He sat naked in the rocking chair, swallowed by the dark room around him. The door was closed. The three windows, wide open. Cold wind whistled in, brushing his bare skin, making the thin white curtains billow like ghostly hands reaching out. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, its pale light cutting sharp shapes against the walls. The shadows it left behind were alive, twisting and shifting as if taunting him.
The chair creaked beneath him, its slow, rhythmic sound cutting through the silence. Each rock forward sent another wave of tension through the room. The floorboards had grown loose from years of wear, remembering the weight of every footstep, every shift of his body. Back and forth, back and forth. The repetition was almost meditative. Almost. But the calmness he craved remained out of reach. Sleep was not an option. Not tonight. Not with them lurking. Waiting. Everwake.
His mind was both void and chaos. A vortex of thoughts he could not hold ontoand yet, nothing. Heat radiated from his chest one moment, burning him from the inside out. The next, the cold night air sent shivers across his skin. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. But still, he rocked.
The cushions beneath him were invisible in the dark, but he knew every flaw. The tear at the back, the stains underneath. He felt them beneath his weight like the scars that marred his own skin. Each imperfection carried a story. Each one a reminder of the man he had been. And the man he had become.
The moon inched across the sky, dragging thin clouds with it. From the tree below his window, an owl hooted, its call slicing through the night. Sharp. Dissonant. Another reminder of what he was. Alone. Always alone.
He craved a cigarette. His throat burned for the scratch of nicotine, for the warmth of a drink. But he could not move. The chair was a prison. The walls were closing in. He was trapped. Not just by the darkness of the room, but by the darkness inside him. The shadows on the walls danced, mocking him, laughing at his misery. If he were stronger, he would fight them. Stand up. Tear them apart. But he was not strong. Not anymore.
A memory clawed its way to the surface. Her. The only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the softness of her skin, the way her voice once soothed him. There had been a time when love was something he could hold, something he could give and receive. But he had pushed her away, just like he pushed everyone away. He had been too afraid of letting her see who he really was. Now, no one could love him. Even if they tried, he would ruin it. He always did.
The rocking grew faster. The creak of the wood, more urgent. The rhythm matched the chaos in his mind. The voices rose, climbing from whispers to angry shouts. He slapped his temple hard with his palm. “Stupid.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. A weak protest against the madness inside him. The ghosts in his head remained. The curtains rustled with the wind. He froze.
They were here. They had come for him.
His breath caught in his throat. The air turned heavy. If he stayed still, maybe they would not see him. If he did not move, did not breathe, they might leave him alone. He held himself rigid. His mind spun with possibilities. The shadows crept closer, ready to drag him into the abyss.
The owl called again. Too distant to save him now.
He wanted to close his eyes. To scream. To do anything to escape. But his body betrayed him. Frozen. The weight of his sins pressed down, crushing him. Suffocating him. The terror of everything he had done, and everything he had failed to do, stared into his pale, red-rimmed eyes.
For a moment, clarity broke through. None of this is real. It is all in your head. The shadows. The voices. The fear. They cannot hurt you.
A grimace spread across his face. Then, without warning, laughter bubbled up from deep inside. First a soft chuckle. Then a loud, manic laugh. His shoulders shook as the sound filled the room, bouncing off the walls like the ghosts in his head. The chair rocked harder, faster. The rhythm wild. Erratic.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The moon faded, giving way to the early light of dawn. The shadows shrank into the corners. The owl had fallen silent. Even the wind had stilled, the curtains hanging limp.
He tried to exhale, to let go of the tension in his chest. Only a wheezing breath came out. His body was soaked with sweat, cold and clammy, like a second skin. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, as the memories played on a loop inside his head.
He deserved this. Every bit of it. The torment. The isolation. The terror. His punishment.
There was no redemption. No salvation.
His eyes fluttered closed, a twisted smile on his face.
Maybe next time he would fight back. Maybe next time he would claw his way out of the darkness.
Or maybe, just maybe, he would surrender to it. Forever.
unspoken words between blurred lines
She sat in her dimly lit room, the soft glow of her phone the only light in the darkness. Her husband lay beside her, peacefully snoring, his presence steady and warm, a comfort she cherished deeply. She loved him—there was no doubt about that—but the weight in her chest wasn’t because of him. It was because of the man on the other side of her screen. He wasn’t her husband. He wasn’t even someone she could claim as her own, not in the way she secretly wished. But he was hers in other ways—ways that neither of them had fully admitted.
Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heart caught between hope and resignation. He was always there for her, but not in the way her husband was. He existed in the quiet spaces of her life, in the pauses between conversations, in the messages sent late at night when the world felt too heavy. She was his best friend, maybe more, but never fully his. And yet, he couldn’t imagine life without her.
There had been nights like this before, when they had shared too much, said things that blurred the lines between friendship and something else. They never spoke about those nights the next day. The silence around them remained unbroken, but it lingered. We crossed a line, didn’t we? she sometimes wondered. But she never asked. Maybe it was better that way.
Her fingers hovered over the screen again as she remembered one night in particular. His voice had been low, full of the heaviness he carried. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here,” he had said. She had paused, heart beating in her throat, but answered as calmly as she could. “I’m not going anywhere.” There had been a moment of silence on the line, one that felt like a confession neither of them could make. They both knew what was left unsaid.
“I’m here,” she had typed now, her fingers trembling slightly as she hit send. “Always.” The message was meant to be a comfort, a promise, but it felt like an echo of her own longing. She wondered if her words were more of a burden to him, a reminder of what he couldn’t have, rather than a source of solace. He needed her—he told her that time and again—but she knew he wasn’t ready to confront the feelings that lingered between them. Maybe he was afraid of what life might look like without her constant support, or maybe he was afraid of something deeper.
Her husband grounded her, a constant presence in her life. But there was something in the late-night messages with him—something that made her heart race in a way that left her both comforted and conflicted. She had once asked herself, How far can I go before it crosses a line? And she wasn’t sure she knew the answer anymore.
His response came slowly, a brief flicker on her screen. “Thanks.” The word seemed to carry more weight than it should—a simple thanks for her endless support, but it also carried a silent apology for his inability to give more. He depended on her in ways that he couldn’t put into words. Walking through life felt impossible sometimes, and he leaned on her to get through the days when his strength ran out. She wasn’t just his guide through the hardest moments; she was his safety net, his reassurance that he wouldn’t fall apart completely.
He lay in his own space, his phone heavy in his hand. Her message was warm, inviting—a reminder that no matter how dark things got, she would always be there. He glanced around his small, cluttered apartment—the empty glass on the table, the unmade bed, the echoes of a life that felt incomplete. “I’m fine,” he typed out, though the words felt hollow. He wasn’t fine. The weight of everything pressed on him daily, leaving him feeling empty, lost. But the thought of facing the world without her support was terrifying. What would happen if she wasn’t there? Could he stand on his own, or would he crumble without her to hold him together?
Lately, there had been something in his voice—an uncertainty, a hesitation she hadn’t heard before. She wondered if he had started to realize, like she had, that they were approaching a line neither of them wanted to cross.
His thoughts drifted back to the past. The long conversations that stretched into the night, the times when she had pulled him back from the edge without even realizing it. There had been that one night, when his thoughts had been darker than usual, when he had typed out a goodbye that felt too final. But she had sensed it, even from miles away. Her words had brought him back. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” He hadn’t even realized how much he meant it until the words were already out. She had responded, calm but with an underlying intensity. “You don’t have to find out.”
