Atoms of Fire.

A short story, I think. Densely packed and fed from a frosted memory. I loathe romance.

I stare at him from across the room, beneath my curtain of locks; though I do not doubt that he can see me, feel my heavy stare grazing each contour of his perfection. My breaths press against the constricting fabric of my vest, each gasp for freedom pushes the haze further down into my mind, my tongue tastes the air for him. I know this obsession is not sane, I know it is the dream of a wilting and thorn-sharpened rose whose petals have long since fallen to rest upon the tear-dampened earth to leave merely the skeleton of a once fragile beauty, and yet I daren't cease the feelings that course throughout my being.

It has been such a long time since I have felt. Ever since the numbness descended upon me I have been drowning in the thick muddy defeat that pulls only on the limbs that continue to flail. The tunnel obliterates the light of my salvation, leaving me behind in the stones and the sea. Darkness surrounds, ever blanketing; I think they wish to silence my screams from those who may hear, thought it may be a device of self-murder, I am not sure.

I barely remember who it is I am, my name is all I know; of course there once was someone within this shell but with the light, she fled, taking the ability to see beauty from me. I resent her for it of course, although 'beauty is in the eye of the beholder', making me question the fact that everything I see dissolves into the gaping mouths of monsters; overflowing with the terror of those who thrive on them.

He is the only exception; sitting upon the chair that represents the throne I have thrown him upon in my desire for a taste of the love I know he holds within his Adonis exterior. Self-preservation has left me I see, as I continue to admire the lone king who lies amidst those he has slain, they all stare with glazed expressions upon the master of death. Not that he notices of course.

I stare at the page beneath my stationary pen, unsurprised to see the drawing that has bloomed through my daydream; it is not my worst yet. The lines lie with a fluidity that takes me to my sea, as I drift upon the waves of a self-destructive ocean of lies. Just as I stare at him from my corner of the social group I have no craving to belong to, he stares at me from the page of my mind.

Green eyes with flecks of hard betrayal accuse me, and I fall. Unable to pick myself from the ground I stare at the stars, part of me dies with each of them, the matter that makes my bones came from the birth, the death. Did they caress my shattered heart with gaseous mountains?

My head falls; I cannot catch my breath, leaves turn to ash where my particles make contact. Atoms of fire leap from my skin to the earth below and with it I am consumed. Eyes closed and mouth agape with the silent wanton hiss of agony I arch into the destruction, gazing darkly at my demon who sits upon the untouched earth beyond, looking on with a devilish delight. He comes closer till the burning rage heats his heart of stone, fangs of lust gleam in thirst as claws reach for vulnerability. A grating voice douses the flames that lick and caress me, images scatter; the pen has continued on without my permission.

I glance upward and they all stare, eyes a monotonous glare of distaste, the voice comes again and so I, in turn direct my stare to the source of it. The voice comes again though this time it falters, aware, as they all are of the rumoured violent lapses in my mental stability, my stare does not waver. The voice dies away no longer flaring it wilts, before being extinguished all together, like my sacrificial flames.

I return to the page in front of me, this time there is no beauty in the lines. It is me, head straining back with an expression that crosses from pain into pleasure and back again; from different angles each emotion is emphasized a little more. My body is raised upon an alter of bones as I am devoured by flames; within each lapping destruction there lies a screaming and twisted face.

My psyche is troubled today.

I feel like a villain, though am unsure as to the reasons for this new revelation, perhaps it is due to the fact that I am coveting something that needn't have the imperfections of dirt thrust upon it. It may also have something to do with the fact that he is also yearned for by the one that hurts me in the darkness.

He could to better than that.

I stand with the others, move on, and continue on with my day in a constant loop of mindless action.

As it comes to a close an unnatural darkness occurs, she is carrying the rage of a storm with her, it affects the sun that was falling down in a crescendo of finality. How strange. I face her, absorb the words of hatred and try to get my head around the fact that her darkness is encroaching on the light of my public eye.

I promised myself I wouldn't let her take away the light from me, but what to do. I've never hit back; it will only cause more pain when real darkness falls.

I feel brick razors at my back and acidic drops of her hatred on my face. Still I can't make the decision, through the ever-blackening sky I see him. He approaches and I see a bubbling fury, though he does ever so well to hide it from the serpent in front of me.

She turns back to her porcelain self and melts into his touch, he glances at me with pity in his gaze and I am immediately withered, my adoration freezes and turns to annoyance: I despise pity.

Though I should be used to their sickening touches I still turn away, he is often with her in the darkness.

I stare upward and the rain falls. Washing away the anger, I slide down and close my eyes, blood falls around me as they entwine within each other. A tear mixes with the rain and I break yet again; the stars are forever dying, imploding, exploding with them I become a black hole, my weight falling into a terrible nothingness.
Green eyes haunt me chasing me on the faces of those beasts; claws bury themselves in my bark, forever frozen in the scars of my defeat.

Yes, beauty lies within the eyes of the beholder.

Real darkness falls, the silence beyond torture lies heavy, a collective holding of breaths as I await my defeat. Hush now, she slumbers with the burden of my lightening I, however, do not, lest her eyes open and blades come forth.

I wish they would stop the incessant scratching; it cuts and grates within the hammers beating me, a metaphorical spanner in the works of my mechanical thoughts. My growl of protest dies however, as I stare out the window of reflection. The blur of dusk illuminated scenery seems to calm my seething mess of sneers. The moon hangs weighted by its pregnant mass. The trees sway in time to a breeze invisible in its destructive bass line.

The night howls; my window groans. Sympathy: I understand your woeful protest; I hold within me my own cracking moans, they split through layers of marbled concrete bringing down my resolve.

Watch rain pour down and wonder; about trickling down the porous sheet of delicate skin. To fall spinning and crashing into a world of separates: oil on the surface of a shining life, into congealed groups they change.

