100 Words #11

August 1, 2002
The straw, from the glass to his mouth, is an umbilical cord, nourishing him, keeping him alive, making him strong, brave. But the drink, his ever-comforting mother, is really full of lies and pumps him full of poison, doing more harm than good. But he clings to it, his lips wrapped tightly around the straw. When the drink is empty, he'll call in a substitute, a wet-nurse, smacking his lips in anticipation. There's symbolism in a cut umbilical cord, and once cut, it should remain that way. But some people just travel from cord to cord, from addiction to addiction.

August 2, 2002
"Envy is one of the seven deadly sins, you know." He stood at the window gazing upwards. I stood behind him and put my arms around his waist and kissed between his shoulder blades. Up close, the scars on his back were even more horrific. This hadn't been a simple cut and removal; his skin had been torn, mutilated. I kissed his scars. His skin rippled as a chill ran down his spine.

"Punishment in Hell for jealousy is to spend eternity in freezing water and here I hate birds for their wings." He said, another chill wracking his body.

August 3, 2002
He turned the postcard over and over in his hands. On the front was a picture of a beautiful sunset over a wide expanse of beach. On the back, in her spidery scrawl, she had written, “I miss you and wish you were here.” He stared at the postmark. Only two days ago. He walked into the living room and watched her as she napped on the couch, her breathing deep and steady. He looked at the postcard again.

“But you haven’t been away.” He murmured.

“It’s the only way I could reach you.” She retorted, not opening her eyes.

August 4, 2002
There’s nothing like stepping outside in the morning and having a wave of heat not only slap you in the face, but pull your hair and give you a wedgie to boot. It’s an insulting kind of heat that sticks its tongue out and thumbs its nose at you as it quickly chases you back inside. But there’s one thing good about this heat. It even keeps the crazies lying low, so the streets are sort of quiet. Abandoned streets, lonely in their emptiness. And everyone has paper cuts from paging through their calendars, counting the days until winter’s return.

August 5, 2002
Migraine. In pain. A thousand suns have exploded behind closed eyes. But that's nothing compared to what happens when the eyes are open. Its pain so exquisitely formed it's almost a piece of art. I rest my head on my softest pillow but it might as well be a sack of gravel for all the comfort it gives me. I slip the Maxalt onto my tongue and as it dissolves, count, each second another little death, another exploding sun. One... two... three... two thousand four hundred and twelve... grayness is edging in... suns flare, but don't explode... things... fade... away...

August 6, 2002
She's the queen of Hide and Seek. She always found the best places to hide, the highest, thinnest tree branch, the smallest, darkest niche. Sometimes you would almost swear she was rubber, the way she was able to bend and twist her body to fit into impossible locations. Too many games were called off on account of no one being able to find her. To all the other children, Hide and Seek was a game, a spot of fun. To her, it was a way of life. She's still playing this game, but it's no longer her body she hides.

August 7, 2002
"I'm tired of your masks." But he sounded resigned when he said it, so she knew he didn't expect her to change.

"Masks? What masks?" She still feigned innocence.

"But maybe they're all you have." He shrugged. "And maybe if you tried to take them off you would just find one mask after another, until there was nothing left at all."

"Oh, but you're silly. Silly, silly boy, why say such silly things?" She laughed gaily, but a new wariness had entered her eyes.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. No one can be completely made up of masks, can they?"

August 8, 2002
So he's average. And he's never going to appear on the cover of GQ. Society would even call him a little geeky. But look closer. Look at how his eyelashes lay against his cheek when he's sleeping. Look at the soft confusion in his eyes as he first wakes up, and then the mischief in his smile when he reaches over to touch you. And the joy when you touch him back. No, he's not a cultivated rose; he's more like one of those wildflowers people often refer to as weeds. Weeds. I think they're beautiful. And he is too.

August 9, 2002
Do you believe in what goes around, comes around? He’s reaping what he has sown. And now he’s realizing the only thing he planted in his garden is cold, hard stones. Those he should have nurtured have all turned away as his fingers tear and bleed from pulling up these stones.

“Do unto others…” He hollers after their retreating backs, but the wind, sneaky as always, pushes his words the other way. And no one hears. And he’s left there, a lonely man with a pile of rocks, done unto as he had done to them. Fate laughs, karma whiplash.

August 10, 2002
"Bubbles are just like dreams." She said as she watched another batch get caught up in the breeze. "See how easily they break? Gone. But no matter, I can always create more!"

"But not all bubbles break so easily." His bubbles floated in the air for a moment then he reached out and caught one on the tip of his finger. "Not all dreams are lost."

"Ha!" She poked the bubble and it deflated, leaving behind a sticky mess. "Every dream, every bubble can be crushed. And there is always someone out there waiting for the chance to do it!"

