| Grave by Elizabeth Coleman | ||
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The first thing I noticed was the
sweet smells from the garden. I was walking barefoot along the dirt
path, feeling the dirt between my toes. Then, I reached out with my
hand, dressed in a white satin glove, to cradle a bloom as I leaded
over to more fully take in the scent. Another hand reached down to cradle my face, just as my hand cradled the flower. The dark hand gently guided my face up, and I obediently stood and turned to face his dark figure. He leaned in and caressed my lips with his in a delicate embrace. RED. I felt the blade break through the flesh of my womb. My feet stumbled over each other as I fell backwards onto the earth, my hand quickly reached to feel the reality of the wound. I looked at my hand, eyes wide with horror and pain, saw it covered in bright red blood. Clumsily, I pulled myself back to my feet, staring at Carl the whole time. We stood, eyes locked, neither willing to be the first to move, my weak and pained form paralleled by his strong and sturdy figure. Time seemed to stand still as I looked into his eyes, realizing what he meant to do. I knew I couldn't win, but I knew I was going to try. Spinning on my right foot, I turned to run for any kind of salvation my feet could take me to. The dirt turned to grass, and the sky turned dark as the sun set. I could feel my muscles burn as my legs pulled me further and faster from the creator of my pain. Suddenly, my journey ended. Looking behind me, to see if I was being followed, I didn't see the tombstone along the edge of the cemetery I feel the stone's absolute presence collide with my already wounded stomach as I flip over landing on my back, head towards the stone. I roll over to my right to look upon the rock and read its inscription. Sydney O'Hara
1999-2003 Beloved Daughter "The dead cannot cry out for justice; it is a duty of the living to do so for them." -Lois McMaster Bujold A tear fell down my face as I reached out to feel the words carved in the stone. Sharply, I looked up, seeing Carl standing behind the grave, looking at me with a cool indifference. I pushed myself up and started to stumble back, preparing myself for another run. But I didn't run. Had I turned just a step sooner, I would have seen the huge open grave behind me. Falling. I fell for what seemed like eternity, but finally landed at the bottom. I stood, trying to pull or claw my way out of the dirt, but a hand reached out from the dirt and pulled me down to my back. I screamed for help, but I knew no one would come to save me. More hands reached for my body, all holding me down. I screamed for them to stop, I begged for forgiveness, I moaned for salvation. The only person who heard my screams was the one who began to fill my grave with fresh soil. Carl shoveled pile after pile into my grave, muffling the sounds of screaming to a muddled garble. Once finished, he throws the shovel on the ground, looks at the new tombstone, and smiles. Mystique
1985-2005 "Honi Soit Qui Mal Pense." |
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| Copyright © 2005 Elizabeth Coleman |