Obsession

Her face.

Her face is all I see.

Everywhere. Everywhere. Everywhere.

That cute child; I swear She must’ve looked like that when She was a toddler.

That woman with auburn hair ; She will look like that in 10 years time.

That girl in that hair product billboard; her warm chocolate eyes are the exact replica of Hers.

Oh, I can’t wait to see Her face, run the tips of my fingers on Her smooth pale skin, feel Her heart beat faster against my chest, caress the insides of Her mouth with my tongue.

I shiver at the thought and I feel a hint of a smile tug at my lips. I hurry home.

One more corner. Three more steps. A key to the doorknob. A twist, a couple of steps to go inside, a door closing, a lock bolting.

I drop the grocery by the door, eager to finally, finally, see Her. I make my way to my room.

I sigh. There She is.

“You look so glorious. My angel,” I say to Her.

She’s on the bed, lying on Her back, Her pale skin uncovered, magnificent and absolutely mouth watering. Her arms are spread like wings on Her sides, Her wrists fastened to the bed post with the reddest ribbon, Her hair in perfect disarray. I shiver again.

My feet step closer to Her, my hands reach for Her, my eyes drink the wonderful sight of Her. I wipe my drool with my shirt.

I carefully climb the bed, afraid to disturb Her sleep. Oh, the fun we had last night. Her screams were muffled but some still escaped and those that did still rang in my ears like a melodic song.

“Wake up, sweetheart,” I whisper when I’m completely hovering above Her. I brush my knuckles under the curve of Her breast.

She stirs, blinks two times, looks up at me, and holds in a breath. I smile.

“P-please,” Her voice cracks and I savor it, every note of it. “Please let me go…” She whispers.

“I told you last night, honey. You only have to say your name and I’ll let you go,” I say in my most convincing voice. She shakes her head. I am glee and laughter and ecstasy.

“Then we’ll have another round of last night and you know how I adored you, savored you, devoured you,” I say as I run the tip of my nose down Her jaw to Her collarbone. She lets out a sob.

“You only have to say it.”

A tear slips out of Her eye and I catch it with my tongue.

“Say ‘I am Yours'”.

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Wrecked

You think she lied when she told you she took up some drugs.
You think she’s kidding when she showed you all her needle marks,
Although she likes to tell some stories, she’s not making up.
I hope she’ll make it through today and when things get bad.

She’s put out like a candle on a windy day
She’s drowning like a coin in the sea
She may be ruined but she is evergreen
She’s breaking through the concretes and the paint

She smiles, she laughs
She needs to act that she is tough.
She aches, she burns
But none will see; she covered up the cracks.
She jokes around, you think she’s fine
She ran out of luck

You never knew she drink away her sorrow in the happy mart.
You thought she knew to never really trust those guys
Now she’s smoking in the car, drinking beer and getting high.
You hoped she’ll make it home by dawn alright — safe and sound.

She was your friend.
Remember when you befriended her ’cause she was new,
And the time you gave her a rose on her 21st?
But that is now only a memory, part of the history of you and her.

The Perfect Crime

I’ve committed the perfect crime.
I sit here, in the room they think is fit for me — a bed with a single pillow and blanket, bare walls with only one window barred from the world. I wrap my puppet in a warm embrace, the last remaining reminder of my daughter’s existence to everyone who knew her. No, I am not in prison. My door is not locked though I am advised not to leave the facility for my safety. They think I’m crazy. I laugh at the most inappropriate times and talk to my puppet like she’s alive. No, I am not crazy. This, and everything that happened after her death and everything that will follow, is all part of my plan.
“How are you this evening, George?” Martha, one of the many nurses in this building, asks.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking, Martha,” I answer with a smile.
“Good, good. Dinner is ready, you might want to head to the dining hall.” She pauses, eyeing my puppet then adds, “You know what? You can bring Alice with you tonight, so she won’t be lonely.”
“Papa,” echoes Alice’s tiny voice, “may I kill her?”
Martha shudders visibly while I laugh and say, “Silly thing, no. We like Martha.”
The puppet slumps into a saddened heap. Alice the puppet is not a beautiful puppet. It is not meant for children who wanted sleep and dreams. Why? Because the puppet is the picture of my daughter’s last moments, injuries and all.
“Ex-excellent performance, George. Well then.” Martha escapes with hurried steps.

