Post by behindTHEmask on Dec 8, 2004 16:35:43 GMT -8
Engraved Perfection.
"Let the streams perfect my love."
"Let the streams perfect my love."
This had death written all over it, but it wasn’t death as in I was going to hell—I’d be living in it. No, fire wouldn’t spew up from the ground, and I wouldn’t be walking over hot magma, but they breathed fire when they saw me. Their mouths dropped open, and I could feel the temperature of the room rise. Sweat rolled down my body, though it may not of been because of them. It was probably all a figure of my imagination. I painted those faces so I could have more drama in my life; more excitement. But it seemed so real. Those eyes, I couldn’t make those eyes. Hate is all that could explain them. Red seemed to glow from the iris. They were wide too, open with disapproval. They made me feel fully clothed in a crowd of nude bodies. I was humiliated—more or less, ashamed.
I couldn’t cover myself up. I could hide my way out of this. I struggled, pulling the bed sheet closer and closer to my skin. Shoot me now--literally, shoot me. I can’t make them leave. They’re standing there, still and silent, waiting for me to explain. I have news for them, I’m not explaining. They can look at me all night. They can stare at him for all I care, but if he gets up and leaves; I’m walking out right behind him. I’m eighteen, they can’t threaten me anymore. They can’t use the “you live under my roof” speech on my anymore. I can leave. I will leave. I love him. I’ll do anything for him, anything.
I need something. Something sharp. I want to engrave his love into me. I want to show them he’s the one who created these red lines that never seem to close. The notice they received from the hospital, billing them about my last visit was all him. I did it so he’d know how far I’d go for him. I had to show him. It was my anniversary gift to him--me, with IV’s cleaning my veins, he loved it. He came to my hospital room with flowers. He kissed my forehead and looked me straight in the eyes. “You’re beautiful.” I remember those words. I knew it wasn’t bullshit coming from him, so I made the cuts a bit deeper; ensuring that he’d stay.
I’ll pick him over them, hands down. I don't need to think about it. Right now, I’ll scream it in their faces if it makes them leave. They need to stop staring; it’s been a whole thirty minutes. No one has spoken, and no one has moved. I am barely breathing. I can feel my eyes growing heavier, and heavier. It’s all from lack of air, lack of space—my god damn personal space. Step away from me. Just leave. Obviously they have nothing to say. Then again, they’ve already said enough. Those eyes are still beating on me. Those red eyes are digging into me, deeper than any blade I’ve used. I’ll show them deep. Give me that damn blade. Please, give me my escape.
I feel around the blankets and they look at me confused. What, they want to test me to see if I’ll do it? I will, don’t think I won’t. I’m more daring than they know. My hand lands upon something. It was the Swiss army knife they gave me when I turned seven. Great present for a girl, well, it comes in handy quite often now. I flick it open, staring at them. They take a step forth, and I smile. I can feel his hand running up and down my back. He won’t stop me. He loves me too much to take away something that I adore. I set it on a scar. Wonder how hard it will bleed. Maybe it will soak the sheets. It’s always worth a try. They take another step to me; I apply pressure and drag back.
A thick liquid rises from the open seem. It’s deeper than before, I can feel it. The woman before me cups her hand over her mouth, and puts her head into the shoulder of the man. They doubted me. Well, I showed them. The liquid streams slowly down my arm. It's warm, and thick—beautiful. It stains the sheet, but that doesn't matter. I have what I want. The love of my life, with all the support I will ever need, and the sorrow I provoke from others to thrive on. This is perfect. It is all so perfect.