She had saved him more times than she knew, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. It would make things too real, too complicated. And maybe part of him feared she would one day get tired of catching him. What would he do then?
He needed her—needed her in ways he didn’t fully understand yet. She wasn’t the one hurting him, but she was the one who kept him going, who lifted him when he couldn’t stand on his own. Without her support, the thought of getting through the day became impossible. She was the one guiding him through the maze of his life, through the uncertainty and fear that kept him tethered to his own doubts and insecurities.
As he drifted off to sleep, the weight of unspoken words and half-formed promises settled over him. He glanced at the empty glass on the table, its reflection catching the night outside. In the quiet darkness, he held onto the hope that somehow, she would keep guiding him through the maze of his life, helping him find a way to survive. He couldn’t make it alone—at least, not yet—but with her by his side, he knew he could make it through another day. Without her, he feared he wouldn’t make it at all.
But somewhere in the quiet space between them, he also knew—one day, this wouldn’t be enough.
Echoes of Midnight
The bathroom tiles were freezing against my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the warmth I’d left behind in bed. Not that the warmth had come from him—it was the blankets, maybe the fleeting heat from our bodies, but definitely not him. I caught my reflection in the mirror as I splashed water on my face. The tired woman staring back seemed distant, as if the night had stretched too far, too thin. My eyes were heavy, but sleep wasn’t what I wanted. Or maybe I just didn’t want to fall asleep next to someone I barely knew.
I grabbed my robe, feeling the soft fabric against my skin, though it did little to chase away the coldness that clung to me. The thought of returning to the bedroom made me pause. The stranger in my bed was a reminder of the choices I’d made tonight—choices that seemed so clear just hours ago but now felt like cracks in the night. Kicking him out wasn’t an option; it wasn’t his fault I was tangled in this mess.
I drifted into the living room and curled up in my favorite chair by the window. The night sky was so vast, dotted with stars that seemed too far away to care about anything happening below them. The familiar weight of the universe pressed down on me, and yet, for some reason, it felt less suffocating here, in this small bubble of quiet.
I pulled out my phone, staring at the screen longer than necessary. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitating before typing a message I didn’t expect a response to: “Are you there?” It was more of a question for myself than for him. A way to feel less alone in this moment, a lifeline I cast into the dark, hoping for something to pull me back.
I was about to set the phone down when it buzzed. The screen lit up with his face, and my heart did that annoying thing it always did when he called—skipped a beat, like it was preparing itself for something bigger. I hesitated, knowing this was probably a mistake, but I answered anyway.
“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” His voice was gentle but direct, like he knew exactly where my mind had gone. He didn’t bother with pleasantries; he never needed them with me. I nodded before realizing he couldn’t see me, so I added a soft, “Yeah.”
“Are you alone?” The question stung more than I wanted it to. I hated that the answer wasn’t what I wished it could be.
“No,” I whispered, hating how small the word sounded.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes. I’m in the living room, watching the stars.” The words came out quieter than I intended, like I was confessing to something I wasn’t sure how to explain.
There was a pause, a soft sigh from his end. “Okay,” he said, and I could hear him moving, the sound of his footsteps padding softly, just like mine had moments ago. The rustling of sheets, the faint creak of a door—it all felt so intimate, yet so far away. “I’m putting you on speaker,” he said, his voice a little softer now. “Just so you know if it sounds different.”
And then the music began.
It was slow at first, the gentle hum of piano chords that floated through the speaker, filling the silence between us. I didn’t recognize the song, but it didn’t matter. The music wrapped around me, like it had been written for this moment, for this quiet between us. Each note felt like a breath, exhaling the tension from my body.
I leaned further into the chair, pulling the blanket from the couch and wrapping myself in it. The softness against my skin was a contrast to the cold that lingered in my chest. The night air was cool, but the music, his music, made me feel warm. Warmer than I had felt in bed with that stranger. Warmer than I had felt in a long time.
The stars outside seemed to shimmer a little brighter now, their distant light more comforting than before. I yawned, the weight of the day—or maybe just the weight of everything—settling over me. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until this very moment. I yawned again, this time louder, unashamed of how the exhaustion sounded.
“Sleep tight, baby girl. I’ll always be here for you,” he murmured through the music, his voice low and comforting. It was the kind of promise I wanted to hold onto, even if I knew it was impossible. But tonight, in this fragile moment between wakefulness and sleep, I believed him.
I smiled to myself, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket. Maybe he really was my safe place. Maybe that’s what I’d been searching for all along, though the thought felt fragile, like it could shatter if I held it too tightly.
As the music continued, the world around me began to blur. My eyes fluttered closed, and the last thing I felt was the softness of the blanket, the soothing melody still playing, and the echo of his voice lingering in the quiet spaces of my mind. Tomorrow, I might remember his words, or maybe they’d drift away like the stars outside. But for now, they were enough.
For now, I was safe. For now, I slept.
The traveller
He kept his eyes fixed on the road. The white lines snaked under the car, cracked and uneven like old scars. He’d been following them for hours, maybe days—it was hard to tell anymore. The fog blurred everything, smothering the landscape in a thick veil of grey, as if the world itself had been erased.
Continue reading “The traveller”The Busker (edited and revised)
Johnny flicked off the light switch, shouldered his guitar, and tugged his woolen hat down over his ears. The small apartment above the café was barely big enough to stretch out in. A bed shoved against the wall, the stove doubling as a nightstand. Thin walls. Cold floors. But it was warm enough, and the café owner below didn’t mind when Johnny was short on rent, so long as he worked a few shifts to cover the difference. It wasn’t much, but in a city like this, it was everything.
Continue reading “The Busker (edited and revised)”Fractured Lines, Unbroken Circles (new short story)
The café was bathed in the golden light of late afternoon, casting long, soft shadows across the floor. A few patrons sat scattered around, engaged in quiet conversation or lost in their own thoughts. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries, the kind of scent that clings to memories.
Ethan sat across from her, fingers absently tracing the rim of his cup, a habit he hadn’t quite outgrown. His gaze drifted to the window where pedestrians hurried by, oblivious to the conversations unfolding inside. It had been over a decade since they’d first met, and longer still since they’d been anything more than friends. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, but at some point in the last few years, they had settled into this comfortable rhythm: meeting regularly, sharing pieces of their lives, talking about everything and nothing. Still, there was something different in the air today, a quiet tension that neither had acknowledged yet.
She watched him in the quiet way she had always done, studying his face as though seeing it anew. His once sharp features had softened over the years, and while the lines near his eyes betrayed age, they also told the story of someone who had learned to laugh more freely. Time had changed them both. It was a strange thing, she thought, to know someone so well and yet wonder how many versions of them you’ve missed.
She shifted in her seat, her hands resting lightly on the table, fingertips grazing the chipped wood. There was something she needed to say, and though they’d always been good at finding the right words with each other, this conversation felt different. More delicate.
Ethan glanced up from his cup, sensing the change. His brow furrowed, not in worry, but in curiosity. “You’ve been quiet,” he observed, his voice low and familiar. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching hers for some clue as to what was on her mind.
She smiled, but it was a small, thoughtful smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just thinking,” she said softly, her fingers absentmindedly running along the edge of the table. “A lot’s changed between us, hasn’t it?”
