hold you
so you will be free.

In the Shadows

I was traveling somewhere.
My mother, step father and I.
And people.
About ten other people.
And we came across what seemed like a campsite.
With what seemed like a temple.
It felt very... Egyptian. 
As everyone set up to stay the night, I felt oddly cast out.
As though I was being punished.
So I stayed near this temple.
Until everyone was falling asleep.
They didn't tell me to sleep on the steps leading down to that sandstone entrance.
But I did.
Because I was being punished.
They didn't tell me that if I woke up, and the dark, damp entrance enticed me; not to go in.
But I did.
Because I was being curious.
I hazed out of sleep, the slick ebony doorway lurching in my thoughts.
But I only took a few steps in.
Because a sudden tear of horror ripped through my body.
Ripped through my sight.
Because I thought I saw a woman.
I thought I saw her eyes.
But I didn't think anything of it, other than I had to get out.
So I did.
Two steps.
Then I fell back asleep.
Now, I woke up again.
Hazy and tired. 
Wondering,
'Now, why isn't it day yet?  It's pitch as the sea on a cloudy eve, oh why isn't it day?'
And that doorway called for me.
Screamed for me.
So I went back in.
And this time, oh this time I saw more of a shadow.
More of a figure.
More of her eyes.
I only saw her for a moment, but I saw her.
Her willowy, sickly figure.
Her black thin, sticky hair over her face.
And her ivory eyes staring hollowly at me.
And I had to get out.
Panic swept over me as I couldn't breathe.
I couldn't breathe.
Oh, I couldn't breathe.
I stumbled backwards, out of the doorway.
Why?
Why did I go back in?
I knew something was wrong?
Why?
Why?
WHY.
As I was out, catching my breath, my mother came over.
And she didn't ask what was wrong.
Somehow, she knew.
She knew everything.
But she wasn't there, so how could she know?
And then her face grew terrified.
Her eyes as wide as saucers.
Staring at me with such an intense fear that I grew scared of her.
And then I spoke with choked speech.
"I saw her, and I don't want to see her anymore.  Not ever again."
I was crying.
I heard myself sobbing.
But her eyes stayed open as she shook.
She shook.
And she talked in a hushed voice.
"She told me that that isn't the last time you will see her.  You will see her again."
And then her name rang through my head.
Solid and clear.
Roberta Koskov.
That woman was Roberta Koskov.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Hey guys, so this is partially a story, partially poetry and mostly from my dream (or nightmare I should say) from last night.  I woke up so scared that I couldn't move for a few minutes.  I was afraid if I rolled over I would see this woman that I dreamed of.
This entire concept was odd to me, mostly because my mother spoke to her, and I didn't.
But to be fair I was running from it.
But I have had many recent nightmares about ghosts where my mother can talk to them and I can't.  And that she can see them and I can't.  It's getting disturbing as it keeps progressing.
Another very disturbing concept in this dream was that I was told her entire name. Which I have never had.  I've only had one other name spoken to me in a dream, and that was only their first name.
Anyways, this dream definitely shook me up, and I was hoping writing it down would help get it out of my mind.
So, *poof* be gone, nightmare.

