Conversations: How Do You Love?

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You really got it all wrong, my dear. I am not the monster you believe me to be.

You won’t release me. I am here just for your pleasure.

No, no my dear, I can not release you despite what you think.

You are the god of death, Thanatos.

Yes, I am, but that is what everyone has wrong. The god of death does not actually cause death, does not actually take a life, I am just here for when life is already gone. You, my dear, are the one that does not release yourself. I am always here when you call, am I not? Perhaps you see the wrong one as the monster.

Are you saying he is the monster?

I am not saying anything. I do not know him.

But, he says such sweet things. He always answers when I message. He says we are friends, always, and he will always be there.

Yes, he does. I am always here, too, when you call. Sometimes, even when you do not call, I am here, for you. Is he there when you don’t ask? Does he look for you, want to see you, be with you, even when you do not reach out?

He…

That is all I am saying, my dear. I am always here, for you, because you mean everything to me. I have no control over whether you are released from this world or not, only you do. I will be there after you are released as I am here now.

But you only want me because of my flesh, the beauty, the pleasure you take from my pain.

No, my dear, that is not true. I am here because you make me feel life like no other. You are beautiful, yes, but it is not your physical beauty that I crave. I can have physical beauty from anyone, male, female, young, old, it does not matter. There are beautiful people everywhere. The truly beautiful, like you, have nothing to do with physical beauty. You radiate your pain, your emotions, happy or sad, you radiate so much more than a physical beauty. You care, deeply, you feel, deeply, you simply are breathtaking with the depths of emotions. This world has slowly become devoid of those true, authentic emotions. It has become all about the visual beauty. The aesthetics. The looks being more important than anything else on offer. I take pleasure in you, my dear, your pleasure, your pain, your breath and ache, in you, my dear. I take pleasure in you and I am here now, when you need, I seek you when you don’t need me, I will be there when it is all over, at the end and beyond. I am here, my dear, always.

I… but… that is all I ever wanted, someone to be there, always, for me, whether I’m beautiful or ugly, young or old, in pain or not. I just wanted someone to love me. Are you saying you love me Thanatos?

If you have to ask than I have not shown my love to you properly, my dear. You should feel my love not ask for it. I am sorry for failing you my dear.

But what about him?

What about him?

He is not a god. He is simply a man, here, in this world, like me. Doesn’t he love me?

Do you love him?

What?

It is a simple question, my dear, do you love him?

I don’t know.

So what does it matter if he loves you. Human or god, what does it matter if you do not love in return. You need to love someone and then their love will matter. I would like you to love me, my dear, but even if you do not I will still love you, always. You are the only one that has taken my heart but my words, my thoughts, my feelings, what I do to you and for you does not matter. Only you matter and where you place your love, who you gift it to, that is what matters, my dear. Do you want his love?

I don’t know, I never actually thought about what I wanted. I just, well, if he loved me, if anyone loved me, that was what mattered, right?

No, my dear. You are clearly mistaken on how easily it is to love you. Everyone loves you but you, my dear.

Conversations: Remember Me

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Did you ever break a bone? He asked innocently, trying to make small talk.

I broke my foot once, a few years back, when I lived in a four story walk-up.  Moving around with crutches was tough and forget about trying to get up and down stairs with groceries or any other shit.  It was impossible and I cursed the lack of elevator every time I had to leave.

Damn, sounds like a pain in the ass.

It was but I’d still rather have a broken foot for the rest of my life and live in that walk-up again if it meant trading away this depression bullshit.  She fiddled with the salt shaker in the center of the table as she spoke.

Really? Why? He watched her absentmindedly pour salt on the table then press her finger into the center of the tiny hill as she avoided eye contact.

People came to help me then.  They understood the pain of a broken bone, the difficulty to leave the house and added burden trying to do simple tasks.  They checked in every day.  They asked how I felt and cared for the answer, didn’t get annoyed even as it went on for weeks.  They didn’t get frustrated when I said it was too tiring to go out and do anything. I didn’t feel forgotten.  She shrugged and licked salt from her finger, dipping it back into the tiny salt hill and repeating.

You feel forgotten? Don’t they keep in touch now?

She laughed. Not mocking, not laughing at him, just a melancholic sort of laugh.  Clearly you’ve never had any type of mental illness.

No, I haven’t.