Ethan’s lips tugged into a half-smile, though his eyes stayed serious. “Yeah,” he agreed. “It has. We’ve both changed a lot.”
There was an easy understanding between them, forged over years of shared history. They had been lovers once—briefly, a lifetime ago, it seemed now—but that had faded, a fleeting chapter in a much longer story. After a long silence following their breakup, they had found their way back to each other, rebuilding their relationship as friends, as confidants.
But there was always a lingering question, a quiet “what if” that neither had addressed out loud.
She looked down at her coffee, watching the steam curl upwards, dissolving into the air. “Do you ever think about us?” she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “About what we were?”
Ethan didn’t answer right away. He shifted in his seat, his fingers pausing in their habitual tracing of the cup. “Sometimes,” he said slowly. “I mean… yeah. But it feels like that was a different time. Like we were different people.”
She nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle around them. “We were. We didn’t really know who we were back then, did we?”
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other. There was no need for explanations—they both knew. Back then, they’d been young, unsure of themselves, and what they had had burned bright but briefly. The years since had been a slow evolution, a growing into who they really were. The connection they shared now felt stronger, but different. And it was that difference she needed to acknowledge.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” she continued, her voice calm but deliberate. “About you. About us. And how much you mean to me.” She paused, watching him carefully. “I love you, Ethan. I do. But not in the way we thought we would love each other back then.”
Ethan’s expression didn’t change right away. He sat still for a moment, absorbing her words, the weight of them settling into the quiet space between them. His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, but his voice, when he spoke, was steady. “You mean… you’re not in love with me.”
She nodded, grateful that he understood. “I’m not,” she said softly. “Not in that way. But I love you all the same. It’s just… different now.”
He let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair as if the air had been sucked out of his chest. But there was no bitterness in his expression, no trace of hurt. He had expected this, perhaps not in so many words, but deep down, he had known.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding to himself more than to her. “I know what you mean.”
She watched him carefully, waiting for him to say more, to fill the silence with some kind of resolution. But he remained quiet, his eyes distant, though not in a way that felt alienating. It was more like he was turning something over in his mind, letting it settle into place. And maybe that was the beauty of their friendship—there was no need to rush through the emotions, no need for dramatic confessions. Just understanding.
“I guess part of me has known for a while too,” Ethan finally said, his voice quiet. “It’s just… you don’t always want to say it out loud, you know?”
She nodded. “I didn’t either. But I felt like it was important.”
He studied her face for a moment, and then smiled. It wasn’t the smile of someone who had lost something; it was the smile of someone who had found clarity. “I get it,” he said, his voice lighter now. “And I love you too, just in a different way.”
Relief washed over her, and for the first time in weeks, the tension she had carried with her seemed to lift. She had known Ethan wouldn’t take it badly—he was too self-aware, too in tune with his own feelings for that—but there had still been a part of her that feared the conversation might change something irrevocable between them. But as she looked at him now, she realized that what had changed was not their friendship itself, but their understanding of it.
“So where does that leave us?” Ethan asked, though his tone was easy, playful even, as though the answer was obvious.
She grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years. “It leaves us right where we are,” she said, her eyes bright. “Still friends. Still close. Still us.”
Ethan chuckled, leaning forward, his arms resting on the table. “Best friends,” he corrected, his smile widening.
She laughed, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Best friends.”
And in that moment, it felt right. There was no lingering sense of loss, no question of “what if.” What they had was enough—more than enough. It was stronger than the fleeting romance they’d once shared, more enduring than any past relationship. What they had now was the solid foundation of years spent growing, evolving, and learning who they were, both individually and together.
As they sat there in the fading light of the afternoon, the café slowly filling with the quiet murmur of other conversations, she realized something. They had already become the best versions of themselves, and they were lucky enough to witness that evolution in each other.
And maybe that was all the love they needed.
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1271 words
Dear diary
From the fictitious diary of a young woman
Dear diary,
Today, I have spent my day sleeping, reading and watching TV. I did not go outside. I did not breathe in any fresh air. I love these nothing-days, and yet, they make me feel guilty. We know that I don’t have any reason to feel guilty. I am alone and I don’t need to answer to anyone. But I was raised differently. Seeing the laundry that needs to be folded or ironed, eating like a teenager, those things are not what is expected of a grown woman.
I felt lonely today and there is not much I can do about it. I tried to get in touch with Fred. But he has his own issues. Mostly money again. I am not willing to support him financially anymore. We are not a couple anymore. And I think getting in touch with him when I am lonely is like muscle memory – turning to the one I know. A comfortable move. Rationally I know that it is stupid. That I am stupid. But the mind is not rational, we both know that.
It’s Sunday night and I should prepare my overnight oats for tomorrow and maybe a salad for lunch for work tomorrow. But as so often these last times, I lack the energy and the motivation. I have to do it anyway or I will eat a bunch of unhealthy stuff again.
During a nap, I had that dream again. Of me being married and pregnant. I wonder what this means. I don’t have any intentions of ever marrying. And there is no man in my life who would be possible marriage material. And a kid? I can barely take care of myself, having a kid of my own would be the worst idea. But maybe I would be less lonely?
I’ll go make my lunch. And watch an old film. I like old films. Their pace is different. Their stories are different.
I really need to find a hobby or something. Sleeping the hours away when I am not at work cannot be healthy. But what do I know?!
What do I know indeed?!
###
I have been playing with the idea for a while. The diary style writing. Obviously, this is not about me, but maybe there will be hints of me here or there. I want to make this a personal challenge. If I can write an entry every day until work starts again mid-september, it would be a success. We’ll see how it will go.
a love so deep (flash fiction)
With every heartfelt word you uttered, she found herself falling deeper and deeper under the spell of your captivating presence.
Despite her best efforts to resist the pull of her emotions, she was powerless to fight the inexplicable connection that had blossomed between the two of you. There was something undeniably magnetic about the bond you had forged, something that made it nearly impossible for her to imagine a life without you in it. And even though you were older when you first met, you too felt the same overwhelming sense of wholeness and belonging in her company. It was as if she had become a guardian of sorts, someone who showered you with the kind of unconditional love that defied logic and reason.
She knew your darkest secrets, the very ones that had sent other women running, yet she embraced them without hesitation, accepting you completely for who you were. The intensity of your shared emotions was nothing short of overwhelming, creating a pull so powerful that it seemed to defy the very laws of nature. Every stolen glance, every gentle caress, ignited a passionate fire within your souls that refused to be extinguished.
You found yourself constantly captivated by the mere thought of her, replaying your conversations in your mind and savoring the melodic sound of her laughter.
As time passed, the bond between you only continued to grow stronger, with each new discovery deepening the profound connection you shared. She became your confidante, your safe haven in a world that often felt tumultuous and overwhelming. You marveled at her ability to see through your carefully constructed walls, gently coaxing you to reveal your true, unguarded self.
The age difference that had once seemed like an insurmountable obstacle now felt inconsequential in the face of your all-encompassing love. Together, you had created a world of your own, a realm where judgment and fear had no place – a world where your profound connection reigned supreme. In this sacred space you had created together, time seemed to stand still, and the outside world faded into insignificance.
