Between us, I’d love to keep this episode a secret. Most of the time, I’d say it’s even unnecessary. But the Devil is in the details, and the conviction is in the contrast. The reality is that unconditional love is just a concept in my brain. There’s a breaking point for everyone where returning from the damage is no longer achievable. The “Despereaux” effect, as I call it. When the cracks in the heart stretch too far, the fragile casing of one’s love shatters into an unsolvable puzzle. The issue is that everything is so sweet in that cupcake phase in the beginning, and the rose-tinted glasses are so blinding that you just can’t see that damage is already done. Maybe you just don’t choose to see it because every day feels like your birthday, and honestly, who wants anything but happiness on their birthday?… I’ll wait. Exactly: no one.
In this story we’ve been walking through, the candle never went out. The cupcake phase continued indefinitely; there were no bad times, no conflict, and no genuine instability – not that I noticed. But in reality, there was only conflict as I look back on it. Because this candle – regardless of how bright – was lit in true darkness. A void so black you couldn’t see the shattered glass spread across the floor. An abyss so deep I never noticed I could only find one half of the puzzle to her heart; I never noticed that what seemed whole to me only felt that way because I gifted the other half.
When I look back at it, we found each other in the same state of absolute brokenness. However, in that vacuum (despite the laws of physics, reality, or whatever you wish to call it), the candle shone just bright enough to provide the illusion that we were finally whole. It illuminated just enough to hide everything that was still broken. But on this day, the light erupted, and it shed true light throughout the room. It wrestled with the void, showing all the blood flooding the floors and the countless glass fragments swimming through the troughs. And it went out just as we finally had a chance to shine. Looking back at it, as I write this, this is the first time my vision is 20/20.
So let’s start again, from the beginning.
P.S. I Didn’t always hate “Gone Girl,” But as I look back at it, the parallels shine just a little too bright, and I’ve come to enjoy the darkness; it’s familiar. In the night, I’m allowed to hide from it all.
An alarming heartbeat vibrated against my leg. A notification from read: “Can you pick me up? It’s an emergency.”
“What’s wrong?” simply replied, “send the addy.”
“I got in a bit of a wreck coming off the highway; I really just need you here right now.” That was a massive understatement, but I’ll get to that later. A tiny red dot appeared on my screen: only a mile away. Not too far, but I felt obligated to rush to Chris’ side. So I began to twist my wrist between the cusp of my other hand. Completely aloof of the fact that my phone was shining a disturbing, almost violent, luminescence broadcasting every pleading text. I stared blankly at the screen as Amy reached her climax and slit her lovers throat. My hand still twists between the ever-tightening grip of my other. The friction caused a torrid sizzle to sear through my wrist until my clutch, like a vice, finally forced my disorientation to a jarring halt. I really had to go.
Nevertheless, at this moment, Tigs removed her shirt and flung it across the room into the kitchen. It descended gracefully like a priceless rose petal caught in the wind. Swaying elegantly until it arrived delicately atop the faucet, and... I don’t know... she released the voluptuous essence of her bosom or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying her any attention.
“I’m a little ways out. Give me 30 mins,” I replied as a stray hand delicately slid up my arm. While tigs stalked over me
The alarming cadence of my heartbeat rang another message. “Just hurry. Please.”
I could hear the anguish emanating from every letter of her message.
I returned my phone to my pocket and turned to Tigs, failing to conceal the concern and pure (despair) in my eyes. She was bent over as if she were on the prowl, her (sensual description). She touched my chest and purred, “Do I have your attention now?”
I took her hand in mine, holding it firmly as the fluttering beats of my heart, like a butterfly pleading to break free. Relentless Dismal thoughts flooded my mind as my concern grew fervently. Then, finally, I calmly placed Tig’s hand on the sofa and said plainly, “I have to go.” I stood up and walked towards the door with a tense urgency.
I had just reached the kitchen counter when an outburst erupted from her lips, “Wait!” I could hear it through her tremulous voice. The bead of water was beginning to swell. “It’s her, isn’t it?” She inquired with a tone of certainty that made the statement feel like a declaration rather than a question. I turned my head slightly, just enough to make out the vivacious animation of her movements as the well filled to the brim. Swelling in anticipation of the great flood, distraught air began to wheeze from her lungs. “It’s always her!” She exclaimed as the water started to stream down her cheeks with a subtle sway that left waving streaks descending from her now blush cheeks. She grabbed a plate in one hand and wailed: “All you care about is Christina!” Her cries’ aggressive intent began to overwhelm her heart’s dismal nature. “Why? Why her?” She shrieked with a despondent crack as she hurled the plate toward me. I shifted to the side just in time to hear the ghastly whistle of porcelain crescendo into a violent, percussive crack. I sat, hands pressed against the obsidian door panels as she drew a knife from the ebony block on the kitchen counter. She carved through the air maniacally while she rampaged towards me; black streaks of Givenchy mascara mingled with her crystalline tears to make a desolate water painting along her rosy cheeks. She stormed towards me, waving the blade loosely as if anticipating how to paint her walls with my blood. Storming ever closer until she pressed the (details) tip of the blade against my nose, her face mere inches from me. “Choose me! Pick me!” She spat savagely as her anguish consumed her. She paused. The privilege seeped from her soul as she whipped her hair. Confidently recollecting her composure and asserting her zealous dominance. She slid the knife across my nose, weaving it under my eyelids like the contour of her tears. Down my chin, then slowly pressing into my neck just enough for the pressure of the minute indentation to restrict my airways, but being careful not to pierce the skin. She glided the blade down my throat until it reached the outer containment of my heart. Then, with a gentle tap of her cold steel, she inquired with a delicate plea: “What? am I not good enough?” I continued to sit silently, my mind drifting to the darkest possibilities of 5’s situation. “Me?” She scoffed, absolutely offended by the notion. “I should be the one. NUMBER 1” She dragged her words as if talking to an imbecile. With every vowel, she tapped against my chest, becoming more violent with every beat. “Not her! But maybe I should gather up all my little friends and beat you like a fucking piñata? “Her questions, like a tyrant, dragged me out of the concerned daze and tossed me into an alerted twitch of my nose, creasing the bottom lid of my right eye.
