Sunday, 7 November 2010

Welcome home.

Wow, it has been a while! Procrastination is a skill I am very proficient in. Anyway. This post is not an update, that shall arrive a little later, but a means by which to share a slightly morbid story I came up with in the early hours of the morning and which has no real purpose in life, save winging its way across the interweb into your eyes :) Please share comments if you care to do so, though this isn't really my normal style so much, and do not worry for my safety, it's all in character (as a man, oddly enough). Oh, and writing might be a bit dodgy, I was half asleep.

I looked at the vista below me, mist writhing like a hundred thousand slim grey bodies twisting in death's final throes, and reached with my soul into the empty space where my heart used to be. Nothing, bar the dull, aching emptiness. So I took my final step forward.
There is no point in life without you, so I closed my eyes to picture you before me, lily white arms reaching out and eyes bright with the life you ought to have. I dreamed I was walking toward you in our small kitchen- cosy, you had called it playfully- to kiss you briefly before making you a mug of tea, hot black nettle tea, your favourite. I could see you there, hair so dark most thought it black (I know better), lips pink as rosebuds in the morning, a light blue cotton dress with slender straps and bare legs, bare arms, bare hands and feet and neck and smile.
As I stepped into your embrace I did not feel the warm air of the kitchen as the kettle boiled or the gentle touch of your skin on mine, but I would not open my eyes so you remained before me even as I opened my arms to enfold you in my love and fell forward to appear as though I were flying for only the briefest instance, and it was you as you were, rather than you as you are, all pale flesh and dress and eyes. Not glassy stare and red smashed chest. Not scarlet mouth. Not dead. I defied death as I saw you as you ought to be.
But I could not yet feel you. Your silky smooth hair tickling against the underside of my chin as you curled against me, safe from the world. Death would have both of us, or neither. I refused to look at the ground beneath me, nothing but sky separating me from it and you, and stretched as far as I could toward you.
My fingertips brushed against your petal-soft cheek at last, and then I hit the ground.