August 11, 2002
He hadn't planned on deception. Oh, he knew to be wary of her, she told him that from the start, and any doubt he may have had of her trickery she wiped away with one of her knowing smiles. So he was cautious and guarded, but he still developed little trusts. And she, being the ultimate work of deception she is, sought out these little trusts and shot them down. Betrayed them for the fun of it all.

No, he hadn't planned on deception, but she showed him she was deception through and through. But he hasn't left her yet.

August 12, 2002
“You’re moving too fast.” She said, pushing her hand out as though trying to hold him back.

“But I haven’t moved at all.” He replied, leaning back in his chair and raising an eyebrow.

“It’s your words. There’s motion in them, and the direction they’re taking scares me.” She lowered her hand and the look on her face made him lean forward.

“I don’t know. I think it is a very interesting direction.” He stood up, smiling slightly as her eyes widened and she stepped back. “Now, as for motion…”

“Oh, but you are moving too…” It wasn’t a complaint.

August 13, 2002
Someone years ago didn't want her. And now she lets no one close, she swears she'll never be abandoned again. She'll never sit at the window watching cars drive by in the rain, hoping one will stop and he'll get out and ask "Where have you been, I've been looking for you!" Which he never did.

Years later, someone else wanted her too much. Wanted to control her, wanted no one else to have her. But wanting no one close, she wanted none of that.

The problem with want is that people either want too little, or want too much.

August 14, 2002
“Everything is coming up pickles!” She all but yelled in his ear.

“Don’t you mean roses?” He said, glaring at her as he rubbed at his ear.

“Nah, roses are too clichéd. Besides, I don’t really like them. But pickles… do we have any left?” She ignored his glare and headed for the kitchen.

“You know what your problem is? You have no respect for tradition.” He followed her, opening the pickle jar when she handed it to him.

“Well, you’re no bed of pickles yourself you know.” Before he utter another word, she placed a pickle in his mouth.

August 15, 2002
His words are like burrs, clinging to me long after he's gone. But it’s not the words alone, most of them are genial and vague. The look that passes between us along with the words is what really creates the friction. You take those seemingly innocent words and rub them against these intensely heated gazes, and just watch those wayward sparks begin to fly. But we both know it’s only ever going to be avid stares and words with hidden meanings. We both have way too much to lose, and with friction like we have, we would lose it all.

August 16, 2002
He's locked himself inside himself, and he refuses to come out. He likes the quietness, the cool darkness he finds there. But this self-imposed isolation is corroding his soul, leaving everything in a light coating of rust. One day, after countless days of silence, he tries to speak, but finds his jaw stiff and unwilling, and all that manages to escape is a sound like grinded metal. And for one second, he almost cares, tears almost welling in his eyes. But then he thinks about the soothing stillness he's found inside and shrugs. He never really used his voice anyhow.

August 17, 2002
Wicked thoughts. They come crashing through my head whenever I least expect it, raising my pulse and dilating my eyes. Sometimes it's his words, with their hidden meanings and double edges. Other times it's just an image, his strong hand sliding over mine, him standing so close I have to tilt my head back to see into his eyes, eyes that sparkle with mischief and something else a little bit deeper. Something that sparks more wicked thoughts, and even more wicked deeds. Deeds that will leave him breathless and spent, completely at my mercy but no complaint on his lips.

August 18, 2002
“Nothing’s free. Everything has a price, it’s just sometimes you don’t know what that price is until later.” She emptied her glass and sat it back down on the counter.

“Can I buy you another?” He waited for her nod before motioning to the bartender. “See, now that’s free for you.”

“No, no it isn’t. Now, the rules say I must at least converse with you while I drink this, that’s the rule, and that’s the price. Nothing’s free.”

“Smiles. Surely they’re free.” He tried again.

“Oh no, a smile can cost you more than anything if you’re not careful…”

August 19, 2002
Ah… trust. My elusive lizards playing in the rain. I try and try to hold on to you, but still you slip away. And he’s standing in the wings, waiting for me to trust him. And I do trust him… with the physical. I’ve lain before him bound and helpless, surrendering all control over my body. But not my mind. Never that. There are just some barriers that have to remain in place. I tell him not to feel bad, that he shouldn’t take it so personally, I mean, after all, there’re some things I don’t even trust myself with.

August 20, 2002
He’s creeping again, slowly sneaking along the edges of my life. He creeps just slightly out of view, but secure in the knowledge that I know he’s there. I can feel him, his presence like a chill down my spine, but when I turn to look, he’s crept out of sight. I can hear him, his words, softly whispered, inaudible, just a tickle, a tease. I can smell him, a strangely comforting blend of metal, heat, and something natural, something green. I can taste him, in my imagination because I’ve never tasted him at all. He hasn’t crept close enough.

August 21, 2002
“What have you done?” Her glasses, the lenses cracked, remained on the floor where they had fallen. “Oh my lord, what have you done?”

“I asked him that same question, once, and look at me now.” He said dryly, still cupping her face, his saliva still wet on her eyelids. He released her and she scrambled from the bed, running into the bathroom.

