WristFreshman year of high school I had a friend who talked about killing herself, cutting herself, hating herself. I never quite understood the trauma or her family situation, but when I faced by own teenage turmoil she was the only example I had.Wrist4 years ago in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
She was the only one who seemed to know how to handle the situation.
One day my father came up behind me as I was washing dishes, placed his hands on my stomach tight and kissed my neck with wet lips and an unruly beard. I only knew what movies and television fed me, only knew that teenagers are supposed to be confused and immature and meant do drastic things. After he left for work I took scissors and dragged them across my left wrist so many times I lost count, sobbing and hurting and growing.
For the next few days I locked myself in the bathroom every few hours and watched the blood drip, clot, thicken as deep, itchy scabs on tanned skin. I hid them with a wristband my father bought me at an Angels baseball game.
I stopped soon after (was caug
VainMost would consider her vain.Vain4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
"Tell me I'm beautiful."
She wants to get lost in his eyes and his bed and his limbs. She wants to create obsession, prevent progression and stay between his heart and priorities all night.
She wants to be a bad influence with her hips and her hair and her breath on his neck. She wants all of him in all of her and all around her because he's heaven.
Apathy creates lust and abandonment produces love and they'll stay burning under the sheets all day and forget phone bills and day jobs. He'll bite at curves and crevices of mint and vanilla and melodies will cascade from her mouth. She'll treat him with just the bit of manners he hates, bring him to the precipice of pleasure and blindness, then clasp her lips tight to make him hers forever.
Throat filled with ecstasy, trust on her tongue she'll kiss him and beg him and scatter nail marks on his back.
"Tell me I'm beautiful." She'll breathe.
He'll obey because both of them are brainwashed by sw
DreamsA caustically fabricated memory sets a spark in the first exhalation of morning (afternoon?) and she has the urge to cry.Dreams4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
To think that dreams -nightmares- could hold her heart with such terrible claws (but the thoughts of him hold reigns so tightly on her back; he knows many pretty women, and it's only natural to worry after the undressing, the holding hands, the crying in front of him). To think that even sleep, once repose, could beckon tears and heart-shivers and immobility.
She ponders why, all of a sudden, sleep is frightening again.
Perhaps it's the empathy of her nature. She feels heart-wrenching guilt for moments long past; she feels hardening regret for things said to unkind people; she feels more love than she's allotted for those closest to her (goddamn, devotion is terrifying).
Perhaps it's the fear of vulnerability and pretty women and how sex is never right a few hours after (unless she can see the adoration in his eyes she will always feel objectified), and, though the
WakeEyes meet, hands no longer touch. Smile meets grimace and the hope for compassion and understanding meets cynicism and a broken heart.Wake4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She's ruptured him, but there's no turning back.
It's been weeks since she's ever directly said something to him. It's been a few days since she didn't call him for Valentine's Day and it's been years (it seems) since she's let him touch her. And still she wonders why he brushes her away, doesn't make eye contact, doesn't create conversation.
She has ruined him.
So long ago they were something, so short of a time ago they were just about to start and they were going to last. Yet without any sort of explanation she flies away; leaves him in the winter cold for a new spark, for a flame that is stronger than anything she has with him.
She wishes she could apologize, but that's just how things happen. She did not mean to fall in love, did not mean to forget him so easily, did not mean to take his body and his trust and his time in an embrace that she knew w
TrainsTrains thunder and lips crash. It's another sweaty, pulsating night hidden by red curtains and a hand over her mouth. The train horn blows and she arches her back, eyes squeezed tight, her clothes scattered across the floor like leaves.Trains4 years ago in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
She recedes into the crevice of his collarbone with a breath of addiction, kisses it with dejection. His conviction to keep her in his arms is hard like cinderblock and his eyes are puddles of passion dripping her name as he whispers:
"I love you."
The earth hums, the train screeches, accelerates, the conductor loses control. Hot breath, rhythmic exertion, his name (and God) condensate on glass, and trembling limbs and codependent tears dampen bedsheets. The light is blinding, the mechanical roar deafening, the push, pull, struggle paralyzing--
The train conductor can't see the lonely body thrown into center frame.