Every moment spent in each other’s company was a testament to the rare and precious bond you shared. The way she looked at you, with eyes brimming with adoration and understanding, made you feel truly seen for perhaps the first time in your life. Your conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from lighthearted banter to profound discussions about life’s greatest mysteries.
In her presence, you found the courage to voice your deepest fears and wildest dreams, knowing that she would receive them with open arms and unwavering support.
The physical attraction between you was undeniable, a force of nature that sent electricity coursing through your veins with every touch. Yet it was more than mere desire; it was a spiritual connection that transcended the physical realm. In her embrace, you felt a sense of coming home, as if your souls had recognized each other from a time long past.
As your relationship deepened, you began to see the world through new eyes. Colors seemed brighter, music more poignant, and even the simplest pleasures took on a heightened significance. She had awakened something within you that you never knew existed, breathing new life into your very being.
The transformative power of your love story continued to unfold, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and intimate moments that seemed to defy the constraints of time itself. Every day brought new revelations, each one cementing the unshakable foundation of your relationship.
You found yourself marveling at the way she could anticipate your needs before you even voiced them, her intuition a showed the profound understanding you shared. As you navigated life’s challenges together, your bond only grew stronger. The obstacles that once seemed insurmountable became mere stepping stones on your shared journey. Her unwavering support became your anchor, grounding you in moments of doubt and elevating you to new heights of self-discovery. In turn, you found yourself becoming a better version of yourself, inspired by her strength and compassion.
The depth of your connection manifested in countless ways. A simple glance across a crowded room could convey volumes, your silent communication a language known only to the two of you. The gentle brush of her hand against yours sent shivers down your spine, igniting a passion that burned as brightly as the day you first met. Even in moments of silence, you found comfort in each other’s presence, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat a soothing melody that calmed your restless soul.
As time passed, your love continued to evolve, taking on new dimensions and revealing hidden facets. You discovered that true intimacy went far beyond the physical, encompassing a spiritual and emotional connection that seemed to transcend the boundaries of this world. In her arms, you found not just a lover, but a kindred spirit, a partner in every sense of the word. Your restless and fragile soul had finally found a safe home.
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fiction – 826 words – reading time: 4 minutes
it’d been a long time since I wrote something like this. It fell out of my fingers Wednesday night. It was late and I couldn’t sleep. I had this picture of a couple in my head, who against all odds seemed to be drawn to each other and who were perfect for each other no matter how much they fought it.
After yesterday’s petty post, I decided to published this (as a scheduled post). It is not quite as good as those stories used to be, but in time I will get back up there.
THANK YOU for reading
Voices (revisited)
It’s cold and I wrap my cardigan closer around my shivering form. Still, I don’t want to turn around and walk back home. It’s not time yet. Not now, maybe never. I enjoy the peaceful, quiet and loneliness that surrounds me. There is no sound but the wind and the waves. The wind blows widely, cutting against my skin. The sand feels cold underneath my bare feet.
Nobody is at the beach. It’s a lonely place. Abandoned. The sky look almost black, only thick clouds make it appear grey here and there. I know that in a few minutes, it will open up and soak me in cold rain. I stop and turn to look out across the sea. The waves are nothing more than white lines that crash eventually. Some are higher, some are almost flat. But they all come to me. As if they need to tell me what they saw out there. The ocean looks threateningly big and once again, I feel small. Around me, everything is big and meaningful. I am nothing but a grain of sand. Not important at all. I’m nothing. No one. The realization hits me hard; it always does and the resulting tears sting my eyes. I pretend that it’s the cold air nipping at my skin, but I know that I am lying to myself. And I also know the reason. He is back again. His voice in my head. And one day, he will kill myself. My demon. It’s someone who promises love and only offers sorrow in the end.
There are days when everything seems pointless. Nothing makes sense. Every fight seems to be lost and I feel obsolete. It’s what he tells me when I am trying not to listen. There is no reason for me to breathe.
The lines between the ocean and the sky turn into a blur and I wonder how it would feel to drown. Would it hurt? Would I fight it? Not that I have any intention of walking towards the freezing swallowing ocean, but I wonder about those things.
There are days when I long to feel that serenity I imagine one feels when death almost wins. Finding inner peace and being able to keep that feeling inside and letting go of everything else; it’s utopia. Nothing else matters anymore.
There are days when it would be so much easier to simply give up and fade away from earth. Who would care anyway? It’s what my demon encourages me to do.
I shake my head as I am trying to make those thoughts stop. Getting rid of that awful voice that is trying to pull me under is hard; it’s a battle I will lose some day soon. I don’t want this. I don’t want to surrender. I don’t want to submit to my demons. But it is stronger than me. He is stronger. It’s a deep dark hole I fall in from time to time, orchestrated by his words. Manipulating me like a puppet on a string. If I had a knife I could cut the strings. Sometimes, the hole is so deep that there is almost no way to get out of the dark and lonely place. Sometimes it’s a battle I win without much fight, and the right scent, the right notes can make me see the light again. It makes me emerge from the dark. But not always. Not always.
I struggle. An internal war is raging inside of me when all I need is inner peace. It looks so easy. For me, it isn’t.
The rain starts falling in big drops. In a matter of minutes, I am soaked to the bone and frozen. It’s freezing and the beach is still abandoned. I know that I should move to go home. I know that I should put on my socks and shoes, or I will catch a cold. But I can’t. I cannot move. I am paralysed. Something is holding me back. My hands fall to my sides, and I feel my shoulders slump. My head bends down, and I fall to my knees. My soaked cardigan is heavy on my skin. Pulling me down with an invisible, yet strong hold on my shoulders. I bury my face in my hands. Accepting my defeat. It comes out of nowhere. Or maybe it comes from somewhere. I cannot think. Shivering in the cold, with my long wet hair pasted to my face; I feel like give up.
I give up.
For the first time in a long time, I am willing to give in to the voice in my head. I am too tired to argue and to fight. I am too lonely to breathe and to exist.
“Take me with you!” I beg the cold emptiness surrounding me. It is the last surge of energy before my inner self combusts. My heart burns from the exertion. Ashes are all that will be left within me.
I cower on the beach. Alone. Painfully aware of all my flaws. Painfully aware of the inside me hole that is devouring me. Too tired to fight. And why should I fight anyway? He doesn’t let me fight.
What is there left here for me?
This place holds no shelter for me. I want to fade away and vanish. Too jaded to go on. Too hollow. It’s like I am in a trance.
I hear a noise and startle. I look up. I wake up and see where I am. Realize what I am doing. I’m trembling from the cold. A smile creeps up on my face. She is here to save me.
It’s always like that.
Two personalities inside of me. Fighting to get the reigns over me. One of them is overly optimistic, always positive and supportive. Always honest and chatty. The other is a suicidal pessimist. One day, he is going to win. One day, she will not be there in time to wake me up and win that secret war at the last minute. I know it. It scares me. But I am powerless. It’s not in my control.
The sky clears up. No more rain. The wind eases up. I am dripping wet. Sand is sticking to my clothes. I don’t know how long I knelt in the storm.
I move. Going home. Whatever that is. Wherever it is. But I am not paralysed anymore.
I enter my home. It’s empty. Almost no furniture. No voices. No colours. No you. No me. Nothing. I can’t stand the silence but I endure it. I should put some music on to drown out everything that haunts me. But I can’t. Not now. I can’t deal with the overstimulation of different sounds right now. The hardwood floor is wet from my clothes, and I undress. Struggling to get the wet clothes off my raw skin.