“wait, what?” I mumbled darkly, slowly clearing the fog from my mind and adjusting to the chaos around me.
“Right? I should be like her?” She screamed with so much force and anguish that her words simply crumbled under the sheer volume of her emotion. However, the look in my eyes had now changed from the previous blank worry, and the simple lowering of my lids was enough to procure an ominous gleam. She drew back, preparing to punch through my shell. But as she thrust forward, my curdling blood compelled me to reach for the blade. Constraining the bitter steel between my flesh as it slid to a halt. An ominous draft rushed throughout the room as I stared into her eyes: agitated, somber. I slapped my left hand against her lips, my right still squeezing the blade.
“I don’t think you heard me.” I said with a deep baritone stillness. I attempted to restrain my anger. Meanwhile, two minuscule dots began to flutter through my view like flustered embers dancing in the wind. Suddenly the room started to seep a scorching draft. In response, My face tingled uncomfortably as my pores melted open, preparing the lava to drip from my brow and sear through my eyes. The heat, in turn, blinded me. “What did you say about Chris?” I strained. Laboring to constrain the rabid roar I craved to release beneath a solemn cadence of composure. The embers multiplied, Grew keenly, consuming the ornate dreamscape of my vision until all I could see was a translucent veil of ravenous flames. “Say it!” I clamored as if my hand was not still firmly clenched across her lips.
I pushed her against towards island. Ripping the blade from her yielding hand. My sight was nothing more than a flashing hot aurora of red and orange. I tore the knife from her hands and lashed her across the kitchen. An alluring smile slithered across her right cheek as she flew across the porcelain floor. A soft moan escaped her lips as her back smacked against the marble counter, forcing her back to catapult into an arch. She held the edge of the counter to gain her balance. All the while allowing her gaze to trace down my exterior, a tigress inspecting her next meal. She licked her plush red lips as her glean stalked back to mine. I walked towards her, eyes seething as our eyes locked, anticipating our ferocious tango. I glide the back of my hand under the sleek contours of her cheekbone and over her velvety lips. They felt cold, like fresh winter snow: still soft like the clouds they gracefully fell from. But even still, my thumb’s slightest pressure elicited a crystalline moan. Her ivories were exposed as I pinned her bottom lip between my digit; my others pressed against her profile.
It was a tumultuously silent conversation we had. Simply: staring. Like a foreboding drive home after a school altercation. The air was tense like a frosted rope, stretched strenuously between the minute expanse between us. A thin lace splintering amidst the spine-chilling silence as it heaved to pull us together. I gave in, drawing closer to her satin-red lips, releasing the tension. At the same time, the hot embrace of our breath melted the chilling atmosphere. Still looking into her emerald eyes, excavating the depths of her soul for the pristine passions of her mind. But as I drew closer, the red aurora of my vision intensified. The inferno ravaged to outshine the enticing sparkle of her essence. It scorched through her luxuriously faux impression and cleared all obscurities from my thought. The situation was now translucent as I glared through my irate lens: she woke up and chose violence. And, frankly, she had to be punished—
Impassioned, I furiously turned her head away. A dominant demand for her to turn around. She obliged. I picked up a candle with my left hand and held it over her back. Next, I reached into the sink for an ice cube with my right while I let droplets of wax drip, drip, drip down the outline of her spine.
Until her sweet nectar dripped down her inner thigh. I pushed myself away, wrapping her shirt around my hand; now drenched in the crimson ink that wept profusely from its creases. There was no time to comprehend everything said as the dam that once repressed the hazy memories of the past suddenly burst open. I was flooded with emotions of rage, fear, betrayal -- raw anguish. But there was no time to process as I turned the ignition and sped to the crash site.
I’ve said it before.
Two primal questions ran through my mind as I raced to the exit. “What were you thinking?” And “how are you feeling?” What could make someone so seemingly pure do something so maniacal? So conniving? So contorted?
But as I look back, they were both dumb questions. There was only one correct question in this situation:
“what had we done to each other?”
Yeah, we get it. What I Failed to mention is how fragile my convictions were. How easily I reverted to my primal urges. No matter how great things could have been, My fight or flight was hardwired to tell me I couldn’t fight the darkness. Because who in their right mind bites the hand that feeds them? What’s genuinely ironic: I’ve never been in my right mind. But for some reason, when it came to this, I regressed to my logical thinking. I retreated into the darkness.