The Spider’s Web

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The alarm goes off, piercing through the cold December morning. It is still dark – all the stars seem to have died. A tangible darkness, like a shroud. Like my shroud. I’d felt at peace while asleep; the alarm changed that, allowing the darkness to sit on my chest like an incubus paralyzing me.

It sings a pleasant tune – more a lullaby than an alarm. In its pleasantness, I sense an evil. A smile that holds knives at the ready. A smile that will slit your throat even as you smile back. Yet it won’t stop ringing.

I grope at the darkness and find a drawer whose steel handle is like ice. I’m about to shove the alarm in, when I find the things I’d lost. Things I thought I’d lost. A long time ago. And among them, a mirror with a golden frame shimmers through the darkness, inviting me to look.

I do and I see again the ugliness I’d forgotten, a resignation, a despair, all woven in. I throw the mirror in after the alarm, and a brief flash shows it to me – shows me the spider’s web in the corner.

I collect my resignation, I collect my despair, and I walk towards the web. I bite my thumb to draw blood. I spit out chunks of skin, erasing off the prints of my fingers. My swollen eyelids burst in pain. And I get the spider’s attention.

My knees tremble for I know it’s the end. Yet I keep walking, one foot after another, on a single silken thread. I see it rise from slumber, its drool spilling, my ugliness mirrored in its ugly eyes. It smiles and reminds me of my alarm clock, the clock that started this mess. I feel no desire to turn back. I walk, I surrender, I’m consumed whole. Then there is nothing but darkness. All the stars seem to have died.


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Don’t Stop Speaking

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Don’t stop speaking.

You have a way of peering into me, as if your gaze does not merely cross the pretend barrier my glasses have built, but also sees right through me. It scares me every time you stop speaking that you’ve seen something that displeases you. That you’ve finally seen through a lie, a facade, something whose existence I can’t verify, nor truly deny. Or that you’ve seen me for who I really am, and I don’t know if that’s someone worthy of you.

When you stop speaking, I’m afraid a day may come when we have nothing left to say. And then you will walk away. It does not seem like something I can easily take. And so selfishly, I protect my own self, I guard against an ache.

In the silent hours of the night, I wonder what you dream of, and I wonder if you will tell me when you wake. I watch the way you breathe, rest a finger on the rise and fall of your chest, feel your heartbeat under the whorls at the tip. Do you ever wake up and watch me sleep?

Hold my hand before you leave, to reassure me. The sun rises and you leave my side, taking with you, your words, your touch, the sound of your footsteps. My thoughts trouble me, asking me where you spend your time, or if there is mischief that you hide. My heart refuses to believe it, but I wish you’d never stop speaking. Never leave me in this prison of solitude.

Tell me the big things, and the small. Tell me what you fear and what you crave. Tell me about food, or crack jokes, crass and crude. Your voice, silken, a work of art I cannot get enough of. Do not deny me this pleasure, for there are few things I want as much. I want this without missing a pause, for if someday we run out of things to say, it is the memory of your voice that’ll sustain me – a part of history binding us in its vibrations, returning to the present like a long lost echo.


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A Letter To Your Restraint, From Mine…

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Have you never noticed this living, breathing, heavy space between us? It tastes like metal, it tastes like a cage, but on the tip of my tongue, it tastes like desire. It is explosive, and every time I exhale, I push it farther, willing it to expand, to try and extinguish the flame. Because I see you do the same.

Conversations tilt, as your breathing alters – each word measured, each tone enslaved in reins. The language we use, I long for it to be coarse. I long for us, for you, to tear away these drapes of grace, of propriety. A wildness lurks in the corners of your speech, that sometimes escapes, in the way you smile, in the scent of oceans that you wear. I long for that wildness to be the norm.

And I want you to be with your hands and mouth what I want you to be with your language.

Do you not see how we embrace, yet fear touch? Do you not see the air come alive to burn us, every time our fingers come too close? Do you not feel the electricity – it’s white hot. Flowing lava would seem a meek river finding its way to the sea.

Restraint does not come easy to me. I have only learned to give in, and I have only learned to take. Being in close quarters with you is a test of my endurance. It nudges me to break the rules that keep us apart, this illusion of a false morality.

Is this a tale of torment? If not you, then who is to answer?

Do not tell me I’m blind; your eyes pine, and I see the thirst in your fingers. I see my heart forgetting its discipline, and my mind’s muddled with thoughts – thoughts of the lines and curves that form your lips, that I’m sure taste like cinnamon.

Tell me what is it that you fear, even though I already know. Are you afraid of losing yourself? Do you worry you can never come back from this, once you cross that invisible line? Tell me again, and make it real, so I keep these desires in cuffs and chains.


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Arriving Somewhere, But Not Here | #AtoZChallenge

I don’t go to that side of town anymore, where you used to live. Even the thought of it haunts me, the once-familiar geography tortures me even in memory. The neighborhood is filled with ghosts waiting to devour me. The lake that you could see from your terrace has a specter looming over it. The park nearby is filled with vampire children.

I’m so afraid I’ll run into you. But I’ll be disappointed if I don’t.

Someday maybe I’ll visit, though I already know you live somewhere else now. Someday, after these ghosts have been laid to rest.