I decide to take a shower to wash away the emotions of the morning and the cold that fills my veins. But his voice is persisting today. He wants to see me perish and he can’t be washed away. He keeps entering my thoughts
I sigh into the foggy steamed bathroom mirror. It’s going to be a long week. It’s going to be a daily fight. I wish I could hibernate. Let the voices in my head fight it out and whoever wins can take over my body and soul. Whoever wins gets to do whatever they want with me.
What if the winner was me?
***
The original of this piece was written a long time ago (in 2014). I stumbled across it today and edited it a bit… It’s a heavy piece, not happy at all. And that leads me to say: I am in a good emotional place. All is okay over here.
untitled very short story 1/?
Sara sat on her windowsill with the toothbrush in her mouth. She looked out into the world; into the lives of her neighbors. An old couple was sitting at a table, having dinner. They didn’t talk, but something about them looked peaceful. It looked like a comfortable silence. She looked at the apartment above the couple’s and saw a young woman singing into a hairbrush while dancing in her underwear. It made Sara chuckle. She almost wanted to remember her youth, but she pushed that thought away with a slight shake of her head. She continued brushing her teeth and looking at her neighbors. The naked man doing his daily workout. The couple with the guests, laughing and clinking their glasses in celebration of something; maybe a birthday or an engagement, or some other happy event. Sara kept looking at the lives in front of her as if she was switching channels on the TV. When she saw a woman crying alone, hiding her face in her palms, she decided that she had seen enough. Sara pulled her curtains closed and all the memories of the lives she had seen faded instantly. Almost.
She trudged to the bathroom to rinse out her mouth and wash her face. It was such an automatic thing to do, she did not react when she caught a glimpse of her pale face in the mirror. Sara undressed and threw her clothes in the hamper. It was time to do a load of laundry, then again, it could wait another day. Making her way to the bedroom, she switched off the lights and found a comfortable position in bed. She switched on the TV and let the colors illuminate the dark room. Sara didn’t have anything particular to watch, and so she switched channels until she came across something that appeared almost interesting. After a couple of minutes of looking at the screen, she grabbed her phone and scrolled through social media.
Sometime during her evening routines, a thought had crept into her mind that didn’t let her go. She was alone. Lonely. Everything about her existence was mundane. She was an average woman without anything exciting happening in her life.
No one would spend time looking into her window. She was invisible. Sara grinned. It was a course and a superpower. Don’t let anyone notice you!
✨💜✨💜✨💜
Little author’s note (how very…!)
392 words. This was a very spontaneous thing to be written. There is something like an idea where I want to go and what I want to happen forming in my head. But we’ll see how that goes. I could just as well abandon this again in no time. I am aware that things could and should be elaborated, but this is the very first draft. There is not much thought behind these words (yet). No overthinking (yet). And definitely no editing of any kind. Remember, my first language is Luxembourgish, everything I write in English has to be translated in my head first. Imagine seeing an image in your mind and describing it in a foreign language you haven’t used like that in a while… Yeah, nothing is finished or perfect about this. But still, enjoy reading this short bit. 💜❤️
the rocking chair
He sat naked in the rocking chair, swallowed by the dark room around him. The door was closed. The three windows, wide open. Cold wind whistled in, brushing his bare skin, making the thin white curtains billow like ghostly hands reaching out. Outside, the moon played hide and seek with the clouds, its pale light cutting sharp shapes against the walls. The shadows it left behind were alive, twisting and shifting as if taunting him with their slow, deliberate movements.
The chair creaked on the floor beneath him, its slow, rhythmic sound cutting through the silence. Each rock forward sent another wave of tension through the room. The floorboards had grown loose from years of wear, remembering the weight of every footstep, every shift of his body. Back and forth, back and forth, he rocked. The repetition was almost meditative—almost. But the calmness he craved remained just out of reach. He longed for sleep, but it wasn’t an option. Not tonight. Not with them lurking. Waiting. Everwake.
His mind was both void and chaos. A swirling vortex of thoughts he couldn’t hold onto, and yet, nothing. Heat radiated from his chest one moment, burning him from the inside out. The next, the cold night air sent shivers across his skin. Nothing felt right. Everything was wrong. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, forward and back.
The cushions beneath him were invisible in the darkness, but he knew every flaw by heart. The tear at the back, the stains underneath. He could feel them beneath his weight like the scars that marred his own skin. Each imperfection carried a story, a memory that burned through him tonight. Each one a reminder of the man he had been—and the man he had become.
The moon inched across the sky, dragging thin clouds with it. From the tree below his window, an owl hooted, its call slicing through the night like a knife. The sound was sharp, dissonant—another reminder of what he was. Alone. Always alone.
He craved a cigarette, his throat burning for the scratch of nicotine, for the warmth of a drink. But he couldn’t move. The chair was a prison. The walls were closing in. He was trapped. Not just by the darkness of the room, but by the darkness inside him. The shadows on the walls danced, mocking him, laughing at his misery. If he were stronger, he would fight them. He would stand up and tear them apart. But he wasn’t strong. Not anymore.
Another memory clawed its way to the surface—her. The only woman he had ever loved. He remembered the softness of her skin, the way her voice once soothed him. There had been a time when love was something he could hold, something he could give and receive. But he had pushed her away, just like he pushed everyone away. He had been too afraid of letting her see who he really was. Now, no one could love him. And even if they tried, he would ruin it. He always did.
The rocking of the chair grew faster, the creak of the wood more urgent, as if keeping time with the chaos in his mind. The voices grew louder, rising from whispers to angry shouts. He slapped his temple with his palm—hard. “Stupid.” The word left his mouth before he could stop it, a weak protest against the madness inside him. The ghosts in his head remained. The curtains behind him rustled with the wind, and he froze.
They were here. They had come for him.
His breath caught in his throat, the air thick and heavy. If he stayed still, maybe they wouldn’t see him. Maybe if he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, they would leave him alone. He held himself rigid, his mind spinning with possibilities, but the shadows reached out, creeping closer, ready to drag him into the abyss.
The owl called again from the tree. A sound too distant to save him now.
He wanted to close his eyes, to scream, to do anything to escape. But his body betrayed him, frozen in place. The weight of his sins pressed down on him, crushing him, suffocating him. The terror of everything he had done—and everything he had failed to do—hung over him, staring into his pale, red-rimmed eyes.
Then, for a brief moment, clarity broke through. None of this is real. It’s all in your head. The shadows. The voices. The fear. They couldn’t hurt him.
A grimace spread across his face, and then, without warning, laughter bubbled up from deep inside. First a soft chuckle, then a loud, manic laugh. His shoulders shook as the sound escaped him, filling the room, bouncing off the walls like the ghosts in his head. The chair rocked harder, faster, the rhythm now wild and erratic.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
The moon was fading, giving way to the early light of dawn. The shadows shrank into the corners, retreating. The owl had fallen silent, its calls fading into memory. Even the wind had stilled, leaving the curtains limp and motionless.
He tried to exhale, to let go of the tension in his chest, but all that came out was a wheezing breath. His body was soaked with sweat, cold and clammy, like a second skin sticking to him. But still, he rocked. Back and forth, as the memories played on a loop inside his head.