The kitchen staff provides nutritious food for us deranged people five times a day though the food’s nutrition factor seems to contradict its taste. I don’t complain.
I eat in silence, occasionally offering some to my puppet Alice, which often gives others the excuse to laugh or throw confused looks at me. Some just ignores me, content in their own misery and bliss like me.
“George?” Martha hesitantly asks. “Dr. Martin wants to speak with you. I believe it’s important. Will you please come with me?”
“Of course,” I say. “May I bring Alice?”
“Su-sure, sure.”
She leads me to my personal psychiatrist. Dr. Martin is a formal gentleman who is too good at what he does. I do feel that sometimes Dr. Martin knows that I am not really crazy, that what I do is just my façade though if my hunch is true, it makes me question whether the true crazy is him and not me.
“Welcome, George,” says Dr. Martin. “How are you feeling?”
He always opens up our conversation with that question into which I answer, “Fine.”
He is uncharacteristically quiet this evening but I do nothing to break the silence.
“I am so very sorry to be the bearer of bad news but,” he hesitates, then adds in a morose voice, “your wife has died.”
A shrill laughter erupts from Alice’s open mouth, making Dr. Martin flinch.
I look Dr. Martin in the eye and say, “My wife has been dead to me since she twisted my Alice’s arm till it broke. She had me tied to a chair and made me watch as she carved my daughter like a fruit. Alice was a strong girl and I prayed and prayed that she were not. I shouted at the gods for my daughter to loose consciousness as that bitch dragged a knife across Alice’s pale stomach, spelling her own damned name.” I am breathing heavily now, clutching my puppet tight to my chest as the scenes of my daughter’s death flashes again and again on my mind. “I stopped feeling when the bitch went for my Alice’s eye.”
Dr. Martin grasps my hands in his tightly and looks into my wild eyes with sorrow and pity. “I understand,” he says. “You are safe here, George. Beyond safe. I just want you to know that I am here for you should you feel the need to share what you are feeling now.”
“I feel like it’s a dream come true,” I whisper.
“Alright. Why don’t you get some sleep first, Martha will take you back in your room, and we’ll talk again tomorrow.”
I nod and let Martha guide me.
I sit in my bed and lift my puppet to look at it straight in the eyes.
“Thank you, Alice.” Because of it, somewhere in a mound of earth, lies the bitch that killed Alice, buried deep into the ground. Because of my puppet, I will sleep without anyone suspecting me of murder.
The puppet’s arms move and envelop me in an embrace.
“I love you, Papa.”

Christmas Present

You said you loved me. You said you wanted to be with me.
You said you’ll stay with me forever.
Lies.
You told me you were true yet I heard you utter the same things to her. You said you’ll be late for dinner then I saw you dine with her.
You said you’ll be home late because of work but I saw you walk down that club with her.
I asked you once what you wanted for Christmas, and you told me you would have anything and you want it like how I usually wrap it –in silk with a red ribbon. Now I lay, dressed in silk and the reddest of red around my wrist becomes the ribbon that comes with it.
Merry Christmas dear, i know you’ll be with her tonight.
Have fun!

Plaything

“What happened to your human, Princess?” asked a servant faerie to its mistress.
“I think it is broken,” replied the princess who prodded the curling figure beneath her feet. “I do not understand. I feed it enough summer fruit and spring water to make its sanity last. I make it rest when it has to and perform only the simplest things within its capabilities. I do not let the hounds chase it nor expose it to other nobility for amusement. It is my plaything and now it would not move.”
“Should I get another one, Princess?” offered the servant.
“No. My prince brother gave it to me and I treasure it,” declared the princess, “I will find a way to fix it.”
The servant moved towards the figure and observed, “It cries.”
“At first it does not. It laughs and sings and dances but now all I hear is a faint whisper of a name on its lips,” said the princess.
“Perhaps we should return it to their world if only for a moment. You know what happens to humans who stay long in our realm,” reminded the servant.
“I do. They lose their value and become mere decorations on my mother’s ice garden,” answered the princess.
“They lose a piece of their sanity the longer they remain here and time is insignificant in Faerie. It’s a shame for your plaything to end up this way for I have seen other humans ending in a more…absurd state. Quite entertaining, if you ask me.”
The princess glared, “You speak too forward, servant.”
The servant bowed, “Pardon me, Princess.”
A thinking look settled over the princess’s serene face. A moment after she ordered, “Prepare the carriage.” She crouched over her human, cupped its face with the both of her hands and whispered, “You will be fixed.”

They stood just outside the forest’s outline; the princess in her blue-green spider-silk dress that swayed at the slightest touch of wind, her servant at her side and her plaything on the other. The princess peeked at the human’s face and saw realization and reason and awareness slowly creep in.

“You know where we are, don’t you?” the princess asked.
The human was silent for a moment, then, “Home,” it said that sounded like a sigh and sob combined.

Beyond the forest lies a cottage owned by an old woman whose once beautiful face now marred with time’s passing. The old woman sat on her porch, hummed a lullaby and looked to where they stood in the forest’s shadows. She kept turning a golden ring on her finger that was identical to what the plaything always wore.

“Go,” the princess ordered.
With struggling movements, the human stumbled and turned to her and cupped her face with its hands which caused the servant to gasp. “Thank you,” it said with tears running down its face.
“You do not thank a fey, plaything, if you do not want to be indebted to one,” she said with a straight face.
“Even then, I am grateful to you for bringing me back.”
The princess slowly separated herself from the human’s touch. “You should not be. You needed to be fixed so here we are.” She tilted her head to the side and regarded the human’s expression, “Perhaps if I find myself in need of amusement, I will have someone to fetch you.”
She stepped back and melted into the shadows, her servant silently followed, “Until then, plaything.”

