The Blissful Moment

Let the pain out

 

The Blissful Moment

 

          It wasn’t ill fitting clothes it was an ill fitting body. The shadows, the edges, the blemishes and scars. Each screaming, urging, demanding change.

          Bony fingers travelled up and down, across and around, tracing outlines, feeling bumps, like a book in Braille, some told a story, others held secrets. Some changed in the light others disappeared as if shy.

          The bony fingers knew every story in the book, every emotion and thought that went into every chapter, but didn’t know how it ended, where it was going, or even the plot.

          One stung, a sharp intake of breath, fresh, raw, angry. The bony fingers lingered, caressed, enjoyed, remembered. Hidden passion and open pain, enough almost to induce a half smile, gone as quickly as it appeared.

          It glimmered and shimmered as it caught the light, prized possession, the deliverer of all and nothing. The bony fingers played with it, carefully at first, an almost nervous touch.

          The need was there, the need was strong. Feelings built up to near explosion.

          The bony fingers stopped their play, now gripped with determination the prized possession cut quickly.

          The pain was sharp.

          Everything was lost.

          For one blissful moment.

          One magical, beautiful, powerful moment.

          There was nothing.

          No fear.

          No loneliness.

          No envy.

          No judgement.

          Nothing.

          The blood was red, so very very red.

          Then it was back.

          The world butting in.

          Clammering for attention.

          The moment lost.

          The bony fingers smudged the streak, the red diluted, but still in stark contrast to the porcelain arm.

          The blood had turned black at the opening to the wound, a dark angry black.

          There was the merest tingle, a pathetic remnance of the blissful moment.

          The black bubble mocking.

          The world accusing.

          The air insulting.

          It all returned, flooded back, a torrent almost overwhelming. Senses bombarded, defences breached and weaknesses exposed.

          The merest tingle.

          The bony fingers burst the bubble.

          Destroyed it, annihilated it.

          Removed it from existence.

          Another started to take its place.

          The hurt still there.

          Pain worse than before.

          Inside, devouring, leaving nothing but a useless empty husk, of no use to man nor beast.

          Bony fingers caressed the newest chapter, took in every line and innuendo, but found no answers there.

          Standing loud and proud, the newest chapter proclaimed its arrival, its inclusion in the story. The story with no plot.

Author's Note

I tried to concentrate on the rythmn throughout this piece

Reviews

[1809 Black Plague Decem..]

HI Alistair, the beginning sentence about the skin not fitting really stood out. Also, the use of "bony" makes me wonder what macabre storyline will lead to. Great start! Love the style, ---Mishel