He deserved this. Every bit of it. The torment, the isolation, the terror—they were his punishment. And there was no redemption. There was no salvation.
Finally, his eyes fluttered closed, a twisted smile on his face.
Maybe next time, he would fight back. Maybe next time, he would claw his way out of the darkness.
Or maybe, just maybe, he would surrender to it. Forever.
I will come for you (repost)
I watch her. Daily. I know her routines, and I know when she goes to sleep. I stand on the street, hidden in the shadows, but I see her. I see how she pulls her curtains close. Does she know that I can still see her? I see her silhouette undress. The shirt that glides off her shoulders and how she shakes her head. Her hair falls in long waves down her shoulders. I see how she unclasps her bra, and I wish it would be me doing it. But I am doomed to stay in the shadows. Is she aroused, or is it cold in her bedroom? I would like to taste her breasts. I am sure she is very sensitive, and it would make her moan. She pushes down her skirt, and I long to see her like that. One day I will. I won’t hide forever. Once, not that long ago, I worked up all my courage and asked her for the time when she passed me on her way home. Her icy blue eyes stared at me as if I was the scum attached to her Manolo Blahniks. Her slender fingers brushed the cuffs of her stylish trench coat back and revealed an expensive watch. She answered curtly and was gone before I had processed it. Her voice was deep and raspy. Really sexy. Ever since that day, I imagine her moan my name. Maybe even scream it in ecstasy. One day she will. I am sure about that. I wish I could see more of her than her silhouette. All too soon, she turns off the lights, and her room is bathed in darkness. I wonder if she sleeps naked or if she puts something on when she turns off the lights. One day I will go upstairs and find out.
Why not today?
I managed to get a spare key to her apartment. I stole her best friend’s purse because I knew she had the key. It was too easy. I have never used it before. But I will be using it today. Oh, this is so exciting. I am going to see the woman of my dreams soon. She will be pleased to see me and invite me to stay the night. Of course, we will not sleep. We will be busy making love. Yes, making love – not fuck. She is my only real love. My soul mate. It’s a good thing I remembered to steal some chewing gum this morning at the newsstand. I put a stripe in my mouth and let the minty flavor take away the furry feeling on my tongue and teeth. It’s a struggle to chew because of the many missing teeth in my mouth. She will love that too. I can kiss her with my tongue without too many teeth in the way.
I am already on the right floor. How can she live in a building without security? Every creep can walk up and break into her home. It’s a good thing I am here to protect her. I sit in the shadows of the street lamps every night, and I wait until she turns off all of her lights. It’s just to make sure that she is alright.
Not so long ago, she had a male friend over. She tried to make me jealous. She didn’t even close the curtains. That’s how I know that she has milky white skin, and the aureole of her nipples is a dark shade of red, almost brownish. She’s a natural blonde. She wanted me to see it, and it turned me on so much. That’s how I know that she is waiting for me too. She put on that show for me, and now I am here, putting the key in the lock, and I am ready to surprise her. I try to be as silent as possible. I don’t want to wake her up just yet. I want to surprise her, see her sleep, maybe inhale her scent. I am planning to cut off a little of her hair as a souvenir. She will not be pleased, but if I do it while she’s sleeping, she won’t even notice. I remember where her kitchen is and look through the drawers to find scissors. Her kitchen is not as neat as I would have expected it. The dishes from her dinner are still in the sink, and there is half a glass of wine on the counter. On second thought – she must have left it for me. I drink it in one go and lick the rim of the glass. She drank out of the same glass. Some of her DNA is going over into my bloodstream now. I feel euphoric. She is in me.
In the dark, I have trouble to find the right door, but soon enough, I find it. It’s not closed, and I sneak in. Her breathing is calm and even. Almost hypnotizing. She is only wearing panties. The sheet that must have covered her earlier is a mess and not doing its job well. I bend down over her to smell her. I want to memorize this moment. I let my nose roam over her body, paying particular attention to her genitalia. The scent of woman and sweat arouses me further, and I stroke myself through my clothes. I can’t hold back a moan. She stirs in her sleep, but she doesn’t wake up. She parts her legs, and her slip moves a little to the side. I am sure she did it on purpose because now I can see her most intimate secret place. I am going to taste her tonight. My cock strains against my pants, and I have to free it. I let out another groan when the chilly night air blows over its precum drenched head. I imagine it to be her mouth and her breath on me. Will it ever be more than just a fantasy?
I still clutch the scissors in my hand and remember to cut off one of her locks. When I move closer, my penis touches her shoulder. Her hot skin and her naked body are too much for me to take. I rub myself faster and come all over her breasts and shoulder. Some of my release lands on her face and in her hair. She looks good like that. She is such a beautiful woman christened with my semen. She is mine now. I marked her as mine.
She wakes up, I startled her, and she stares at me with wide eyes. I know that they are blue. I would like to see the color again, but it’s dark in here. Her legs and arms begin to flail in a weak attempt to cover herself. I tell her that I am finally here and that I understood her invitation. I sit down on her bed and feel the mattress dip under my weight. The heat radiating from her body is palpable; even through the layers of my clothes, I can feel her. I run my hand over her torso and pay extra attention to her breast. As I predicted earlier, she likes it when I knead them. She whimpers and whispers, “Please, please,” her voice sounds different from when I asked her for the time, but I guess it’s because she just woke up. My hand wanders further south and comes to rest between her legs. She closes them, trapping my hand over her heated vagina. I stroke it with my thumb. She whimpers again. I let my nose roam over her neck and lick it. She tastes salty and like soap. I love it. It’s intoxicating. But there is something else. It feels like panic. But maybe I only confuse it with the taste of arousal.
She starts to move more. Almost as if she is trying to fight me. But she can’t be fighting me. I love her. She is my soul mate. She pushes me away hard, and I lose my grip on her. She plays hard to get. I smirk at that. I love it when women do that. I get closer to claim what’s mine again, only, this time, she slaps me in the face. That was not nice. Not nice at all. I only want to love her and protect her. “Get away from me,” she screams and slaps me again. I start to wrestle her on her bed and come to lie on top of her. I know that I am a stout man. She can’t get away from me now that I trapped her with my own body, but she catches me off guard when her knee collides with my balls. The pain is blinding me, and I course. I slap her face to make her see sense. To make her stop. The more she fights me, the more I slap her until she is finally lying still. I tell her that I will put on the lights now. She isn’t protesting. I guess she understood that I am here to worship her. To love her.
In the dark, I try to find the light switch. I blink when the bedroom is illuminated. What I see now is not what I have expected to see. She is covered in blood. Her body and her bed are drenched in it. I look at my hands; they are colored crimson from her blood too. Her face looks bloated, swollen. Her eyes are open. Staring at the ceiling. Filled with fear. I didn’t do it. I didn’t want this to happen. I love her. I fall down on my knees and weep. I didn’t want this. The scissors are impaled in her neck. I must have stuck them in while we were fighting. I can’t remember anything.
No matter how many gushing wounds she has on her face and neck and torso, she is still a beauty. I let my hands wander across her body one last time. I want to memorize her and lock those memories inside my mind. Her skin is colder than before, and, strangely, she isn’t breathing, but she looks peaceful. I will miss her, but now, she will be forever mine. It gives me solace.