“They used to be brown…” She stared at her silvery-gray eyes in horror.

“Your vision is now perfect. Better than perfect, you will soon see.”

She wanted to weep, but tears refused to fill her strange eyes.

August 22, 2002
He wants to know what makes me so afraid of commitment. He won’t mention it, but he’s afraid I’m always holding out for something better. But it’s really that commitment gives people expectations of you. And if you commit, you’re bound to disappoint. So I’ve spent my whole life avoiding commitment whenever I could. I don’t need expectations. I can’t even live up to the expectations I have of myself, let alone those of other people. And I hate that look of disappointment that fills their faces when I fail once again. Expect nothing of me, and I won’t disappoint.

August 23, 2002
I used to love following paths. Cool and green, they called to me, drawing me away from the crowd to lose myself to their mysteries. They were puzzles I knew I could solve, if I could only find the end. I was half fey, a wild thing, quite willing to abandon the rest of my ilk for wooded bliss. But then I saw too much. I heard too much about what man can do. And I know not all creatures that hunt the woods are kind. So now I walk paths in company, my heart longing for the solitary path.

August 24, 2002
Be thou my good? My oasis in a time of drought? I’ll drink from you, your taste on my lips giving me a purer definition of joy than any dictionary could.

Be thou my evil? Turning to a mirage in a time of desperation? I’ll try to drink from you anyhow, but like dust, you’ll only bring tears to my eyes and make me sneeze.

Be thou a little of both? My oasis in a time of desperation, but has your water been poisoned by those before me? Shall I drink from you and know joy or pain and death?

August 25, 2002
I'm sure you've known someone who's a self-appointed martyr. Someone who sighs over all the sacrifices they've had to make in their lives just to make everyone else happy. But they don't mind it, they exclaim with deep, suffering eyes, after all, everyone was happy, and that's what matters in the long run, right?

And you should be careful. You're sounding more and more like that every day. It's always "look what I did for you, do for you, put up with for you..." and it's a broken record. Sometimes I think martyrs are the most selfish of us all.

August 26, 2002
Communication abrasion. Skills, once so fine and sophisticated, have broken down into name calling and finger-pointing. I wanted to be better than that. I wanted to stay cool and reply calmly, rationally. But I'm an emotional creature, and their heated words fanned the flames of my dangerously flammable temper. Oh, I was able to keep it at a simmer for a little bit, but in the long run, I gave into combustion, and found myself throwing harsh, regrettable words back at them. They say my temper's something to behold, fierce and frightening, scathing, scorching...

This is no way to communicate.

August 27, 2002
Could it be that I am addicted to power? Drawn to it like hungry cats to the sound of an electric can opener? Craving it like a pregnant woman craves fresh watermelon after midnight in the middle of winter? What are you going to do, little girl, when you finally lose control? His words turn cartwheels in my head, leaving me dizzy and confused. And I think to myself, he’s got power. Raw and brutal, intensely beautiful power. And then I am the hungry cat perking up her ears to better hear his intoxicating song. For him, I'll lose control.

August 28, 2002
They say when it rains it pours, but that doesn’t account for the soft drizzle that now falls as we walk these darkened streets. I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror of a passing car and I have to laugh at our oversized black umbrellas, which dwarf us, making us appear and feel like little kids. We see the playground and head for it, each of us claiming a swing, our umbrellas set off to the side. Higher and higher, we swing, our umbrellas forgotten as the rain gently soaks us through. We chant “It’s raining, it’s pouring…”

August 29, 2002
She’s lonely. She finds herself talking to everything in her house, from the toaster to the plant on the sunny windowsill. She doesn’t really expect an answer, but she looks on hopefully all the same. She walks through room after room, and hears the echoes of laughter from years ago, and she wonders where her friends have gone. Maybe, she tells her cup of tea, they were just fair weather friends who ran off chasing the sun when I entered the winter of my life. She waits a second, and when it doesn’t respond, she sighs and takes another sip.

August 30, 2002
"Why are you afraid to fly?" Her question startled me, coming out of the blue the way it did.

"What do you mean? I don't mind flying, I mean, it's a little unnerving when the plane first takes off, but that's it." I answered, wrinkling my forehead in confusion.

"Not that kind of flying. You are so constrained. You hold yourself back from ever letting go. You're an ostrich burying your head in the sand when you should be a falcon soaring high above it all. When are you going to fly?"

"Maybe tomorrow." I said, trying to be funny.

August 31, 2002
With endings come beginnings, that's what they always say. But sometimes endings are just endings, there is nothing after. And this is not always a bad thing. Endings need to happen. Sometimes you just have to say goodbye.

So maybe now I'll say goodbye to you. Sure you can argue that in saying goodbye to you, I am beginning something new, but I'll argue back that it is still an ending of you and me. But you don't want to hear it. Endings scare you so much, you need to cling to the belief of there always being something more.