-E

Covered

It clung against the wall as his large frame shuffled as far away from it as he could.
The opaque figure seemed to stare at him with an eye-less face.  He didn't know what made him more frightful- the fact that he had been seeing this... 'thing' for the past four weeks, or that no one else seemed to see it like he did. 
He blinked.
The figure didn't fade. 
As he loomed on, his legs became the same heavy weights that they usually became.  His arms didn't sway as much compared to other people.  And it felt as though a shadow veiled his mind, as though a tree blocking sunlight.
But he couldn't figure out what the tree was created by.
His eyes flicked to the figure walking closely to the wall. 
He glanced at the other people around him. 
There was one woman there with a child.  She was cradling her sobbing son while kissing his cheek.  With him in her arms, his tears faded rather quickly, and he felt a sudden slash in his side.
A gasp escaped his throat as he gripped his side.  But there was no mark.  He looked at the figure, and he could feel the grin enveloping its dark face.
He could feel what the slash left behind.
Almost an emptiness.
As though a void of where love should be.  He looked again at the woman and son, and felt the slashing feeling again.
Jealousy?
No, he shook his head roughly.  He didn't want children.  But as he walked by the small family, the digging in his side grew harder to bear. 
He could feel the endless pupils grazing his skin.
The figure still seemed to go unnoticed.
But as his eyes scraped over the being, he noticed how it seemed taller.
A sharp shiver ran down his spine, his steps increasing with speed. But there, in the corner of his eye he could see the being keeping his pace. 
He began sprinting, filled with an internal pain he couldn't comprehend.
Everything seemed to become grey.
Gray skyscrapers, grey cars, grey families that were holding each other.
He cried out, collapsing to the cement, and the figure seemed to sit beside him.
Waiting.
He stared at it, as though he expected it to attack him.
Just like how it attacked his side.
And how it had blocked his colours.
And how it blocked his sun.
He blinked again, and he looked up into the cloud covered sky.
Grey.
A person walked through the being.
He staggered backwards in shock.
They walked through the being.
He looked at the black figure, and slowly reached his hand out.
But no matter how far he reached, he couldn't touch it.
He couldn't feel it.
He scanned around him again and fear ripped through him.
Every where there were black beings.  All of them were staring at him. He could feel their icy gaze scraping down his skeleton.
He jumped up from the cement, screams erupting from his mouth.
But no one saw him.
He was alone.
Only the shadows around him paid attention to him.
The shadows of his own being.
And the shadows of other people.
They clung to him, blocking out the light that illuminated around him.
But he was in the void,
too deep to see the light.
And it hurt his heart.
It hurt his heart.

Thump

The laugh was caught in his throat as his eyes met the deep brown ones before him.                
What a stupid thought.                                                              
To laugh at.
To think that a simple stray hair could be funny.
But it was out of place.
That was funny.
But the eyes weren't laughing.
Or giddy for that matter.
They were filled with a boiling rage that-
held something.
Something
Funny.
He blinked and for a second, the eyes were black.
But the blue rings below them framed them smoothly.
Leaving little else
but fatigue
and stress
and worry.
What a stupid thought.
That he hadn't changed.
The nose in front of him was thick but pointed.
Not up
nor down.
Just. Pointed.
But the pale glow he saw
was troubling.
He turned his head with curiosity.
The face before him didn't shift.
It instead seemed to laugh.
What... three days?
Weeks?
How long has he seen it.
The look before him.
What a stupid thought.
He's seen that look every day since he could...
remember...
But remember what?
In which context did he want to remember?
Did he want to see?
Of course.
Of course.
What a stupid thought.
But those eyes did not want to see.
But he wanted to see.
HE wanted to see.
He hushed himself.
Twice.
Again.
He leaned closer.
No.
Further away.
He took the nail of his thumb
and dug it into his palm.
But as the blood formed a small pool
And he rose his hand towards those
dark eyes
there wasn't a mark on their palm.
He dug deeper.
Screaming with rage.
But this time he dug to his wrist.
He lifted it.
Nothing.
No.
This isn't right.
What a stupid thought.
Of course it's right.
If he can't see it
it isn't there.
But it is.
He sees it.
Right there.
He dug further
up to his elbow.
Nothing showing.
To his neck.
Another agonizing scream.
To his chest.
Cries of fury.
To his heart.
And he dug there until he felt the solemn
thump
thump
thump
And he dug.
He looked into those eyes.
They were laughing.
At him.
What a stupid thought.
He couldn't be laughing at himself.
He wasn't even grinning.
He was shrieking.
In hatred.
But then he fell.
To the marble underneath him.
thump
thump
But he could still see him.
The look he's giving him
as he sits in front of him calmly.
thump
As his eyes shut
he saw
Those brown eyes
Happy.

James

The morning where the rain wasn't falling.
The air that didn't hold a tinge of guilt.
All came whirling when I looked at my reflection.
The splotchy skin.
The red eyes.
The way that hiccups still escaped my sobbing mouth.
But I looked into the mirror and saw my large forehead. How the thin, oily strands of hair clung around my ears. But in the cold green eyes, I saw something someone told me about.
I think the word was, adventitious.
I hadn't heard that word before he had said it. That's why it stuck.
He was holding me. We were arguing before he grabbed my wrist. The wrist that was attached to the hand I was going to slap him with. Because he told me I was 'Too damn adventitious.'
And I thought that was a bad thing. In his context, it was.
But to be a person to go with the flow of things...
That's a good character.
And as I was huffing, and he was fuming, his grip released and I started laughing.
It wasn't the tiny giggles that bubble out from a child's' throat when they find something cute. Oh no. It was the laughter that was so obnoxiously loud that startled both of us.
It sounds like an odd memory. And you may ask why I like it so much.
Because after I stopped laughing, his face froze.
And my breathing stopped.
I wasn't scared.
I was...
Adventitious.
Because I let him kiss me.
And then I let him kiss me again.
And again.
He held me then. His hands gripping my waist, pulling me closer as I laced my shaken hands through his silky brown hair.
I never felt so light until it happened.
We practically fell down the beach steps, crashing into the sand in a fit of the childish giggles.
James.