 


Hi everyone! I’m working on a minimalist fiction project for this year’s #AtoZChallenge. The story will be shared in snippets, and the events occur non-sequentially. It is for the reader to interpret and form the “whole”. You can read all the posts here. Join me, and do share links to your AtoZ posts as well!

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Unsent Letters

He walked up to me, wheeling two large suitcases, and asked if the seat next to me was taken. I said it was not. He was new to the city. Originally from your hometown – something I’d guessed even before he said it. His mannerisms were so much like yours. He was right out of college, optimistic and wildly enthusiastic, bubbling with newfound energy. It reminded me of us at that age, when we were still together.

I saw you a few months ago at the mall. The same day that you saw me – yes, I caught you turning away just as I looked up. There was indecision in your face; I’m sure it was mirrored in mine – do we speak? Do we smile? Or do we ignore? Do we pretend to forget?

A few aisles across, in the aisle for baby products to be exact, your wife was examining something on display. She was with a woman with a broken nose. Your mother. The frail short woman with the broken nose and kind voice. Am I still the only one who knows that story? Or did you tell your wife about it?

I noticed your hairline was receding, and there was a bit of grey. I wondered what you noticed when you saw me – the newly formed double chin or the lines that were beginning to show?

The chatty boy next to me was right out of college. And I ask myself, has it been that long? It seems like yesterday; it also seems like forever ago.

 

 


Note: This week a lot of us are talking about the upcoming A to Z challenge. Unsent Letters was the theme I had decided on at first before switching to my currently untitled minimalist fiction project. I didn’t want this chapter to go waste, so sharing it today 🙂

Of Regrets In Love

You remember being young and reckless, never hurt, never believing you ever would be. You remember shouting out to summer winds and winter blizzards about having lived a life with no regrets. You know now that you were wrong. That you are only now learning what regrets truly are. And you’re learning what regrets are not.

You learn regret isn’t that pang caused by unannounced flashbacks to those one night stands that drenched you fibre by fibre in shame and guilt. They peel off.

Regret isn’t that one-sided love affair you, when you built a sculpture of someone who did not exist, except in your imagination. You put the sculpture on a pedestal so high that the sun hurt your eyes when you looked at it. Regret isn’t loving that someone. It isn’t not telling them how you feel. It isn’t telling them either.

Regret isn’t a missed chance – two people in love with each other on either ends of a timeline.

Regret isn’t being with the wrong person. There are no regrets in lessons you learn, no matter how long it took.

Regret isn’t even sleeping next to the one person in this world who makes you feel the loneliest every single night, even when their breathing patterns are as familiar to you as your own…

Regret is having to make yourself forget the world exists, day by day, second by grating second.

Regret is having to listen to the loudest music, so you can’t hear the pain of your bleeding heart.

Regret is getting a whiff of a familiar fragrance, and having to shut your eyes against the tears that threaten to spill.

Regret is burying yourself in a pile of books, just so you could shut reality out, live in a warm world of fantasy, where the dragons are real within the pages, and outside is something that momentarily stops being.

Regret is forcing yourself to think of the worst memories you had with that one person you miss every day, because sometimes happier memories threaten to appear like shooting stars across your dark thoughtscape. You cannot let that happen. You think. All the time. Even when you’re talking to people, you’re immersed. Elsewhere. Constantly thinking. You lose yourself in your own thoughts, because the din of the real world keeps rising like a tide, and you would do everything in your power to keep it down. You think, so that you don’t have to think.

Regret is wearing the truth like skin, that you had everything you wanted, but you chose to be a coward. That’s the skin does not shed. Like the cells that never regenerate. Truth, stuck to you like a migraine-causing odour.

Regret is knowing that happiness comes in small black boxes, like surprises that you least expect. And once you foolishly let go, it’s gone.

Circled In My Mind

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Today. It’s a date  that’s circled on the calendar in my mind.  One that I keep circled only because I forget to erase it.

 

Now I begin to think

I remember when I first asked you. The first time I circled it. The marker seemed eager, but my hands shook, with the weight of my expectations and the fear of it – what if I marked it but never got to celebrate with you.

The year after that, the marker was just as eager, and my hands proud. The red circle around was firm, and I had even drawn hearts around it, a symbol of the one I loved most. I’d planned something grand. I had all my gifts ready, and the cake baked. All I wanted now was to see the look on your face.

The year after that, I knew our love remained. But it was a mere shadow upon which we kept piling up all our hopes. The red circle was still around the date, but I felt the hearts around were fake. Just like my smile. And the loveless cake I baked.

The year after that was one of expensive gifts. I couldn’t love you, and neither did you. But fearful of confrontation, we kept our pretensions up.  The circle remained, the hearts were gone. The shadow seemed longer and dying; by clutches somehow still surviving.

And I’m here now, and you’re elsewhere. I see you’re happy, and I couldn’t be more glad – from the bottom of my heart. But the circle on the date in my mind throbs like a migraine. Reminding me how this is the first year we are spending apart. Old habits die hard. Someday I’ll erase that circle, and it’ll be free to go where the hearts went. But not this year. And until then, the shadow that still exists like a dying flame will wish you on your birthday.