SinisterPryde
06-18-2007, 12:25 AM
I've been working on some different projects for a couple of months now (I'm trying to finally get serious about my writing). The biggest problem I always have is finding the door inside to the world I am trying to write (beginning is the hardest part). Anyway, I came up with this and was wondering what anyone thought.
The dreams of the past have long since faded and the nights that spawned them are but a distant memory. Lingering scents of his shampoo can be smelled on the unwashed pillowcase, still clutched tightly in her hands. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, where memories play over and over, she is seeing his smile, hearing the soft whispers of his deep voice as he professes love for her. Only her. She can almost feel his hands slowly stroking the side of her face, pushing strands of her dyed black hair away from her eyes.
A smile plays upon her lips, then quickly becomes a frown. With the memories comes the pain, still fresh and sharp. She wonders if it will ever end. She doesn’t question why the ghost of the past torments her every night as it does. She knows why.
The moon shines in through the open window above her bed. Outside, in the night, the city is alive. She knows there are happy people out there. Living their lives, shaping their dreams, and feeling hopeful about the future. Young lovers at play under the light of the full moon, dancing to the rhythm of their love.
In a fit of hurt rage she sits up and attempts to throw the pillowcase across the room. The cloth thing, a maroon cotton thing, has no weight and there is no satisfaction. Angered even more by the pillow case’s refusal to be an instrument of destruction she picks up the picture on her night stand. A frozen memory of him and her smiling at the unseen photographer, their eyes showing nothing but love and happiness without a hint of the things that would follow. The picture is free from her fingers before she even realizes what she is going to do. It is both cathartic and painful as she watches the image spin through the air. A flat missile that smashes into the mirror of her vanity stand. The sudden, final sound of glass breaking and crashing to the floor. She screams in both rage and pain, tears flowing freely now. Never has she thought that she could be so fundamentally hurt. Not once in her life did she suspect that such pain could come from one person.
She drops to her knees, oblivious to the pain that the wooden floor sends racing through them. She kneels with her hands to her face, wailing his name as if she might summon him by sheer force of will. There is no massive apocalypse, though. The world still moves on outside and the pain still throbs inside. Tears form under cerulean eyes, falling to the floor in a simple splash. An unremarkable thing. It catches her attention however. The tear drop slowly being absorbed into the wood grain of the floor.
She feels the water on her face. She swipes away the tears, trying to remember her oath to herself that no one gets to make her cry. She grits her teeth and does the hardest thing she has ever had to do in her life. She gets up.
On legs that feel like they are simultaneously made of rock and glass she walks over to the window. Each step seem like a super-human effort. Her chest burns with the pain of breathing. Her heart struggles with the task of pumping. She knows her life isn’t over, but her body is not convinced. Her heart feels broken beyond all repair. Strange she should find herself wondering if ever she will make love again?
The world outside her window looks the same as it always has. The street below has its traffic. Both motorized and pedestrian. The building across from her stands as it always has. She can see the night owls up, pacing in their apartments, talking on phones, watching television. All of them oblivious to her pain, to the mere strain of her continuing existence.
She looks up then, at the full moon. Her tear swollen eyes taking in the sight of the silver/gray orb shining above them. She watches the wisp thin clouds move slowly, gracefully over the face of the moon. A thought briefly occurs to her that she once waltzed on the clouds. In the spectacle of the sight of nature above her she does not feel the cold spike entering her heart that the thought should have driven. No, her eyes are instead tracing the clouds and a small, bitter laugh escapes her soft pink lips. She finds both irony and contempt in the silver lining of the clouds and the midnight rainbow produced by the moon’s rays.
She laughs until she cries. The crying turns into soft sobbing as she lowers herself to her bed. The sobbing subsides and gives way to the even breathing of deep sleep. While no smile touches her lips as she dreams, no tear falls from her eyes.
The dreams of the past have long since faded and the nights that spawned them are but a distant memory. Lingering scents of his shampoo can be smelled on the unwashed pillowcase, still clutched tightly in her hands. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, where memories play over and over, she is seeing his smile, hearing the soft whispers of his deep voice as he professes love for her. Only her. She can almost feel his hands slowly stroking the side of her face, pushing strands of her dyed black hair away from her eyes.
A smile plays upon her lips, then quickly becomes a frown. With the memories comes the pain, still fresh and sharp. She wonders if it will ever end. She doesn’t question why the ghost of the past torments her every night as it does. She knows why.
The moon shines in through the open window above her bed. Outside, in the night, the city is alive. She knows there are happy people out there. Living their lives, shaping their dreams, and feeling hopeful about the future. Young lovers at play under the light of the full moon, dancing to the rhythm of their love.
In a fit of hurt rage she sits up and attempts to throw the pillowcase across the room. The cloth thing, a maroon cotton thing, has no weight and there is no satisfaction. Angered even more by the pillow case’s refusal to be an instrument of destruction she picks up the picture on her night stand. A frozen memory of him and her smiling at the unseen photographer, their eyes showing nothing but love and happiness without a hint of the things that would follow. The picture is free from her fingers before she even realizes what she is going to do. It is both cathartic and painful as she watches the image spin through the air. A flat missile that smashes into the mirror of her vanity stand. The sudden, final sound of glass breaking and crashing to the floor. She screams in both rage and pain, tears flowing freely now. Never has she thought that she could be so fundamentally hurt. Not once in her life did she suspect that such pain could come from one person.
She drops to her knees, oblivious to the pain that the wooden floor sends racing through them. She kneels with her hands to her face, wailing his name as if she might summon him by sheer force of will. There is no massive apocalypse, though. The world still moves on outside and the pain still throbs inside. Tears form under cerulean eyes, falling to the floor in a simple splash. An unremarkable thing. It catches her attention however. The tear drop slowly being absorbed into the wood grain of the floor.
She feels the water on her face. She swipes away the tears, trying to remember her oath to herself that no one gets to make her cry. She grits her teeth and does the hardest thing she has ever had to do in her life. She gets up.
On legs that feel like they are simultaneously made of rock and glass she walks over to the window. Each step seem like a super-human effort. Her chest burns with the pain of breathing. Her heart struggles with the task of pumping. She knows her life isn’t over, but her body is not convinced. Her heart feels broken beyond all repair. Strange she should find herself wondering if ever she will make love again?
The world outside her window looks the same as it always has. The street below has its traffic. Both motorized and pedestrian. The building across from her stands as it always has. She can see the night owls up, pacing in their apartments, talking on phones, watching television. All of them oblivious to her pain, to the mere strain of her continuing existence.
She looks up then, at the full moon. Her tear swollen eyes taking in the sight of the silver/gray orb shining above them. She watches the wisp thin clouds move slowly, gracefully over the face of the moon. A thought briefly occurs to her that she once waltzed on the clouds. In the spectacle of the sight of nature above her she does not feel the cold spike entering her heart that the thought should have driven. No, her eyes are instead tracing the clouds and a small, bitter laugh escapes her soft pink lips. She finds both irony and contempt in the silver lining of the clouds and the midnight rainbow produced by the moon’s rays.
She laughs until she cries. The crying turns into soft sobbing as she lowers herself to her bed. The sobbing subsides and gives way to the even breathing of deep sleep. While no smile touches her lips as she dreams, no tear falls from her eyes.