Seven months ago.
And here I stand in front of my mirror. Greasy brown hair and puffy eyes.

I dreamt of him.
Again.
It was the memory of us fighting again.
But this time I truly did slap him.
And he never spoke to me again.
But as he was rushing off in a fit of rage, he turned onto the road. Screaming at me.
"It's okay for control, Abbi. But don't always follow the way of life. Do something to manipulate it."
Because then he stands there with tears in his eyes.
He's trying to help.
And I see the way the light of the setting sun falls onto his side. How it reflects into his eyes and bloody Hell, he catches me out of breath.
And he steps forward.
Five steps from the sidewalk.
Four.
Three.

But the light on his side isn't from the deep reds of the sun.
It's his blood. Seeping through his shirt.
And he knew.

I woke up then. Before he could fall to the road.
That's how I woke up sobbing.
I think I was crying during the dream too.
I think I knew.

Seven months ago, my James died.
The James who taught me control, freedom and love.
My James. Who woke up at four in the morning, would jog all the way to my front yard (which was well over 10 miles) and bring me coffee so we could drink it and go for another run.
My James. Who showed me how to surf.
Who I punched in the eye because he was such a jack ass.
Who I kissed one thousand times because he was so sincere.

My James. Who was hit by a car while we were walking home after the best surf of the year.
Who never ran with me again.
Who never cried with me when my father passed away.
Or screamed with utter joy when my sister walked across her Ballet performance for the Black Swan.

My James. Who I loved so heartachingly. So wholefully.

So I stand in front of my mirror without his lips caressing my shoulder.
With my dirty hair and sullen eyes.

And I bring the cold water onto my face.

My body burning from the sadness revolting within me.

And I breathe.

Because James isn't breathing right now.

And I want to breathe for him.

Untitled

The damp curls were blown across her forehead, and her pale green eyes traced the waves outlines against the moon's illumination. You wouldn't be able to tell she was whispering, because the harsh wind knocked her words into the sea.  But she was.  She was calling to the large, sinking ship before her.  Her bloodied nails grasped the stone she lay on, her body beaten and torn from the crashing ocean.   The curls of her black locks twisted down her arms and down the nape of her neck as though clockwork.  The thick hair tangled around the long silver chain around her neck.  She gripped the cool silver charm, but her silent cries never ceased.  The howling wind never breathed for a pause.  But here she lay, in the moonlight on a spring storm.   The rain slashed her face, and became anchors to the boat.  With each drop the boat filled.  With each drop, the men on the ship were drowning.  Her blood soaked hands came to her face, not knowing if she was wiping more than just rain away.  But there she clung, with thick grey clouds rolling above her.  With the pitch sea churning beneath.  Her strangled cries halted.  Her throat swelling and choking against the salt water.  Her mind flashed to the man in the ship- the captain's left hand man.  His thick blond hair tousled against his forehead, with the bright sun's rays behind him.  His laughter filled her heart, and the way his eyes grew crinkles when he smiled tugged at her stomach.  
A large wave crashed against her head, a sudden pulse against the jagged silver stone sent her into the sea. 
But she was still breathing.  Better now that she was submerged.  She inhaled the ocean and kissed the broken skin of her hands.  
She could see the ship's stern from here.  Her throat became tangled in screams.  She swam forward with exceptional strength, to find none of the glass paneling would open.  Her dark tangles enveloped her waist as she peered in through the  pot hole.  She could see the deep red velvet swiped couch, and water-logged bookshelf.  The lantern was out, reflecting no light throughout the hollow room.  Her eyes narrowed as she gripped the edge of the window, looking down in to the endless sea below.  Darkness consumed her below.  It would consume the brave men who ventured to this part of the sea.  She rose her eyes to meet clouded, glassy eyes floating before her.  His lips were pale and slightly parted, with high cheekbones and soaked brown hair.  A scream filled her head, she flung back away from the window, holding her ever leaving sanity with each thump of her heart.  The body drifted up into the ceiling, and she forced herself against the window with her entire strength.  It broke inward, sending her tumbling into the room.  As she looked up to where the body had drifted, his fitted body seemed to grab the wooden paneling above.  But his other hand seemed to be outstretched to her.  Her stomach twisted uneasily, and she moved her gaze away from the man.  She swam to the large wooden dual doors across from the bookshelf, and looked both ways down the hallway.  To her left was a stairway that most likely led to the top of the ship, whereas to her right there were numerous wooden doors.  Her left.  She swam quickly to the the top, only to find the ship wasn't completely submerged yet.  She was struggling immensely to get onto the deck, until a flash of movement caught her eyes. There, lying on the bow, with blond damp hair plastered to his neck was the man.  Water coated his body, and his loose white shirt was clinging to his chest.  A rage filled inside her body.  This ship was not meant to go down.  This crew was not meant to suffer. 
His eyelids fluttered for a moment, and his deep brown eyes met her own.  And in that moment, she stopped struggling to get up.  Her hands lay flat against the wood as she watched him helplessly.  His pale pink lips moved ever so slightly, his eyes never leaving hers.  She tried pulling herself up again, but his mouth formed a heartwarming smile. He lifted his hand from the thick level of water beginning to fill the top deck, and he coughed up the rain water that was filling his mouth.  He turned onto his stomach abruptly, half of his face was in the water as he stared at her.   His eyes fell to her neck, and he reached into his pocket.  The girl's green eyes swept over the small silver charm that he now held.  She could barely see the shape of it, but she knew what it was.  It was a fishing hook.  The same fishing hook.  This time, as she wiped at her eyes she knew most of the water tapered to her face were from the tears she held from her chest.  As the water level grew deeper, she tried pulling herself onto the deck.  Her arms were weak, but with help from a crashing wave, she finally lay on the deck with him.  His eyes widened curiously as she moved towards him.  .  Finally, once she was in reach of him, he pulled her tightly against her chest.