When you have a mental illness people forget you. They stop checking on you. They get annoyed that you aren’t… she went silent for a moment searching for the words and poured another small pile of salt as she thought.  They aren’t as understanding.  A broken bone they understand, they don’t understand a broken mind. They get annoyed that you aren’t normal as though I chose this, as though I want to live like this, as though I enjoy barely being able to function most days.  Then they are annoyed when you put on a mask because you aren’t being genuine but I’m just trying to make it from one moment to the next without completely falling apart and… she stopped talking mid-thought again.  She finally raised her eyes and looked at him.

He sat silent, looking into her deep green eyes, seeing the water along the edges never quite becoming tears.  He saw the pain in them; the desire for understanding while expecting none. Is that what you want, to be remembered?

Yes. She responded softly, immediately, without any hesitation.

Conversations: Lessons Learned

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I’m finally learning, Thanatos.

Learning what my dear?

All the lessons you’ve been teaching me over the years. I never realized they were there until I listened and now it all seems so clear.

I did not attempt to teach you.

Perhaps not intentionally but I’ve learned nonetheless.

And what is it that you’ve learned?

It is all about three things: image, strength and positivity. It doesn’t matter if you are good or bad, it doesn’t matter if you love or hate, it only matters if you project the right image, be strong in whatever you do and only reveal positive feelings even if it it is a lie.  If you are strong in whatever you do or at least appear strong and happy that is all that matters.  That is how the game is played.  Pretend to be strong even if you aren’t.  Be happy even when you don’t feel it. Project the right image in any situation.

That is not…

Being kind, being soft-hearted, showing fear and sorrow only leaves you alone.  It opens you up to abuse.  Being authentic and honest, feeling the pain and hurt that is this world means no one will love you, not long term.  People only love someone who is strong enough to withstand all the shit.  People only love someone who smiles despite boredom, despite depression, despite the rat-race behind gray cubicle walls or open office pits, despite the world burning and the wars raging and the debts piling higher than the savings in the banks. People only love someone who is strong enough to survive, to take care of themselves, who is positive all the time.

M, my dear, that is not…

I learned, Thanatos, I have.  I am a woman.  I am meant to be a beautiful object, desired and smiling, happy despite it all, to make others feel good, to help others forget the shit in this world, or their own private hell, I am meant to reflect only what they want.  I wear a costume designed to reflect both sex and strength.  Heels, the higher the better, so I appear like an Amazon while at the same time make it difficult for me to run.  It is the appearance of strength and power, the courage to be so damn tall, that matters.  My lips painted perfectly, stained a deep red, to stand out and hit that primal desire that says my lips are swollen with desire for you are more important than what my lips actually say.  It is the image, the projection of courage, of strength.  It allows me to be both victim and user, gives me the power to use the desire of others while portraying the definition of someone else’s desires.  I am their object to get what I want.  Both powerful and powerless.

M, listen to me, that is not why I desire you.

Oh, but it is my dear Thanatos, it is.  It is always what is wanted, in the end, to smile brightly as my body writhes for your pleasure, for his pleasure, for everyone’s pleasure.  It is the courage, you see, dear Thanatos.  The courage I’ve had.  To face death over and over. The strength to fight for the exit.  You confuse that courage with sadness, with emotions, with all the emotions that have raged within me all these years; the emotions I’ve tried to escape.  What the lesson is, really is, is simply to be strong enough to ignore emotions, the messy emotions, so others don’t have to feel them, see them, touch them.  Use my strength of survival to oppress the negative feelings, show only what is expected, play the game properly, the positivity game, and do it with enough conviction to appear authentic and I can have anything I want.  I can have love.  I can have someone protect me, fight for me, come to me whenever I want because I have the strength to see the reality while playing the game. 

M, my dear M, no.  I desire you because you see the reality and don’t play the game.  You feel it all and rejected being just another player in the game.  You’ve attempted to escape and find something different. 

She laughed, no, no, my dearest Thanatos, that is the mistake I’ve made all these years.  I’ve attempted to escape reality, I’ve attempted to become normal and a good player like all the rest, thinking it will stop all these dark emotions that swirl within me.  Now I see it clearly.  I can not escape.  I will not end these dark emotions.  I can only use them to fuel my way to becoming just another player that sees the game rules and moves around the board until the game ends.  In the meantime I will dress up however anyone wants, in whatever costume is required for the scene, and only show confidence, compliance, eagerness.  A smile, a positive attitude, saying all the platitudes with conviction, standing tall in my heels and showing strength.  It won’t matter if I am breaking inside, it won’t matter if there are pieces of me shattering like glass because it simply means those broken pieces will sparkle when the light hits.

