a prose; part one

it’s 12:34.

I was trying to get off half an hour ago, on my own accord. And now I’m having a whole different kind of release, although this one isn’t welcome. This one wasn’t my decision.

You pushed me to the opposite side of the edge than the one I was aiming for,

and now I’m hanging, out here for no reason.

Why did you bring me here? I didn’t ask for a fucking vacation. What it more closely resembles is a hostage situation, you picked me up in a shiny red convertible with a Tommy Bahama shirt and for a second I was enticed by the bizarre demeanour. Enticed enough to get in the car only to notice that I didn’t feel the wind in my hair as we sped away from my sanity. I didn’t feel the warm leather interior burning my skin, or, dare I expect it, the feeling of your palm against any part of mine. I felt nothing.

I looked to you, for anything. A fool for the thousandth time. Any emotion, holding my breath waiting for one single order, any order.

Open your mind, you said.

And at that, a tear that would have normally done it’s job had called in sick and I realized, I had nothing. Nothing to give you. Plenty to give others, but nothing for you. What a horrible time to have this long awaited epiphany, I refused.

So I decided to punish the morning glutton, by starving the evening widow. It wouldn’t be the first time, but perhaps the last for you. I took something that belonged to someone else and declared it yours, in calligraphy ink. In a rushed tone, spitting words that didn’t expect to leave my mouth, adding twists and turns at every uninterested furrow etched in your brow. Doing everything I could to give you the wrong answer to whatever it was this seemingly biblical question represented.

Because you asked.

And sullenly, you took.

And I waited.

You held what I had borrowed in your hand, tangible to only you now, and cast it away as we made an incline in our journey. I could have sworn I heard a stifled bark of laugher, similar to a blight mutt. Your rot was showing, it was spreading.

Singular words followed, an accompanying infection of sorts. It coursed through whatever was left of me. I felt beaten, bloodied— but didn’t sustain a single bruise.

Is this what you wanted me to feel? Nothing I was capable of procuring on my own, but your own personal brand of sludge, now trudging through my veins? For a moment, I had pity. But quickly remembered that we’d become the same.

In some sick last ditch attempt to contradict and delude any of my remaining original emotion, I heaved last of myself pathetically toward you. No grace, no eloquence, just unfounded trust that there was a reason. Some sort of formidable end to this joyride.

What now?

The words betrayed me.

I’d always been told I was entirely too trusting of those who were absolutely undeserving.

The car stopped. You opened my door, and I smiled. I fucking smiled because finally, I thought, I did enough to warrant a favourable response.

You. Gestured for me to exit. Not suggesting, not telling. Gesturing. And I thought I knew you well.

And then you left.

One thought on “a prose; part one

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