I get up from the floor and put my limp dick inside my pants again. It’s time to leave and hide back in the shadows. She’s just asleep. Only sleeping. Yes, that’s it; she is resting. Tomorrow I will come back again. Maybe she won’t fight me as much and just lets me in. I know she wants it. I pull the scissors out of her neck and cut a thick lock of her hair off to put it in the pocket of my coat. I don’t need the scissors anymore and drop them on the floor. One last time I kiss her red lips. I expect her to moan or respond in any way, but she stays silent. She must be exhausted. Quietly, because I don’t want to wake her up, I leave her apartment.
It is dark and cold outside. I see that I forgot to turn off her lights, but she will certainly do it herself when she wakes up again. I sit down on a bench nearby and pull out the lock of her hair. It’s soiled in blood, just like my hands and clothes. But it’s okay. It’s her blood, and I will put off washing it off as long as I can. It’s a part of her, after all. I sniff at the hair, and I have an instant boner. Freeing myself from the confines of my pants, I rub myself until I find release.
Tomorrow I will visit her again. The thought of touching her again makes me shudder. I smell my fingers; they still hold the scent of her skin and of her blood. I am made to love her, and soon, she will see it too. And then she will love me too.
Something a lot like love
I wake up, rested, and with a smile on my face. This hasn’t happened in a long while, and I stretch my arms above my head with a low moan. The sun is shining, and the birds are singing their songs, announcing another hot summer day. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I turn to face you, and I am startled, and a bit embarrassed, when I see you sitting cross-legged with your laptop balancing on your knees and papers next to you. You are pinching a pen between your lips, and your reading glasses add something serious to your face. Your hair is messy and sticking in every direction, I smile, remembering how it felt between my fingers last night. I wonder how late it is and how long you have been awake. Your fingers are caressing the keys of your laptop as if they were on a mission. I nudge your knee with mine, making you smile and dropping the pen from your lips. The speed of your fingers falters, but they don’t stop.
By now, I know that you are a workaholic – a real sexy one at that, but I never had the chance to wake up with you in work mode before. It feels domesticated, and as if we are entering the next level of our relationship. At the same time, it feels as if it has always been like this; familiar. “Let me just finish this real quick, and then I am all yours, ” you say, and I nod. Your voice is low and thick with sleep. I want to crawl into your lap and claim your attention, but I am too old for that. You asked for a couple of moments to finish your business – I respect that. The words “I love you” are at the tip of my tongue, but I swallow them down. A concentrated frown is forming between your brows, and you lean closer to your screen. Intelligence is sexy, and you are the perfect example of that.
I decide not to distract you, and turning to my stomach; I fumble for my phone on the nightstand. I could get out of the bed and freshen up in the bathroom, after all, this is the first time we spent the day, the night, and the next morning together without any of us being in a hurry to get to work. We have never spent this much time together. But I want to stay in bed next to you. Your heady, sweaty scent is comforting for me. Your presence and your silent company are all I want for now. For a moment, insecurity gets the best of me, hoping that I am not a total mess this morning. In the movies, lovers wake up looking perfect, hair and makeup are where they are supposed to be, their eyes are never swollen. But I am not an actress; I am me. I run my hands over my unruly hair, matting it down slightly; after that, I run my fingers under my eyes, wiping smudged mascara away. That has to be enough for now. I am not perfect.
Concentrating on my phone again, I read the news and check my social media channels. Nothing exciting to see, and I keep scrolling until I see a picture of us. We are laughing into the camera, both holding a drink, looking flushed and happy. The caption underneath isn’t written in words; there are two emoticons: a smiling face, and a red heart. I smile, and my heart races. We had a great evening. Perfect even. But I hadn’t noticed that you posted our photo online. I don’t mind, too much, though. Until now, we were dating casually; the picture is making what we have more real and official. I like that. Butterflies are doing somersaults in my stomach. The comments are all kind and friendly; some are teasing. Some people are congratulating you on your new girlfriend. Is that what I am? Am I your girlfriend? We haven’t put a label on our relationship, but maybe that too is the natural evolution of things?
“Be right back, ” you announce, cleaning the papers from your side of the bed and tugging the laptop under your arm. I nod and get back to the social media app with a sigh. Is this it? Am I supposed to leave now? I expected a make-out session in the morning, continuing where we left off last night, but real life is not a story or a movie. I tug a strand of my hair behind my ear and push the blanket off my legs—time to get moving.
I startle when I feel your lips on my calf. One of your hands caresses my leg while your lips leave a kissing trail all over my body until you turn me in your arms. I can’t hide my happy grin.
“Good morning, where are you going?” you ask, kissing my lips. You taste like mint, and I am embarrassed that I didn’t take the time to brush my teeth. But you don’t let me overthink. You have a way of distracting my train of thoughts. My hands map your skin, touching as much of you as I can, while your kisses get more demanding. I close my eyes and feel the mattress dip under our weights. You cover me from head to toe, framing my face with your hands. I feel every inch of you pushed against me, igniting my need for you. I spread my legs, and just like a puzzle, everything falls into place. This is where I am supposed to be right now. I look at you and see an expression of love and lust. My heart is expanding and pushing every thought aside; I am pulled under in a wave of emotions.
We stay in bed most of the day. Making love, reading on our phones, talking. We just get up to eat and take a shower. The sun sets, and the moon rises.
It is Saturday night, and as my senses are filled with you, I moan the words I kept back the entire day: “I love you.” You smile, and your touches become more sensual, and the way you make love to me becomes something deeper. Something meaningful.
I rest my head on your chest after being boneless from my last orgasm. Your hand caresses my back. “Say it again,” you demand. I smile against your skin. “I love you.” My cheeks flush as the words leave my mouth. “Is it cheesy when I say that I do too?” you reply. You shuffle from underneath me and turn to face me. “Is it too early to be in love?” I burst out laughing. We are in our mid-thirties and behaving like teenage girls. You join me, kissing my forehead when you regain your breath. “Stay, I love you.” The seriousness of your words overwhelms me, but I am trying to hide it. I simply pull you into my arms. And it feels good. No words are needed. Just us. The connection between us.
We settle in for the night, watching a movie on your laptop. I haven’t worn any clothes all day long, I think before I fall asleep in your bed for the second night in a row.
make this nightmare go away (short fiction)
I woke up with a racing heart and ragged breath. I looked around myself to ground my weary mind. I had that dream again. The dream in which I saw my mother get on the bus and leave me behind. Except, it wasn’t a dream; it was a memory that haunted me since I was a child.
I was a grown-up woman, doing what grown-ups do. I worked forty hours every week – sometimes more. I met friends, went for drinks or dinner with them. Occasionally, I fell in love. More often, I craved the physical connection a body could offer. A physical connection was easy to find, love – not so much.
Someone was stirring next to me, and I couldn’t remember his name. I should have felt uncomfortable, but I didn’t. Waking up next to someone I didn’t know was not uncommon for me. I would not rely on him to distract me from my childhood memories. I didn’t trust him. He didn’t feel like the protection or safety I needed; the nameless man next to me was only another warm body to make me forget the longing and the emptiness that spread through my body like cancer. The older I got, the more cells were infected. “Go back to sleep, honey,” his gravelly voice mumbled. I snorted. Those were the exact same words my mother had said before the doors of the bus closed behind her. Or was it my imagination playing tricks on me?