 

♦♦

M, wow, you look different.

I do? How?

I don’t know, you look… happy? Definitely a new confidence about you.  I was so worried about you but clearly you were right, I didn’t need to worry, just look at you!

Thank you.  I am the same but I have changed.  I’m learning a few lessons, finally.

Devour Me

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“M, my dear, why all the tears?”
“Thanatos,” she whispered.
“It’s been a while my dear M; I missed you. Why have you called me?”
“I… ” she stared at him, the words lost in her mind, the feelings overwhelming, indescribable.

He stepped closer, reaching for her, “M, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” He felt a strange tremor in the air; a different, darker vibration emanating from her sorrow.  She fell to her knees, wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking like a child self-comforting, silent.  He felt her heart beat, fast and erratic, tasted her tears as they fell.

“Thanatos, who is he?” She asked, finally, managing words to escape her lips.

Thanatos paced feeling her emotions roll over him like waves after a tsunami.  Confusion, pain, sorrow, self-hatred, all crashing over him, familiar but something different beneath all the other darkness. He looked at her again, her upturned face, green eyes begging him for solace, for answers, for clarity.  He dropped to his knees but did not reach for her.

“Who?”
“M, my M, the other M,” she sobbed.
Thanatos’s eyes darkened, “Why do you ask me about him?”
“He confuses me, Thanatos.  I don’t understand him.  I don’t know what he wants.  I don’t know what he expects or how to please him or how to make him forget me… or remember me.”
“Why do you ask me about him?”
“You won’t let me go and he confuses me.  I don’t know what I am to him, to you.  What does he want? You won’t let me go and I don’t know if he wants me to go or not.  I don’t know what role I’m supposed to play anymore, Thanatos.  Help me, please,” she pleaded.

Thanatos stood and walked to the fireplace, reaching for the poker to stoke the flames, feeling the heat fill the room.  Staring down into the fire he said, “I do not know him.”
She stared at his back confused, “You don’t?”
He turned to look at her, “Why would I know who he is?”
“I…” she started to speak but felt a loss for words.
“What does he do to you?” Thanatos asked darkly stepping closer.

She stood and dropped her arms to her side.  Silent.  Her green eyes holding his gaze.  He advanced slowly, like a predator stalking prey, and she inhaled deeply.  Thanatos took her by the waist, pulled her close, gently kissed her neck.  She dropped her head back, closed her eyes and whispered, “Thanatos, who is to set me free?”

♦

“M what are you doing?”
“Praying for redemption.”
“What? I didn’t know you were religious?”
“I’m not.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I think I need to run again M.”
“Run where?”
“Anywhere.  I need to run, M.”
“Run to me then.”
“What?”
“My dear M, run to me, please.  Stop running away and run to something.”

(Thanatos): M

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3:23 am: corner booth

She sat alone watching a couple drunk in love; or perhaps just drunk love. She ordered another whiskey and stared out the window.  The shadows across the street reminded her of the first time she saw Thanatos.

It was her fourteenth birthday and her parents were arguing, again, in the other room.  She could hear her mother yelling while her father’s tone was deeper, a little muffled, but still menacing. The small apartment left little room for escape so she climbed out to the fire escape for a cigarette.  Slipping her headphones on, turning the volume up, she watched the darkness unfold on the streets below.  In the shadow, across the street, he leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette, looking up at her.

Her heart slowed with the eerie feeling of someone watching her, a stranger, calmly inhaling when she took a drag of her own cigarette.  He took a few steps to stand under the street light.  She exhaled slowly, not sure she was seeing as clearly as it seemed.  He was tall, dressed in black slacks, a black dress jacket with white shirt, cuffs open and hanging loose accentuating his long fingers.  His hair was short, black, a little messy.  What she noticed most were his deep blue eyes.  Unreal eyes like those in photographs of beautiful boys with microphones and smoke swirling.  He didn’t have a beard, but not clean-shaven, and she wasn’t positive but felt he let her study him for several minutes before smiling and walking away.