The two faeries watched him stumble towards the cottage, watched as the old woman rose from her seat and welcomed her lover; once lost and now returned.

“Do you think it wise to return the human to its lover?” asked the servant.
“I do. I treasure my plaything and it is the best that I could do,” said the princess proudly.

Together they slipped back into Faerie but not without a last glance and a smile on their lips.

To Peace

I died.

Everything, no matter where I look, is so bright. Unlike that final moment when darkness slowly crept across my vision until all I saw was darkness. At that moment, I realized I’m finally dead. I didn’t think I’d wake up once more, but here I am, standing in the middle of nowhere.

“Come forward,” called a voice.

I look down and see my own two bared feet. I raise my arms and see my red-streaked wrists. I examine my blood-splattered dress and realize there’ll be no changing them. I take a step forward—not caring where ‘forward’ may lead—and follow the voice.

“Stop.”

I obey.

“What is your name?”

I look around and see no one besides myself. Where the voice is coming from? That I do not know. If I could still speak—that I am not aware—but is still worth a try so I clear my throat.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“The gates,” reply the voice.

“The gates to where?”

“To peace.”

To peace? My eyes flicker to my slashed wrists. “I’m not sure I deserve peace,” I hear myself say. Continue reading

Sunrise of our love

Every one of us is entrusted with a lock and a key — a lock to represent that person’s heart, and a key for that person’s love. I have never tried using my key for fear that it won’t open his lock. I have seen people with their locks opened by each other’s keys and I envy the way their eyes seem to follow their partner’s every move; their lips seem to widen when their hands touch and their laughs mix. I long for that.

“Where have you been?” he asks.

“Out,” I answer with a smile.

“You shouldn’t stay out this late at night,” he says.

We have always been together since our parents died. We have treated each other as family though my blood and his were like different rivers from different parts of the world. But I treat him with more love than he does with me and he doesn’t know it. He can’t.

“Today I saw her at the end of a boy’s line again. And it seemed no one has opened her lock yet. You still have your chance,” I tell him the words that are the complete opposite to what my heart have always shouted.

A tinge of annoyance crosses his eyes before he stands and blocks me and my path to my room.

“Aleix,” he drops my name and I scramble to catch it.

“Wha-what?”

He drops his gaze, stares into his shoes for a minute, then glances back at me.

“Have you used your key?” I watch his blood slowly color his face.

“What? No,” confused, I ask him, “have you?”

Instead of answering, he cups his hands and a bluish light starts to glow. When he opens them, the most beautiful thing — my most favorite thing — floats between his hands, his key. His are colored from midnight with tiny sparks of stars. Without knowing, I mimic his actions and draw out my key. We used to do this when we were little, to calm ourselves on stormy nights or after a fight. My key borrowed the colors of dawn. Both of us were quiet for a few heartbeats.

“Do you remember our promise when we were little, that when we grow up, we’ll at least try if our keys fit our locks?”

I’m afraid to answer, to speak, to lie and turn back. So I nod. He touches his chest and there his lock emerged. “Over the years, I’ve deceived myself. I let you roam free and see others the way I wanted you to look at me. Every night when we sleep I think of what we could have been — what we could be — if I tell you how much you mean to me. Every night, I pray that your lock would open to my key, that my love would be enough for you to love me back. But I am a coward and my heart is weak. So I gave you lies of wanting that woman, so you could somehow find a man that I desperately wanted to be. And I see now that that has not happened yet, and here, I am offering all of myself to you in the hopes that you feel the same way towards me too. No matter what the outcome may be, my feelings for you won’t change. So, if—if you would be willing…”

He offers me his key and I am frozen in place, thinking that this couldn’t possibly be true, that what he just said wasn’t what I have always dreamed he would say. But he is looking at me with those irresistible violet eyes that seem to put courage into my heart. So I take a deep breath and place my hand in my chest.

“Over the years, I’ve held myself back. I watch you fawn over her the way I wanted you to notice me. Every night when I couldn’t sleep, I think of what could have happened if I’d just toughen up and tell you of my feelings for you. And I pray. I pray that when that time comes, when I finally hold out my key for you, you would accept it and I’d hear your lock opening.” I look at his eyes and let out a small laugh. “But the gods have a better idea at fulfilling our prayers.”

We hold our keys directly across our locks and for the first time, we look at each other with the same expressions of vulnerability, of trust and of love.

“Together?” he whispers.

“Together.” I answer.

When we turn our keys and hear the soft clicks of our opened locks, we meet each other’s eyes and he mouths “I love you” and I say it back. Together, we watch our locks grow bright — the sunrise of our love.