Sunday, April 7, 2013

It Was Love That Killed Her

It was love that killed her. Love that shoved her head underwater and held it there until her lungs held no more air and they gave up on her and she died. Love was what she last saw and it was the sound ringing in her ears, the bitter taste on her tongue and it was what filled every single bubble that escaped her lips. But it was still love, and that was beautiful.

They had met on the subway, where he was reading a newspaper and she was staring at the ceiling. Or maybe at the beach where she was sleeping and tanning in a purple bikini all alone on a beach blanket which seemed big enough to hold both her body and her soul with the sun turned up too high. Or maybe in the park, where she was sleeping on a bench. No, no, she wasn’t sleeping. She was resting. She was awake, keen to everything around her and sensing how every bit of the world was rotating around the sun at that very moment. But her eyes were closed and that is what made people think she was asleep. He had sat next to her, or she had opened her eyes at the precise moment that she may call out and say hello, introduce herself and fall in love. Ahaha, love. Had she known what would befall her, maybe she would have kept her eyes sealed shut. No, of course not. If she had known, she would have practically flown to him. Maybe she did fly to him. Fly into his heart and melt into him, seep into his veins and become the very blood that pounded through his heart. She was hot. Sizzling like asphalt on a summer day. Air bent around her with the heat of her body, or maybe with her presence. Maybe her just being there was already messing with reality. It was possible.

No, no, no I take it back. She was not hot. She was gorgeous. Beautiful. Pretty. So, so pretty. And lovely. But she was not hot. She was fragile. But there was nothing like her. And that is why, precisely why in fact, no one remembers what she looks like. We remember someone so hauntingly perfect looking that we forget who she was. I suppose she had a nose and a mouth and two eyes that looked at things, but for the life of me I cannot describe them in any way. I cannot say whether her hair was long and wavy or short like a boy’s or bright and red like fire and really that type of hair is hard to forget, but I can’t even remember any trace of it if it had been hers. Only to say that, like Italian cooking, they all mixed together to make something so horrible perfect that you wanted to die just so nothing bad could ever spoil the memory. She hated Italian food.

They would lie in bed and hold each other.

They would sit on the floor and fight.

They would huddle in clubs and do lines.

They would never talk or they would have inside jokes or they were communicating on the frequency reserved only for lovers. It was impersonal. Or it was so romantic that they were practically eating each others souls.

The boy was a boy. He was sweet. He was nice. He was a boy. There is never much to boys. They are what they are and any time they try to deviate from the norm, well, then they are no longer boys. They become friends. They become the end of jokes told at parties thrown by normal people. And the boy we are talking about now is anything but that. He was nice. He was sweet. He was just a boy who was born at the right time.

But he made her laugh. Everything made her laugh and that is what he liked about her. She liked that he thought he was the one making her smile. And that was the glue which kept them together.

They had fallen in love, as in truly in love to the point where no matter how many miles were stretched between them they would still be holding hands, under a bridge. No, not under a bridge that is so stupid. At the top of the tallest building in the city. Yes, yes, it was there. They were looking at all the people below and they realized that they hated every single one of them. And it was breathtaking love. Love that, if not so pure as theirs was, so pure that even the finest crystal meth in the world looked dirty and cheap in comparison, would inspire one to catapult off of rooftops. But then he left. And a metal bar came crashing through her chest, leaving her with a wound the shape of a heart where hers should be and no way to breathe. He had traveled to the city of The Next Life on a bus that picked him up with its windshield and he had left her with the Shattered Remains of a Life and a Dead Love.

He had done it on purpose. He had done it on purpose. He had left her on purpose.

And so she went looking for him. She went and looked all over the land, searching under every rock and behind every tree just so she could get mad at him. She searched in suburban neighborhoods, the occupants of which were doomed to live in their boring loops of lives anyway so it didn’t matter, and on top of skyscrapers. She screamed his name as she cried. She screamed his name. She screamed.

And then, as all land showed no love, no trace of him even, not even a bit, she resorted to her second plan. She would search the ocean. Search until he was found.

a silly little story i wrote back in senior year of highschool. it's posted on the sci-wing's website here.

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