The past ain't through with you.
The response was simple, quiet and outright. “No.”
Like it wanted to tease her, each knuckle on the hand squeezed, once simultaneously and another one by one, wrenching a hiss with every passing wave of constriction. The hand was materializing, a man she knew, and one she loved.
“Stop,” She gasped while a new hand grasped onto her arm, inches above the other. She could feel nails, taste blood, and hear white noise. None of them were real, none of them could be justified, she was insane and no one would be able to doubt it.
The retort was familiar, rough and requiting with scraped knees and disappointed expressions. “No.”
“Stop,” She spat back, nose running with scarlet, right eye pounding, nerves quaking. Flashes of lights she couldn’t make out danced from the backs of her eyelids. Sweat, hot and cold fevers and blues singing in an echo because she couldn’t stop them from coming again. Lovers’ quarrels sent with love, addressed to yours truly. Kisses and caress she didn’t dare question.
The return was final. “No.”
“No,” she repeated, laughing through salt water. Gone were the dances, the games, and the touch. She was so happy. So, so happy.
“No.” The past said, finally back and leaving so quickly.