MicroHorror

Blood was dripping, splattering violently while I walked. My own arm was crying the ruby rivers of my clumsiness and I wanted to believe I failed of my own free will, but it was a lie. I was nearly defeated. In retreat, I obsessed about the details as I often do. The directionality of my drops would surely tell the tale of my slowing and the abuse I’d taken to defend myself.

There was no escape from the evil. Another attack and I’d temporarily lost the ability to even breathe. Cold bloody hands closed in on my neck and violent convulsions tried repetitively to snap and suffocate, but my strength connected. My fist wore a reward of teeth through my bruising fingers, but escape was again a possibility. Hurriedly, I took a hold of a shirt and wrapped it around my bleeding arm, only to be tripped and beaten on the ground again.

She was vicious, a complete psychopath that should never have existed. Every direction I went she’d known, and every attempt to survive, she’d stunted. It was almost as if there was no life without suffering, and there’d be no suffering without living. I was trapped. Stalemate. “Enough!” I screamed to the evil. Wicked red eyes glowed in horror. “I’ll be late for work; I don’t have time for this shit!”

As routine called, my eyes returned to brown, my shirt wiped, sloppily, the remains of my raining blood. My arm was treated, nearly unnoticeable and my ego was forever damaged again, the daily self-destruction of a true psychopath. The evil voice erupted. “There will be more.”

“Of course,” I spoke in confidence. “It’s not over until we both fall forever.”

Today she held me to near blackness. She will kill me someday, and I know this. When it happens and the directionality tells you I tried, and the splatter implies that I failed, there will be only the stories that tell you that homicide of one’s self isn’t always suicide. In the mind of those that cohabit with the damned, there isn’t room for segregation. As a whole we succeed and when we fail, essentially, we all fail together.

The object of my attention, he’s beautiful.  
 
The target of my sights, he’s unaware of this beauty.  
 
In turn he rolls his way through an unplanned and inevitable routine, and I watch in the shadows of my mind, hoping and wishing that reality would wave another color and sleep for just a moment.  
 
My hands would be ready.  
 
My speech would be perfect.  
 
I’d approach the subtle perfections of his chest and massage them openly with my confidence, brush his long blond hair with my hand and inform him of his magnificence.  
 
He’d love me.  
 
He’d adore me.  
 
He would forever take me in, accept me as I am and reciprocate the ways in which he matters, taunting me forever in the vaults of my mind. In the perfect harmony of trust, my pet would grant me the gift of holding him without fear.  
 
My victory unspoken.  
 
My victory melancholy.  
 
Reality pipes his commanding views in front of me  
 
Reality is a mockery of something that could have been great.  
 
He’s so sexy, it’s unbearable.  
 
He’s so amazing, I can’t stand it.  
 
My hands shake, control threatens to leave me.  
 
My hands calm and again I watch him stumble, alone, sad, and awake only in the context of insatiable desires. I want him; to crawl deep into his brain and bleed with him for all the ways he should never feel this rejection that I do.  
 
My heart aches, but alone I stand outside.  
 
My heart aches, but I can never hold him.  
 
He’s my victory, the part of my day that completes the screams and shrieks of this lonely life.  
 
He’s my distraction, the modest reality show unrehearsed and vibrantly calm.  
 
I’m his nothing, and forever I’ll only exist the outside longing to touch him.  
 
I’m his stalker, and he’ll never understand the pain of knowing that can never change.  
 
In the end, I return to my small palace of consistent failure but dreams of him do pour.  
 
In the end, my hands still shake but the memories endure.  
 
The perfect lines of his face tattooed into my head; the waves of golden welcome, and the eyes of total comfort.  
 
His loneliness, it haunts me until he hunts again.  
 
His loneliness is power, and I watch him in addiction long after I’ve left his window.  
 
And like before, his girls they bleed so quickly on my blade. Never substantial for such perfection, they die so sadly unaware of these consequences, unaware that such beauty should be rewarded and never to be taken advantage of.  
 
My heart trembles, I slide my hand across my table.  
 
My heart aches for all those things we’ll never be together.  
 
Silver shines and precisely I begin my art. I wrap her arms in reddened cellophane to symbolize the romance. Her fingers shine in shades of glowing red, but those fingers were never adequate- couldn’t take the swollen strands of his hair and hold them with adoration. This hand was never pressed against his cheek, declaring his spectacular lines.  
 
A red ribbon seals the evil. I wrap the silk around this tale.  
 
A red tear drops from my eyes. A seven-pound arm mocks me with her history, touch I’ll never feel. My jealousy demands, but calmly I place the limb on my grandfather’s sturdy desk, aside the collection. Other parts, different colors of history, different colors of strategic cellophane–the presentation is glorious. A useless girlfriend in life becomes a vibrant bouquet in death. Leftover is no part, no love and no remorse. Just the single strap of red.  
 
A red ribbon is weaved into my hair, a bow around my tired ponytail.