The rain pounded around them, and another large wave crashed on top of them, but he gripped onto her.  He was giving her hope.  They lay there, as the storm was raging, and as the ship was sinking.  The waves kept crashing angrily against the ship, until with a final battle it crumbled a part.  His cry filled her ears as she was knocked away from him.  Her hand was cut from the hook he was holding, but she felt nothing from it.  She only felt the fear that was gnawing at her mind.  That was gnawing at her thoughts. 

The light’s rays were bouncing off his hair as though he were an angel.  And she stayed hidden there, watching this odd man throwing a thin string into the water and pulling it back out.  Curiosity eventually got the better of her, and she swam towards him.  But the thing he was throwing out caught her and she was so surprised, that she yelped.  His head swivelled towards her, but before he could see her, she was pulling the thing down with her.  In a safe location she pulled the metal spike out of her, and swearing as the water around her became tinged with scarlet. She rose back up to give the sharp-pointed hook back to him, but when she breathed in the air, he was gone.

She saw his head floating on the surface of the black water, and she pushed through the broken pieces of wood to get to him.  As she grew closer, she saw a steady stream of blood falling from his skull.

She waited there. For a while.  She wanted to return it. She didn’t want to steal it.  So she waited until the sun went down.  And then the next day. And the next.  She would sit on the rock he was casting from, and pretend to be doing what he was doing.  Bu she was using stones.  Throwing them against the flat water, breaking it into a thousand cracks, and swimming in after it only to do that again, and again. 

She turned him over, his lovely russet eyes blinking at her.  A choke rose in her throat as she collapsed into his chest.  His hand fell to her back, steadying her.

Then she heard a voice. It was a timid voice at first.  Greeting her carefully.  And when she turned, she was met with his face.  A slim face with a firm jaw.  But it wasn’t fear or anger in his face. No, it was amusement.  He moved towards her steadily, and he reached out to shake her hand.  Of course, she thought he was trying to grab her so she leaped into the water, only to come up to the surface to see a plastered grin on his face as he wiped off water from his neck.  Then she heard his chuckling.

She heard his chuckling now, too.  She could hear it through the rain.  And the waves.  And her heartbeat.

She came up to him slowly, reaching out to give him the hook.  But he shook his head and showed another one. He said they were a pair, and that it was okay to lose one. She turned her head, confused.  Thinking if it was a pair, they should always be together.  But at those words he smiled again, and crouched closer to the water. Closer to her face. No, he said. If something is truly a pair, it doesn’t matter where one of the two goes. If they’re paired, then they have a connection that cannot be seen.  It’s like their secret.