She met Thanatos a year later.  Visiting her cousins upstate, they took her to a party at a house near a lake.  The drinks were beer or overly sweet combinations typically involving Coke and cheap spirits.  A couple of older boys brought weed, acid and some pills with vague promises that it would make you feel good.  Wandering around drunk and high, feeling the usual melancholy, not wanting company, never able to feel connected, she slipped down to the lake with one of the knives her uncle used to gut fish.  She vaguely remembered cutting her wrist, slicing down following the trace of her vein.  She felt the blood, warm and sticky, dripping around the circumference of her arm.  She managed another cut on her other wrist, not as deep, and laid back staring up at the stars.

Her head swam, a mixture of alcohol and drugs, and she felt the pain from the cuts but didn’t move.  Instead trying to focus on locating the big dipper, identify Orion’s belt, looking for the North Star.  She laughed at her ridiculous dramatics and felt cold despite the warm summer night.  The fireflies blinked silently, calling to their loves across the grass, and she heard the occasional splash from a fish or turtle.  She smiled feeling life finally slipping away, so close to ending, the pain and darkness within finally about to be distinguished.  Vaguely she wondered how long before someone found her.  Would it be some fat housewife with her kids going for a morning swim?  Maybe one of her cousins would notice her missing and go looking for her.  Maybe she’d just rot here all summer, slowly decomposing into the earth until the rain washed her remains into the murky green lake.

She turned her head to the left, to look at the moon reflecting on the calm waters, and instead saw his blue eyes looking into hers.  He was kneeling silently next to her.  She didn’t know how long he was there, when he showed up, or where he came from.  She recognized him from the shadows across the street outside her apartment and she let out a small cry.  He gently touched her face, his eyes soft and kind, and took off his jacket to place under her head.

“Who are you?”
“Thanatos.  And who are you my love?”
“M.”

She saw lights blinking, heard voices and static sounds from radios.  No, she thought.  She looked at Thanatos and felt the black tar boil up into her chest threatening to crack each rib slowly.  As she struggled to focus, consciousness barely holding on, she felt pressure on her wrists, being lifted, heard voices all around.  Standing off to the side, Thanatos told one of the paramedics he had gone for his nightly walk and found the girl on the beach.  They thanked him for most likely saving her life.  As they loaded her into the ambulance she saw a black dog sitting across from the lake entrance, panting.

Two days later, at the hospital, her parents sat silently by her bed.  Her mother cried.  Her father clenched his jaw.  She feigned sleep hoping they would disappear for a while to the cafeteria.  When they finally left, she touched the bandages around her wrists and cried.  The doctors said they could help relieve her from the depression but they didn’t understand the well deep inside that held the bubbling, dark, black sticky tar that gripped not only her psyche but her very core.  It was a part of her, she understood that, something that would never disappear no matter how much they medicated or promised.

There was a soft knock on her door.  Thanatos stood holding a large bouquet of calla lilies and white lavender.  His blue eyes slightly clouded with contrition.  He waited until she gave a slight wave with her hand calling him closer.

“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“I can’t let you go.”

She sighed, her mind snapping back to the present.  She still didn’t understand why Thanatos couldn’t let her go.

Text Stories: Games We Play

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Anger is a strange emotion. When suppressed it consumes a person in small, subtle, yet deadly ways. It slowly chokes someone with a silent poison that blackens the soul and manifests as depression or apathy. If the angry person attempts to quash that anger, no matter how righteous, at some point anger will find an exit. It will find its way out as either a dark, maleficent energy or as an explosive rage. Either way like a fire it consumes whatever lies in its path. Incendiary like gasoline on dried wood; it only takes a tiny spark to ignite.

♦

Don’t. Just Don’t. Seriously
What
Don’t fucking pretend to care
I’m not pretending
Fuck you
Why the hell are you so angry with me?
Oh, you miss me. You worry. You care for me, blah, blah.
It’s the truth
Really?
I don’t blow smoke up your ass
Hard to believe when I don’t hear anything from you for weeks at a time. You always have an excuse. Your phone broke, you didn’t pay the bill, no wifi. Whatever

I borrowed money from anyone just to get it back because I miss my best friend
Yeah, sure. Empty words. You say this every couple of weeks. Really, don’t lie to me. I’m tired of it. I’m tired of a friendship at your convenience. I mean shit to you

That isn’t true. You mean a lot to me. You are one of the few people I tell anything
Okay, tell the others than, I’m tired. I’m done with this game
It isn’t a game
Isn’t it? I need someone that puts me first, that cares enough to actually check more than every couple of weeks. If I don’t contact you its like I fall off the fucking planet. You forget until you get bored or are horny or some shit

That isn’t true. I think of you all the time
I’m right here like always
I’m sorry. It isn’t my fault that I have phone problems and can’t pay bills, you know I’m struggling right now
Yeah, I’m struggling, too.
I know and that’s why I worry. I’m worried about you M, really, you are my best friend

…

Thanatos smiled, “A new corset?”
“Do you like it?”
“Of course.”
“What are you going to do to me,” she asked licking her lips.
“What do you want me to do,” he asked as the light flickered in his eyes.

