Saturday, April 30, 2011

I had moved Pen.

I had moved Pen into a ward. Her plush armchair was replaced by a metal bed frame, hard mattress and prescription sheets. The walls were white and cushioned, and her fireplace no longer cast shadows upon them. She had become dangerous, so I tried to contain her. She was resentful.

She clawed and beat with clamped fists more often than she used to, but the sound was somewhat muffled. She cried and cried – the kind of wracking sobs that used to reach my ears and produce a similar, if somewhat subdued response – but I felt increasingly numbed to her pleas. She paced back and forth, muttering and cursing and stamping her feet. I heard only parts of what she said. She was so very angry at me.

Her skin was paler than ever before; almost translucent. She would not eat and every day she became more skeletal. Her emancipated bones jutted. Her eyes darkened to wells of wrath and when she turned to face me I had to look away. I couldn’t bare it.

Last night she had visitors. I did not invite them. I was not warned of their impending invasion. A door appeared and they entered; one small, one dark. Pen would not hear them, and neither will I. She began to scream, and this time the noise broke through my veil. She ran, flailing, at the walls. She pointed and gestured. All I could do was cower out of their sight.

Pen had never been as powerless as she was then. She was always the strong one, but even she couldn’t make them leave. They stood, stoic where they’d entered until she exhausted herself. She lay down and placed a pillow on her face, gesturing me over and holding my hands in place as I pressed down. We began to choke. She would have my strength, then, but I failed at that too.

We are still here though the visitors have gone. Pen waits for them to return, as we know they inevitably will. In the meantime she sits in a corner, her knees hugged to her chest and her eyes wide and unblinking. She prays for the next time and she whispers to me that I can do it. I am the strong one now.

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Her words.

Her words fill the space of her therapist's cushy office. Sanitized air mingles with empty breaths.

The nights are still the worst. Porn and masturbation so I can pretend I'm not alone. Metallic kisses to subdue tears. Fingers scooping the emptiness and body lurching in response. Ash burning linen. Trying to hibernate in a nest of blankets that are never quite warm enough. Waking several times with a start from dreams of being pushed down stairs. Wonder if next time I fall from a building I'll make contact with the pavement. If I died they wouldn't find me till tomorrow night. Slipping further and further into dysfunction. "You're pretty," they say. "You're nice and smart and funny and everyone likes you." But there is no proof and it's not enough, anyway. I don't want everyone to like me. I only want you.

She's just blood, bile, smoke and bones.

Thursday, April 14, 2011

"I don't love you anymore."

"I don't love you anymore." He had turned his head away and she watched as his words fogged up the window of the last train home. She couldn't speak, but she felt the way he was slipping out of her grasp, just as his hand did. She leaned towards him but he turned his head away. He wouldn't even give her a chance, so she forced herself to find the words.
"I had a dream." He didn't respond but she knew he was listening.
"We were arguing. I was crying. You were unkind." Still no answer. She swallowed and continued, "I had a bottle and I smashed it against the curb. I slit my wrists with the shards and then ran. I disappeared into the night."
He looked at her now, but she saw nothing in his gaze.
"It was so liberating. I felt more alive than I ever have."
The train slowed to a stop and she arose, wrapping her cruedly hand-made scarf around her neck and buttoning her coat. This was her stop. She stepped out into the cold and shivered as the train rolled away behind her turned back. He hadn't followed her, but she hadn't expected him to. She disappeared into the night.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

This will be the last time.

This will be the last time I write for you. Or at least, this is my hope for myself. Because if I have to re-play those days one more time in my head, I might die. I cannot sleep anymore. I cannot eat. I spend hours avoiding thinking about you; distracting myself in a futile attempt to forget.

I have stopped crying so much. But I have also stopped feeling the same way. I replace one vice with another. I can stave off tears with something else but it is more painful, in a way, and you would not like it. But who gives a fuck what you like.

I have replaced sadness with anger – love with hate. I do it to survive. I wonder sometimes if you will push through the screen and find me on the other side, as you said you would.

I think of the other times often. I think how little they matter now, and I think it should make me feel better. But it’s the same as then, now. I wonder if this time is the time that it won’t get better. Maybe this is how it will be forever. Maybe there is nothing to salvage – nothing to hope for.

I’m searching for new life, but all I can see is the ruins.