Bring forth the pen oh prodigal one of mine, lie the ink down upon the page that represents the life we have come to hold. A biography of fragility and pointless agony, not to hold meaning, further than those minds we so often glance into. Crack open the thin shell of inquiry and see what beauties lie deepened and cradled in milky comfort. Disappointed in the blackened charcoal finds within thriving intelligence; how distressing that those shiny emeralds of intellect fade beneath inquiry.   

They ask why I murmur under the currents of social etiquette, but they don't understand the battle constantly being waged inside my marble exterior; their question is understandable, despite its naïveté. Though I suppose the low whispers sing against their ideals of the acceptable.

I laugh in the face of the conventional, tearing the facade off those that lie to behold the highest column of group politics. Letting the blackened charcoal blood form beneath their stools of representational power, 'look, look'! I shall point out the lies and shameful deceit as I dance through the flames, unveiling the fig leaf covering the exploitation, torture and murder.

Scurry away naked as their burning eyes penetrate the wounds: blood pours forth. Rape me of my filth, evacuate this broken shell, and move on to the next husk of domicile. Forever in a sprint of desperation, we entwine ourselves in surrounding branches.

She sleeps now. By this tiny star of light, I carve the horrors they whisper. The blackness came upon, after the nails and prodding, shivers of trepidation break out upon this young flesh; the flesh of a girl with a heart of an elder.

I envy the beasts' ability to rest; mine eyes daren't close for fear of the monsters that await. I cannot escape the reality of my nightmares. They snarl at me, cackling at the waking betrayal of my constant witness to the cold pinch of distasteful manipulation.

Every crack of the whip brings a fresh welt upon my diaphaneity. I shatter slowly, unlike the mirror whereupon I brought my instrument of destruction. The fragments from that disgrace dispersed upon impact with hurried immediacy.

I played the strings with perfection unlike that I have seen before. The desperate ache of floating fluidity courses through me.

He has been with her every time the darkness has taken over now; his demeanour towards the devil however, has changed dramatically. Perhaps he goes by lunar cycle; one can never be sure. His distance flickers through the forked tongue of the snake that tempts.

Perhaps her manipulation has turned her back to serpentine form forever more. With her allurement vanished and vanquished along with her paled mask, he sees her darkness.

Yet, none of us shall escape the snare of claws caging us within her twisted form of obsession.

At least for now he still lies upon the other side of the line, the resentment that will cover the atmosphere should his footfall slip, shall burn through my restraint if he steps of those wire razors.

I adore too hard.

He has fallen prey to the preying-mantis: the prince of darkness descends from his throne as king. Her talons leave scorched ragged lines of resistance upon the proud trunk. The slain rise up to avenge their broken egos.

He is surrounded.

The ice queen merely laughs, blowing frost onto my burning torment, freezing the torture in a constant. A whimper spills from broken lips; try to swallow it back, but in vein.

Instantly her knife is swung down: I fall. My knees disappear beneath the weight of my despair. Her fangs slice through me with ease, all the while her glance is upon those green eyes. My feathers are matted in the breeze. They left a long time ago, leaving me to the elements. I pull myself tighter, a cord of abandonment snaps.

Light seeps through her curtains, a sliver lands upon this page, I have not stopped to rest my eyes this night. Hurriedly skip lightly down stairs. Make her the desired portions. Her anger boils faster than the whistling kettle. Return up.

Harsh words cause a spill and slip of the precious liquid. Gold scatters to the floor and out comes the punishing humility. Blackness seeps around the edges. A warm whisper of comfort and promises of sleep cuts through the blurred corners.

Gratitude is stronger than gold.

When I wake from a slumber of shadow-free relief it is to the dungeon within my chasm. Draw my legs up to my chest in a primal urge for protection as I begin to imagine what is happening to that me out there. No sound penetrates this walled vacuum, for which I am glad. It is a cowardly confession to want to close the door on evidence of ones suffering.

Come unconsciousness embrace me.

It is within my house of whispers that I awake next, I look down, I am here, and here is home. My clothes have not a wrinkle of a sign of the activities thrust upon me during the morning. My body tells a different story. Waggle the skeletal fingers in experiment; it is as I thought: they are weighed down with a shameful guilt. Convulse in angry confusion, my weakness is laid out bare with her more than anywhere. I am useless. I am a wasteful residue of matter, and I itch.

This restlessness, it is an emotion that I am far too familiar with. I want to be doing something, feeding my gut with inspiration is no longer enough. Writing a literature that is abused and battered merely seems to urge the anger on in its destructive path.

My stomach lies as a canvas would in front of me. I know where my pleasure lies; I can visualize going down the stairs and floating on the path that leads me to my downfall. Open the draws that houses my key, the cage holds no ownership upon me now, cackle a laughter that holds the bitter taste of an evil mistress.

My eyes shoot open, the tender grip I held on my control snaps and in a flurry of bones and cloth I am up and flying on the height of desire down to my beauty. It is as I hoped as I pulled open the wooden chest.
Wandering upon the dress of my woven truths, I open each vein in a way that calculates the desired attention.  

A tsunami of release washes throughout the shores beneath my layers. Convulsions cease. Spread-eagled out upon sheets of virgin purity I bleed disgust. Darkness falls yet again; the moon pulls the string attached to my damaged wrist, a tide of slashes beckon and the sky is painted red.

Reviews

[Color of the Iris]

This was very dark, and your vivid imagery was awesome! My favorite line was "Unable to pick myself from the ground I stare at the stars, part of me dies with each of them". This was a great piece, and I was easily captivated as I took each paragraph in. This was eerily beautiful, and painfully sweet. It's the opposite things that balance each other out, and this was perfect. Great job! 100/100

~ Iris ~