She walked, slowly, across the room and stood before him, “Thanatos, my dear, I am here at your pleasure, for your pleasure.”

He looked into her deep green eyes for a long moment, her lips holding a taut smile, and felt a strange, unidentifiable emotion. Her sadness, as always, was palpable. Her sehnsucht lingered below. But something more, something new, simmered beneath.

“Who is he?”
“Who,” she said softly trying to hide the surprise that Thanatos didn’t know something.
“You’ve changed.”
“I have not.”
“Yes. Something is different. It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Thanatos, are you… are you jealous?” She stuttered with genuine surprise.
“Of course not. I am the god of death. You have danced with me for years. You come to me while you run from everyone else.”

She slowly reached behind to untie her corset as he spoke. His words seemed carefully chosen as if to hide true meaning. She knew that game. She’d played it many times throughout the years.

“Do you want me to leave,” she asked wryly.
“Of course not my dear M. I want you more each time. Your pleasure is my pleasure.”

♦

Laying next to Thanatos as he slept, she stared at the ceiling and sighed. There was something different that she couldn’t explain. The usual black tar consumed her from within but this time it felt hot; incendiary. It felt like a stoked fire, the embers slowly awakening, and it crackled with small pops somewhere inside. She had no words for this strange feeling slowly heating and bubbling, like a simmering blaze before igniting to an all consuming inferno.

Conversations: Thanatos’ Mistake

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You, my dear Thantos, made one fatal mistake
What is that, my dear M?
You showed me that I am important
How have I done that?
You can not release me from this pain, give me the death I desire, so there must be something of worth, a greater value, than this earthly veil reveals
What makes you think such silly thoughts?
If there was no truth to what I say you would release me, give me death, reap my soul as you, the god of death, are meant to do. Instead you continue to play with me which means I have something more than this life offers.
You are a foolish child.
Yet you do not deny my claims
I do not
I am your muse
You are
Which means if I can be the muse to the god of death than there is something more than what I see now
I can not deny your logic
You have made a mistake Thanatos
What mistake is that?
You have given me a purpose
What purpose is that
To find what is so valuable that the god of death will not reap.

She: M

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He watched her closely as she strutted back from the bathroom.  He noticed the various eyes attempting to glance surreptitiously.  He smiled, to himself.  She was his inspiration, his muse, wanting to not just use her for his pleasure but give her pleasure, see her smile, drive her to shudder and shake, to make her happy because she never experienced it before.

She appeared as an object, a desire, a notion in his mind that drove his passions.  He never expected that she would become so much more.  He did not expect her to consume his thoughts.  He did not expect her to strut and fret on his stage.  He did not expect her to be full of sound and fury signifying everything.  He did to expect her to become more than a player in a scene, more than a puppet on a string, more than desire.

She was more than a book from a library, plucked from the shelf, meant as a nightly distraction.  She became a catalyst for change, not just an object, even if she didn’t see it yet.

♦

She strutted with contempt.  She knew, in her heart, she was more than an object but used what she knew would capture desires.  She knew she’d leave a path of destruction and change destiny for herself because fuck the gods, fuck destiny, fuck those that believed she was forgettable, that she was nothing, that she deserved nothing.  She would scorch the soil beneath her feet for no other reason than she deserved to feel so much more than what was given to her.  She knew, in her heart, that she deserved to be seen.  She deserved to be seen.

She strutted in the impossible high heeled, thigh-high boots, because she knew it would capture looks.  She knew it would capture desires.  She knew her role, as a woman, was to become desired and an object.  She knew the expectation was to become desire itself, a symbol of sex and control, of desire and fidelity, or infidelity, as woman to man, as written before time itself existed. She knew the expectations and strutted with strides of fuck you and your expectations.  She was not a plaything, she only pretended to be.  She would burn all those roles in order to achieve what she always desired, deep down — she needed to be important.  She needed to be acknowledged as fuel for the fires that would burn the world and change what was written a thousand years before.  She needed to be more than Thanatos could control. She needed to be greater than the gods that demanded she become a puppet in their play.  She needed to be seen.

