FicWad

I rubbed the scar on my chest and pulled the sheet from the tabletop to cover my shame. As I sat there in the dark, empty operating room, my mind drifted back to that amazingly beautiful day when I lost my lovely flower, my angel.

Everything about her reeked of melancholy. Her skirt and blouse were stylish yet she wore them as if they were ill fitting. Numerous bracelets and rings weighed down her wrists. The blood flowed slowly but freely over, beneath and between her delicate fingers. In another life she would've been a celebrity, a movie star, a real somebody. That’s another life.

She gripped the handle and drew her hand back slowly. She isn't ready to face what's in that room. She sighed leaning her back heavily against the doorframe. Her captivating features were an oasis of meticulously applied beauty amidst a sea of impeccably tidy dark locks. Her eyes reflected sadness, hardened into a thick callous of distrust and anger by years of negative reinforcement and self-loathing.

If she felt anything, she repressed it instantly. She stares through me. Her silent thoughts echo at deafening levels through my conscious. Her flesh is cold. Her heart is empty. She raises her blood soaked hands.

She opened her eyes as she kissed me.

She broke my heart.

I felt a sharp pain in my back and crumbled to the floor. As I drifted into nauseated unconsciousness, my mind folded itself away from reality. The walls melted and I found myself in the now, watching myself then. I was young again. I had hope. The sun shone brightly, as the ceiling cracked, my coma dreams completely taking over my senses.

I was standing in front of the school where we'd first met. I'd seen her around school on many occasions. A thrift store, hand me down coat with a massive hood, raven black hair spilling over her neck, down her shoulders and chest. The simple, pleated black miniskirt, slightly knocked-kneed with fishnets over tights tucked into socks shoved into thick-soled, fashionable boots. Her delicate fingers crept out from cavernous sleeves holding cigarettes that teased an adorable, disposable smile.

My world was simply trudging on as scheduled when this unstoppable force struck me full in the face. My existence was realigned. My niche in the groove of the fabric of space and time had been smooth sailing, but now there's a pause, a chance, a want. It wasn't her who spoke first. She didn't make the introduction that would eventually turn into the fixation. Her cherry-haired friend with bright eyes and a voice with volume to spare was the one who made the introduction.

Five minutes later we piled in a solar van with the music cranked way too loud. Twenty minutes later we stumbled into a pool hall. A hour later, we found ourselves dancing in her room.

We moved rhythmically, gliding inch-by-inch closer, filling the torturous gap of absence between us. Moving as one, we were one on one, soon to be one becoming one. I don't want sex. Not now. We just met. By all means, I must avoid allowing my mind to dwell on thoughts of that friction. The hip beneath the palm. The hypnotic, swaying. The millimeters of denim and cotton. The flash of flesh beneath the bottom of her shirt.

And then she kissed me.

A smile is just a smile, a kiss is just a kiss unless it's your first or your last and this was neither. But there the kiss stood, hanging on with all its strength, standing defiant, stubbornly refusing to become a lost, vague description of a once upon a time recollection. The passion was timid, but seething under the surface of nervous anxiety regarding first time performance. Who needs sex when you can share lips and be sent to nirvana and back? Who needs heaven when you can breathe in each other's air and taste undiluted freedom?

And I found myself in absolute darkness.

How long had I been dreaming?

My head throbbed. Must’ve been the new static batons. Neurogenesis initially kills the nerves, but the batons bring them agonizingly back to life. It was the only way to maintain order. The darkness was astounding. I could actually taste the endless, tangible black. There were sounds of scuffling and I was semi-aware that there were other sentient creatures stirring about.

How long had I been dreaming?

I drew myself to my feet and thought about her again. I touched my dry lips. I could still taste her through the hazy transition from unconscious to conscious. That first kiss would never be as meaningfully important as the last, but the memory didn't fade. You wake up everyday blind and ignorant to everyday that came before, then one day you notice it's over. Kisses once sweeter than a gallon of sucrose now had the bitter, putrid taste of the wrong beer. The beer you mistake for yours, the one with the cigarette butts and dirty gum wrappers and about a quarter bottle of backwash floating in it. The assholes that surround you, disguised as your inner circle of people you can trust, tell you nothing because they're in dire need of some entertainment, regardless if it's at your own psychosexual expense. But how did it turn so sour? Actual hell isn't a place in which you're being denied pleasures and comforts. Actual hell allows great, great pleasure to be bestowed upon you then suddenly or gradually, but either way without warning; it's all ripped away mercilessly. Love is fleeting. Love is false. Love became nothing more than a word containing an equal number of consonants and vowels. It was a word on a page, a thought in your head, a sentiment read aloud. No more, no less. It just was.

Alone again. The world is cyclical. The beginning will be the end eventually as will the one after the one before it. Time heals nothing, pain heals nothing.

There is no cure for love.

I steadied my resolve and walked into the dark.