He showed her the silver hook again, trying to force it into her palm.  He was choking against the salt.

She met him every evening.  He would fish and she would watch. They spoke about many things.  They spoke about nothing. And every time, before he left, he would turn his head to her ever so slightly and the sun would catch his eyes, turning them into flame.  And he would grin.  A stupid half-grin that never ceased to make her smile too.  It never stopped making her feel warmth in her chest.

The moon’s light casted into his eyes, making them a soft, clear brown.  And the corner of his mouth lifted. Ever so slightly.

He spoke about how ships were his life- just as the sea were hers. He never probed about her. He just knew. And every evening, he would walk away from the rocks into the forest behind and disappear into the blackness. Just as she would disappear into the ocean in front of them, becoming cloaked by the blue.

He opened his mouth, having it fill with water.  She pulled him up onto a flat broken board, holding him up onto it. The sail broken off, and the post screamed under its weight, crashing on to their bodies. 

She found a thin chain in the sand one day.  And she laced the hook through it.  She didn’t care when it nicked her skin, because it was his.  She didn’t have to ask him about his, because she always saw the outline of it in his pocket. She once reached for it.  She wanted to compare them. But he grabbed her wrist gently. And instead he brought his mouth to hers.

She was dizzy, tumbling under the waves, and she saw his body sinking under.

She asked him what it was.

Her head howled in pain as she swam lethargically towards him.

“Love.”

Bubbled cries filled the sea around her as she tried grabbing his arms.

She asked what love was.

Tiny air bubbles left his mouth as he was being consumed by the ocean.

“Love, is when a pair can be on opposite sides of the Earth, but still have a tiny, brilliant string that ties their souls together in a way that is almost impossible.”

Her arms flailed, panicking to catch him.

Her face lit up.  She asked if that was why the hooks could be separated.

His weight dragged her deeper, an aura of scarlet coating around them.

“Yes,” He kissed her, “And that’s why we can leave every day and come back again. Because of love. We will always have that in us. It’ll be hidden sometimes. Sometimes it’ll seem broken or lost, but know that it is always there.”

Darkness was surrounding them.

He jumped into the water and kicked around with her until the sun set. But he stayed that night. They kept talking about love. She kept asking about love. She felt as though something inside was swelling with such an intense joy, as though such a strong flame could not be drowned by water.

She gripped his hand, and looked at the top of the ocean. From below it seemed peaceful. Iron filled her mouth, and she began choking.  She clung onto him tighter. Not wanting to let go.

She looked at him. Truly looked at him. He pointed to the ship he would be on soon. It was stunning. Shiny deep wooden oak that was finely cut. Large white sails that were wrapped up tightly. And a stunning wooden sculpture of a woman with long tousled hair and slender arms holding onto the bow. Her head turned up to him, her face gleaming. He gripped her hand thoughtfully and brought each of her fingers to his lips.  She looked solemnly to the giant rippling mirror before them.

She thrashed in the water, trying to pull him up.

He brought her close to his chest and brought his mouth her ear.

Her jaw clenched angrily with her weakness.

“It’s okay to let go.”

She stopped.

His voice was hushed.

She stared at the man before her.  His once brown eyes were now glossy and pale.  She closed his eyes gently. His body was lax in her grip. And his pale mouth was parted.

“I know it’s scary.”

She brought her mouth to his. Taking in the last bit of him she would ever have again.

“But that’s because sometimes, something needs to be scary for you to do it.”

She looked at his clenched hand, and brought her own to her chain.

“Because then it gets easier.”

Her fingers began relaxing.

“And you get stronger.”

His body was falling.
“But I promise you, it gets better.”

She stayed floating there. In the darkest part of the water, watching him disappear.  She stayed there. For a while. And eventually rose back up to the surface. Most of the ship was gone now, and the rain had become a drizzle. She swam slowly. Away from the ship. Away from the wreckage. And she waited as the sun came up. It took a long time for her to stop shaking, but she never let go of the hook on her chain.

She didn’t take the hook in his hand. She knew she didn’t have to.

She climbed up onto a rock by the shore where he fished.

She stared in to a small pool. And she saw her green eyes and dark hair. But she didn’t look at her eyes. She looked at her mouth.

She inhaled deeply, feeling the rhythm of her heart increasing.

“Love.”