L I F E L I N E
Posted: 24 Jul 2017, 07:34
He’s gone.
It took me four hours to write those two words. Four hours of sitting in the pouring rain as my fingers clutched the pen until my hand cramped and my knuckles paled. Four hours of shielding the paper so the ink wouldn’t run – so I could force these words out. It didn’t matter that my hair was plastered to my skull, or my clothes were drenched and heavy as they clung to my form. I didn’t care about the stares of pity as the cities inhabitants ran for safety, clearly worried for my sanity. I remained stagnant as lightning sparked across the sky and thunder caused the earth to tremble, my eyes glued to the empty lines. I knew what I needed to write, I could hear the words in my mind, taste them on my tongue – but to actually put them into the world, to breathe them or pen them…
Well, that would make them too real.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Blaize. I’m not sure if I should – if he would even still want to see me. Does he remember me? God, how dramatic of a question is that? My world has fallen apart, my face is streaked with the tears that refuse to stop, my throat raw from sobbing, and I wonder if he remembers me. How could he forget me? I’m the mess that he stumbled upon. The disaster he thought to save – and I hadn’t hesitated to get as far away as I could from him. Of course, I had my reasons – he’s gone – and reasons I know he understood. Did he offer to come with me?
God, I can’t remember.
He’s gone.
The only thing I can remember is the sound of his girlfriend, her voice broken as she told me he was in the hospital. No, not he. Goddamnit, not he. My father. My hero. My reason for being. My father was in the hospital, she whispered, voice heavy with tears, and I should come home.
I made it five minutes before he died.
No one could tell me what had taken him. No one could answer any of my questions, or hold my hand, or understand why I trashed the hospital room, broke the windows to his car, or threw the nurse d own the hall. There was only one person that could reach me when I caved, and he was thousands of miles away. I didn’t even bother to call him.
He had his passion.
I had my breakdown.
If he finds out – if he sees it on the news, hears about it on the street – he might question it. He might wonder why I didn’t call him. He might worry about the safety of our kind. I didn’t hurt anyone. The nurse was a little bruised, but that wasn’t something she couldn’t heal from. Grief, they called it. That wasn’t a strong enough word for what was ripping me apart from the inside out. There wasn’t a word known to man that could explain the hollowed out hole in my chest. Even now, days later, sitting in a darkened, disgusting, alcohol filled alleyway in the pouring rain, the ache is there, consuming me.
Controlling me.
From the hospital, I went to the bar. From the bar, to someone’s bed. What was his name again? Eric? Christian? Keith? I should remember these things. I should have remembered his name – at least his face – but I can’t. I can’t even think of his eye color. I just know I woke up the day after my father’s death, white sheets twisted around my naked body, and a muscular arm draped across my breasts. I remember the sound of his blood in his veins, and I remember running as the hunger emerged.
Guilt.
I remember the guilt – I still feel it, and I don’t know why. I owe Blaize nothing, and he owes me nothing. This spell he cast on me, this monster he made me – that is why I feel the way I do. My father would have loved him. A man dedicated to his job, so intense that he sent me running – but he’s also a man that could never love me, or look at me as anything more than his creation – if he looked at me at all. That’s one reason I haven’t gone home. He knew when to expect me back. I left the night I left, just to remind him – I don’t know why I did that. I doubt he even read it.
If he did, he’s probably wondering where I am.
Not wondering as in caring – he doesn’t care. I don’t know how many times I have to write those words. ****, how has my life gone so wrong? Two of the most important men in my life, both having given me life, and one was gone, while the other--
I don’t know what the other is.
****.
It took me four hours to write those two words. Four hours of sitting in the pouring rain as my fingers clutched the pen until my hand cramped and my knuckles paled. Four hours of shielding the paper so the ink wouldn’t run – so I could force these words out. It didn’t matter that my hair was plastered to my skull, or my clothes were drenched and heavy as they clung to my form. I didn’t care about the stares of pity as the cities inhabitants ran for safety, clearly worried for my sanity. I remained stagnant as lightning sparked across the sky and thunder caused the earth to tremble, my eyes glued to the empty lines. I knew what I needed to write, I could hear the words in my mind, taste them on my tongue – but to actually put them into the world, to breathe them or pen them…
Well, that would make them too real.
I haven’t seen or spoken to Blaize. I’m not sure if I should – if he would even still want to see me. Does he remember me? God, how dramatic of a question is that? My world has fallen apart, my face is streaked with the tears that refuse to stop, my throat raw from sobbing, and I wonder if he remembers me. How could he forget me? I’m the mess that he stumbled upon. The disaster he thought to save – and I hadn’t hesitated to get as far away as I could from him. Of course, I had my reasons – he’s gone – and reasons I know he understood. Did he offer to come with me?
God, I can’t remember.
He’s gone.
The only thing I can remember is the sound of his girlfriend, her voice broken as she told me he was in the hospital. No, not he. Goddamnit, not he. My father. My hero. My reason for being. My father was in the hospital, she whispered, voice heavy with tears, and I should come home.
I made it five minutes before he died.
No one could tell me what had taken him. No one could answer any of my questions, or hold my hand, or understand why I trashed the hospital room, broke the windows to his car, or threw the nurse d own the hall. There was only one person that could reach me when I caved, and he was thousands of miles away. I didn’t even bother to call him.
He had his passion.
I had my breakdown.
If he finds out – if he sees it on the news, hears about it on the street – he might question it. He might wonder why I didn’t call him. He might worry about the safety of our kind. I didn’t hurt anyone. The nurse was a little bruised, but that wasn’t something she couldn’t heal from. Grief, they called it. That wasn’t a strong enough word for what was ripping me apart from the inside out. There wasn’t a word known to man that could explain the hollowed out hole in my chest. Even now, days later, sitting in a darkened, disgusting, alcohol filled alleyway in the pouring rain, the ache is there, consuming me.
Controlling me.
From the hospital, I went to the bar. From the bar, to someone’s bed. What was his name again? Eric? Christian? Keith? I should remember these things. I should have remembered his name – at least his face – but I can’t. I can’t even think of his eye color. I just know I woke up the day after my father’s death, white sheets twisted around my naked body, and a muscular arm draped across my breasts. I remember the sound of his blood in his veins, and I remember running as the hunger emerged.
Guilt.
I remember the guilt – I still feel it, and I don’t know why. I owe Blaize nothing, and he owes me nothing. This spell he cast on me, this monster he made me – that is why I feel the way I do. My father would have loved him. A man dedicated to his job, so intense that he sent me running – but he’s also a man that could never love me, or look at me as anything more than his creation – if he looked at me at all. That’s one reason I haven’t gone home. He knew when to expect me back. I left the night I left, just to remind him – I don’t know why I did that. I doubt he even read it.
If he did, he’s probably wondering where I am.
Not wondering as in caring – he doesn’t care. I don’t know how many times I have to write those words. ****, how has my life gone so wrong? Two of the most important men in my life, both having given me life, and one was gone, while the other--
I don’t know what the other is.
****.