♦

He smiled as she sat, purposeful, at his table, quickly downing the drink waiting for her.  She smiled with perfectly painted matte red lips.  “Sorry to keep you waiting Thanatos,” She said softly.

“I will wait forever for you my dear M,”
“Yet you will never release me, will you?”
“No, of course not my dear.  You are my muse.  You are my inspiration.  You consume my thoughts.”
“Isn’t that the way you’ve written it?”
“Of course.”

The waiter brought another drink, placing it silently before her, and she raised it with a wry smile, “You, my dear Thanatos, will regret your decision.”

 

 

 

Texts: Rain

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The streets were slick from the softly falling rain.  The rainy season, when she could walk the dark, rain soaked streets, hiding her tears with the raindrops from the darkly clouded sky.  It was the rain that made Seattle the city to always hold her heart.  The city that cradled her melancholy.

Y did you say that?
Say what?
I’m failing here, really bad
What’s wrong M?
The same thing as always.  Y did you say that? What am I supposed to do now?
M, you aren’t making sense.  I’m worried.  R u drinking?
Walking in the rain
Y are you walking in the rain
Because I can’t escape.  There is no where for me to run anymore
How much have you had to drink?
Not enough
M, please, u r killing me
Lol, no I’m not.  U don’t care, not really, we r just friends
What the hell does that mean? I care about u, I think about u all the time
Ok
M, what’s going on
Nothing.  Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother u.  That’s what I mean by I’m failing.  I’ve become the manipulative abuser and I hate it
You aren’t an abuser. Talk to me
It’s just the rain and alcohol.  I’m fine.  Ttyt
M, please, don’t do that

….

M? Talk to me

…

M, please, answer me

Texts: Miscommunication

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Photo Credit: Bishop DuBourg

How much have you had to drink?

What’s the difference

Are you home?

No

How are you going to get home

I don’t know

Why did you drink so much?

Why did you say what you did?  Just before I walked out the door? FFS what was I supposed to do with that?  Did you do it on purpose

What are you talking about?

You really are fucking clueless aren’t you.  You are the one that makes me wet, you are the one that makes me smile, you are the one that makes me get up in the morning and you are the one who relegated me to this

To what? I don’t know what to say to any of that

Yeah, you never do, do you.  You only know how to say shit when I’m about to meet someone else

You are my best friend, you know that, I want the best for you

Really? Do you?

Yes. Why are you angry with me

I’m not angry

Yes you are

No, I’m not angry.  I’m hurt

Why

Fuck you.  Really, just fuck. you.

How am I supposed to fix this if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?

Nothing’s wrong.  I’m fine.  I called Uber

Talk to me

I’ll be home soon, nothing for you to worry about

I worry about you

Don’t.  I’m fine. Just drunk and I’ll forget all this in the morning.  Go to sleep, sweet dreams, ttyt

Don’t do that

Do what

Avoid the question

I forgot the question, it doesn’t matter, I’m fine, no need to worry.  I’m almost home.  Goodnight

You aren’t supposed to be drinking anyway

Yeah, I know

Talk to me

What do you want me to say

Tell me what’s wrong

Nothing

Bullshit

What the fuck do you want from me? 

I want to know you are okay, you’re safe

Yes

Don’t do that

Yeah, whatever, I’m done, goodnight

M, please, talk to me

Nothing to say. I’m home, safe, goodnight

 

Road

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The dark road tunneled ahead of her, the headlights illuminating a few hundred feet, as she sped along listening to the static from the radio echo in her head.  The thoughts cascaded like cicadas in the summer heat, droning endlessly, singing to the only one who understood.

Where she was going she couldn’t say.  She could only say what she left behind.  Or, what she was running from, trying to leave behind, though deep down she knew it would follow, like luggage transported from one destination to another.  There was nowhere to run, no one to run to, no one to catch her.  No one to save her.  She knew that even as she pressed her foot on the gas pedal until she felt it hit the floorboards beneath.  There wasn’t enough speed, wasn’t enough road, wasn’t enough distance between her and the past.

