imagry

The Prison Cell

The skies had quickly become overcast, more quickly than I could have imagined possible. The stars that had burned so brightly, the crescent moon that illuminated the city streets, had all but blinked out, plunging the world into a sudden, impenetrable darkness that the street lamps fought valiantly to overcome.
It was when I was walking through the deserted streets, eyes cast warily to the skies, that I heard it. A jolting bang, a shortened scream. Footsteps rapidly disappearing into the night.
I found her on the corner of seventh and 12th avenue, staring up at the hidden heavens. Serene, quiet, and utterly broken. My hands worked faster than my brain, but I could hardly stem the outpour of blood flowing without precedence from her stomach to the sidewalk. Before I knew what I had gotten myself into, her head was cradled ever so delicately in my lap and my hands aiding hers in pressurizing the wound. It felt like I was walking through a dream.
In the darkness, she looked at me at last. And strangely, smiled—I could not bring myself to smile back.
“It’s you,” she said.
“Yes,” I replied in my trance.

We had never met.
Her frail fingers trailed up my jawline. She laughed, a rasping and gasping laugh riddling with pain and laced with coughing that pushed blood from her lungs to her mouth to her lips.

“You have eyes so deep I feel myself drowning in them,” she said quietly.
I couldn’t reply. My mind grasped at every word in that sentenced.
“The last man I met with eyes like yours, I fell in love with.”
And she laughed again as she painted the cement crimson.
“Don’t worry. Paramedics are coming. You’ll be okay.”
“Your voice is so deep. It’s like a drum, has anyone ever told you that? It just resonates in my chest. Can you sing to me?”
Despite myself, my cheeks flushed. “I can’t really sing. I don’t know any songs.”
Instead of replying, she shuddered in her agony. When her eyes closed, I thought I had lost her. But she opened them again, and swallowing blood stared up at me once more. Her fingers grasped in their frailty at my toque, pulling it from my head. Pre-winter air bit at my ears as one finger curled my hair for a moment before dropping to her chest. She smiled easily, happily, sighing in admiration.
“I see why you’re here now. You’ve come to take me away. Back to God.”
My heart then broke, and I watched her smile one more time before the light left her eyes a clear, unseeing ice blue and her neck lost its strength.
I let myself sit there with her, feeling her body go cold, for a long time, feeling emotion after emotion after intense emotion wash over me in a fictitious warmth I knew did not exist.

The needed someone to blame. I had not a motive, nor a weapon, or any means to speak of. All I had was a heart too big not to care. But he couldn’t be found, nor could the curséd pistol that robbed that girl of her life.
And so that’s how I ended up here, in a prison cell, with tally marks and cold, ice eyes as the only art to decorate my barren walls.
Waiting.

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Juxtaposition

He was the definition of juxtaposition. This whole time, he has been both the LORD and The Adversary, the lamb and the serpent. He fought so hard to save me, a mislead child, and raise me to my salvation and a place with his Heavenly Host, all the while damning me to an eternity of fire and suffering. Give and take, give and take. He was an unmerciful God and a merciful demon, all at once, and with one clawed hand he took hold of my heart as another hand, soft and loving, caressed my face with gentle care. While one thumb traced my cheekbone with all the attention of a lover, those malicious claws ripped my forsaken heart from my very chest and squeezed with all the hate of a wronged brother. My blood dripped from between those unearthly fingers as his lips tasted mine.
My salvation.
Just as soon as he now owned what he thought his, he let me go and stole my pathetic, half-beating heart to add to an ever-growing collection. His hands would touch me, one hand burning and scratching and the other cooling and soft as water. His teeth bit into my flesh to taste my blood, and only once he had learned to memorize every valley and every mountain of my body and my mind did that angel leave me. Free falling through a cutting, icy wind he left me, and went along his merry way as I floundered to my demise. He had not even the good nature to sew to my back wings of tar and feathers.
My body hit the ground, but I felt no pain. I was a hollow shell, a hallowed hall, that no longer housed a holy spirit he could attain.
And so this is what I have become–a monster, an unholy being with his name carved into my flesh. One moment I am a calming breeze, and the next I am a raging storm. I love and I hate. I hurt and I don’t. I fall and I fly.
I walk by all the places he is said to be seen every day. I want to force him to see, force him to look at what he has turned me into–a shade, a phantom dark as night and sleek as smoke he cannot touch. An empty temple of a long-forgotten deity, standing piteously lonely and full of vengeful natures, full up of songs and hymns that speak his name in words unknown to him. And he does–that demon, he hurts, but not so much as I. Somewhere, in his care, my faint heart still beats at a distance from me, long since forgotten on a shelf in his mind. He has filled it with pins, ripped it into pieces with his hands, made it a play-thing he may have once found amusement in.
But the monster that came to live under his bed would like to have it back, to cram back into her ragged chest that she may breath again, and become the very thing he fears the most. For it is her turn to conquer him.