I pushed the duvet off my body and let my feet connect with the hardwood floor. I needed something real, something that earthed me. Goosebumps rose on my naked skin. I couldn’t say if it was the lingering memory of the reoccurring dream, or if it was the chill from the starry night sneaking in through the opened window. I decided that it didn’t matter.
There were so many little thoughts every day, and most of them didn’t matter. Once in a while, I felt as if I didn’t matter either. My weekdays were filled with responsibilities, work, and duties. There was no room for anything else. My weekends were wasted with alcohol and casual affairs who did not fill the voids I was looking to fill. I didn’t allow my mind to come to terms with old wounds. But the mind and the soul knew that I needed to take better care of myself; hence the dreams.
I was afraid to be abandoned and to be left behind. It was easier to keep everyone at arm’s length and stay distant. It was more comfortable to pretend that I was happy than to lower my masks and show the real me. In truth, I had no idea what happiness felt like. Happiness with a partner. Someone to share my life and my fears with. Once in a while, there had been someone special, but we weren’t in touch a lot anymore. Different live paths had led in different directions. And maybe my expectations were too high? All my life, I had been searching for love, for a person who made me feel safe. Perhaps I was just too blind to see him? What if I was too weak to hold on to the one who mattered most?
I took my phone from the nightstand, and the illuminated display showed the loneliness of my life. A couple of shallow notification that I wasn’t interested in; I pushed them all away with a couple of swipes.
I padded down to the bathroom to relieve my bladder and splash some water in my face, then I took my robe from the hook attached at the door and pulled it around me. I didn’t want to go back to the stranger in my bed, but I didn’t want to wake him up and throw him out in the middle of the night, either. In the living room, I sat down in my favourite chair next to the window. I could see the sparkling dots on the dark firmament.
“Are you there?” I sent a message to the person who meant more than most to me. I didn’t expect a response at this late hour; I just wanted to make sure that he would think of me when he woke up. I was about to put the phone down when it vibrated in my hand. My heart went like mad when I saw his face on the display, but I accepted the call anyway.
“Why are you still up? Bad dream?” He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries; he knew me too well. I nodded my head and added an affirmative sound.
“Are you alone?” I hated that my reply was negative, but I answered truthfully nonetheless.
“Is he asleep?”
“Yes. I am in the living room watching the stars.” I almost whispered.
“Okay.” I heard some rustling as if he was getting out of bed, footsteps followed, and then some more rustling. “I will put you on speakerphone. Just so that you know if the sound is different.” And then I heard the first chords of a piano song I wasn’t familiar with. Like a soothing blanket, it washed over me. There were no words, just music, and it was for my ears only. The sounds alleviated some of the chills from my body, and I grabbed a blanket from the couch to wrap myself in it. I nestled deep in the blanket and yawned. I was tired; it surprised me how much so. I yawned noisily again.
“Sleep tight, baby girl. I will always be there for you.” I smiled. Maybe I had found someone safe, but the thought became frayed as the music faded, and I drifted off to a dreamless sleep again. Maybe tomorrow, I would remember those words, or maybe they became a part of a distant memory too.
30 meters
Read at your own discretion… This short fiction is about a suicidal person jumping off a roof. Not for the faint of heart.
*****
I am standing on the window ledge. Outside There’s barely space for my feet. They aren’t large. It’s the sneakers which make them appear huge. Is that a stain on my Jeans? Does it make sense that I care? The wind is playing in my hair. I like that. And the wind kisses my face. It’s not cold. Not warm either. Something in between. Pleasant. I should have undressed. I should have thought about experiencing all of this naked. Naked I came into the world and naked I will leave. But I didn’t prepare this. There is no plan. The way my jacket flaps against my chest irks me. I take it off and let it glide down. I watch the black cloth as it floats down down down until it hides the gasping crowd. The people down there on the sidewalk are all looking up at me. Are they seeing me? Do they know who I am or why I am here? Are they seeing tomorrow’s headlines? I hope there aren’t any children. Parents shouldn’t gawk and watch a person jump off a roof with their children. That’s bad parenting. How will they explain to the little ones what they are witnessing when they have no idea what they are looking at?! They don’t know me and my messed up mind.
I look up into the sky. It’s grey. The clouds are moving fast. I always liked the clouds. I liked to watch them and dream myself away. Away from my life. I smile and try to touch the cotton-like clouds. But I can’t quite reach them. And yet…
I feel that I am in control. For the first time in my life. I will end here. My life, my journey – they will end here.
I can hear the wail of sirens. I can’t see them yet, but they are coming for me. Or whatever will be left of me after I landed head first on the concrete. Who are they? Firefighters? Paramedics? The police? Haha, the Police – Sting. Fields of Gold and that version Eva Cassidy sang that always chokes me up. Was her name Cassidy or Cassedy? I will look it up later. Oh right! There will be no later. I will miss Music… was my first love and it will be my last. Music of the fut-SHUT-UP!! Thoughts, shut the fuck up! This is not the time and not the place to distract me.
I check my pockets. I don’t want anything falling out and hurting my audience. Keys. Cellphone. Pen. I crouch down and put them on the ledge next to me. I get up, smile again and braid my hair. I don’t have anything to keep it together, but at least it’s not in my face anymore. I used to love the wind in my hair. Why is it irritating me right now? Maybe I should have shaved my head before coming up here, but… no. I like my hair. And I didn’t plan this. There is no plan. I run my fingers over the thick braid. My mood is shifting. From bubbly to irritated and angry.
My knees are weak. They are shaking, but it’s okay. It’s the height, I am not a fan of heights. Soon, I am going to fly. I wonder how it will feel to be weightless. Carried by the wind. That Lenny Kravitz song comes to my mind I want to get away. I wanna fly away yeah yeah… and I try to push it out of my head. I don’t want it to be my last soundtrack. Maybe ‘asleep’ by the Smiths would be good or ‘I don’t fit’ by Madrugada… I should have made a playlist before coming up here. I feel completely unprepared, and I don’t even have an appropriate song in my head. I should have planned this, but there is no plan.
I shake my head and jump. No more reason to pull off the inevitable. Goodbye, cruel world. I’m leaving you today…
30 meters
I can fly, and I am screaming in ecstasy. It’s better than I thought. I’m flying without wings. Whoohoo!! I wonder if I shut my door and turned off the music. Did I lock my car and feed the cat? I should have paid my rent yesterday. I forgot. Does it still matter?
25 meters
Did I call my friends and leave them notes? I didn’t. How will they remember me, and will they be sad? I know, I was rather complicated, but maybe they’ll realize that they miss me and that they loved me. I just hope that they don’t forget me. And I hope they will not talk bad about me. I should have been more approachable.
20 meters
I hope I don’t make a huge mess. Poor people standing there. Oh, but what if I hit one of them when I touch the ground? Will they die too? Will that make me a murderer. I don’t want to be a murderer. Please, move!
15 meters
I am hungry. I should have eaten before climbing up the stairs. Chocolate would be nice now. Or a burger. I will miss a couple of things. Pasta… mhmm…
10 meters
My braid came undone, and my hair covers my face. I am still flying. But I can’t see it.
5 meters
Wow, this is really happening!
4 meters
It’s too fast. It’ll be over soon.
3 meters
Is there life after death. I deserve a second chance.
2 meters
Please don’t let it hurt
1 meter
…
*****
My mind is twisted. I am not sure where the idea for this came from.
reflections of an unquiet mind 