♦

“What the hell does that mean?”
“You can be aggressive as hell when you feel uncomfortable.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”
“I never said you were a bitch, just aggressive, there is a difference.”

She paced her kitchen reading the texts wondering what the hell it all meant.  Why would he tell her that just before a date she was already nervous about.  She had no idea she was like that.  She always tried to acquiesce, to do what others wanted, to appease and please yet she was aggressive as hell?  What did that even mean?

“I can’t change overnight.  I’m trying for fucks sake.”

♦

She tried to breath but instead inhaled with a jagged stutter.  She felt her arms shaking as she held the wheel, pressed the gas pedal harder even though it was already to the floor, and tried to focus on the dark, endless road ahead despite the tears blurring her vision.  This was all familiar.  Not the road itself but the flight.  She flashback to the freedom, at seventeen, when she finally escaped hell; or so she believed then.  Back then she also hit the gas as hard as possible, fleeing up the road, leaving the house she grew up in as a distant memory in her rear-view.  She never returned even when her mother begged.  She never felt the pangs of nostalgia like her older brother wanting to visit the old pizza place and ice cream parlor.

Back then, when she fled, the roads started out familiar, she knew which way to turn, which way led north or south.  Eventually she lost track.  Eventually she simply drove, focused and unfocused, following wherever the road took her as long as it wasn’t back.  It didn’t matter if the sun or moon was shining, it only mattered that she moved, ran, at top speed, as if she could outrun her fear, her pain, her mind and all the secrets.

♦

She carefully arranged the plates, the knife on the correct side, the forks and spoons in their proper place, as the Christmas tree glowed behind her.  A bottle of red breathing on the kitchen counter while the white chilled in the fridge and garlic wafted through the house.  She pressed her hand against her solar plexus as she glanced at the arrangement, hoping it was correct, praying the glasses were in the right place, wishing for small praise that she fulfilled expectations.

Standing in the kitchen, the heat turning her cheeks pink, she quietly downed a glass of wine and filled it again quickly.  She felt that numbness, the softening effects of the alcohol, like cotton behind her eyes, softening the tension in her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“The table is set.”
“I better check to make sure it’s done right,” her older brother said, giving one last stir to the risotto before removing it from the heat.

♦

She felt light-headed from erratic breathing.  She heard the buzz from her phone.  She wanted to drive to him.  She wanted to be held, to be cared for, to be understood but she knew the reality.  It was all a fantasy, what she built up in her head, and he didn’t care the way she did.  He didn’t feel the way she did.

“Are you okay?  You’ve gone quiet.”  She glanced at the phone as she pressed the pedal harder despite it being pressed all the way down already and she let the darkness take her.

Nightlight

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3:43 a.m.

He feels the bed shift as she gets up; hears he bare feet padding across the floor in the darkness.  The only light from the nightlight plugged in the hallway illuminating her movements.  He closes his eyes seeing her in his minds eye.  The familiar press of her hand against her chest, holding her breath like she holds in the pain, as tears fall.

3:54 a.m.

He hears the front door close softly.  She wears his hoodie because she can get lost in it and when she lifts the hood she feels completely hidden.  Her breath puffs in the cool autumn night and she hears the crunch of dried leaves.  She walks silently, avoiding streetlamps, letting the darkness envelope her trying to breath deep and slow but failing.

4:25 a.m.

He sits on the edge of the bed, runs his hand through his hair, and stares out the window contemplating whether to wait or find her.  He picks up his phone, the light illuminating his face in a soft blue, and asks Are you okay?

She pulls her phone from the pocket of his hoodie and stares at the screen, her thumb hovering over the keyboard, not wanting to lie but not wanting to tell him the truth.  Go back to sleep, I’m almost home.

He reads her message; a response but not an answer.

6:59 a.m.

Sitting on the front porch she watches the sky lighten as the sun rises.

7:00 a.m.

She hears the alarm go off in the bedroom then silence a moment later.  He rolls over feeling the empty space and cool sheets next to him.  He gets up and makes coffee.

7:17 a.m.

She looks up at the sound of the front door opening.  He holds out a cup of hot coffee, the steam rising perfectly like in advertisements, and feels a brief touch as her fingers brush his.

“Did you sleep well?” She asks softly, putting her head on his shoulder when he sits next to her.

“Did you sleep at all?” He asks concerned.

She sips her coffee and he wipes her cheek with his thumb.  The nightlight in the hall switches off as the sun rises higher.