An Epilogue For Red Lights
Warning: Contains sex, drugs, cutting, suicide, destructive behavior, abuse
Summary: He reminisces about her. She was fragile, and he insisted on breaking her, and now before her grave he can forget her suicide. She'd never know what she left behind… (A one-shot about a self-destructive love)
Her tresses were a raven black, an ashen charcoal shadowing hazel eyes and smeared eyeliner. There was a rhythmic pace to the beating of that heart and then sometimes, it'd skip beats.
I'd picture her in my mind when she'd disappear. She was a porcelain doll, my porcelain doll –the one I knew I could break. Her skin was like an angel, and she might as well have grown wings; beautiful, black wings with feathers ruffling in the wind oh-so gracefully.
Dolls carry their smiles everywhere, fake smiles offering pose comfort. Those smiles that are practiced over and over again in the mirror, and like those dolls, she practiced. And she was perfect.
Perfect with that lit cigarette burning, clipped in her right hand between index and middle finger. She'd tap it against the desk, with that perfect smile and watch as the ashes fell, sparking. Faultless, with her scars plaguing her arm –that cross carved at the joint of her arm, and the tiny marks of needles in and out- and the vodka I can taste on her lips, chapped and dry.
I thrust even harder, making sure I'd push hard enough she'd be screaming in agony. Sweat glistened on her body, tracing a path downwards. I bit down on her lips, claiming them. Hard enough, blood came out and I licked it off, forcing my lips down again.
She pushed me away, breathing in hard. I smiled and bit down on her lips again, kissing until I reached the nape of her neck. And soon I found her breasts and I couldn't help myself, soon she was screaming in agony and I pushed even harder, in her.
Love bites, red and I'd make sure left bruises, were scattered on her body. That body I craved for.
It was exhausting and I could breathe her in me. She had become limp, refusing. She tried to restrain me, to push me away but instead I grabbed both her arms and pinned them down on the mattress. Her body, naked and hot, lay before me. And I kissed her again, despite her tries to escape.
Our sex smelled like rape.
Oleanders, now withering littered her grave.
I, hands in my pockets, observed the stone. I observed the burial.
I never did go to the funeral.
I never did cry.
The sun was setting, it was humid and dry. I had wandered onto the dark street, a bottle half-empty of Whiskey. I pushed my back against the aging silver fence. The night loomed over me like memories; suffocating.
My head hung down, knee bent and close to my body. My arms were limp, resting against my tired knees.
I uttered some words. I knew what the passersby thought….
Runaway, Drunk, Homeless….Broken…
I hung onto the alcohol and then it dropped, too heavy for my grip. It shattered onto the pavement, liquid spreading into the cracks and glass filling the empty spaces
Soft doe eyes watched over me. Almost heaven-sent…
Her car was parked. I was drunk. She was here, a cigarette lit in her right hand, clipped between index and middle finger.
She supported me, but failed. I was too heavy and so she dragged me painfully, as I kept uttering nonsense. Her house was empty....
She dragged me to the white front door with its gold-painted brass handle, leaning me by the wall next to the spreading vines threatening to come to life and choke me, everything I yearned for.
I breathed in heavily and shoved her away, slapping her face in the process. I heard her inhale, cry softly and pursue on carrying me through the door.
She brought out her keys, jangling them and inserted them inside.
She opened the door and tried to hold my arm, guiding me. But I grabbed her hand and flung her away, smashing the side of her body against the door before falling onto the floor struggling to rise.
She bent down to aid me, but I refused and smacked her face angrily. She was sprawled on the floor, the way I was. The way it should be, the way we should be…
I searched the stone for an answer, though it offered nothing but silence. It was fall, the leaves spoke for each other.
I let her in, locking the door behind me and led her towards the living room. It was the middle of the night and the sky was deprived of stars, I noticed before locking the door. There was a fervent cold following her frail body which stood on the Welcome mat. The mat lied, she wasn't welcomed. It was late and I was tired, my house was cramped and she always came at the wrong time. But I always let her in, into a colder house than the outside.
"Where's your mom?" She asked, scrutinizing the mess.
"At work…." I answered. She observed my brother's room, the light seeping underneath the room.
I opened the sliding door and a breath of cold, fresh air hit me. I crossed my arms and she closed the sliding door behind us. We could still see the inside of my home through the clear door, though I'd rather not. It was no home…
She tried to grab unto my arm, fitting her small hand through. For a moment, I let her cling onto me but I shook her off. I watched the hurt flame inside her eyes.
"It's late, what are you doing here?" I asked, searching for a single star in the sky which it lacked.
"He kicked me out of the house" She whispered.
"Your father?" I asked. She nodded. "Again" I mused and she nodded again. I grew frustrated, why couldn't I find any stars in the sky?
"Why?" I had never asked before and I noticed it took her by surprise, considering the look in her dark eyes.
"He was drunk and tired." She explained her excuses.
She had cried too much, I could tell. But she was so beautiful when she cried. Her father must've noticed her beauty in tears and pain.
I observed her long eyelashes and her eyes enveloping me. I smiled, a star reflected in her eyes.
I lit a cigarette and clipped it between my index and middle finger, in my right hand. I took a slow drag, exhaling the fumes onto her grave. My eyes burned.
She wrote suicide notes as poetry.
I leant in my desk, ignoring the teacher. She was all which caught my attention, scribbling onto a piece of paper. I knew she could feel my stare. She raised her head and met my stone-grey eyes. She offered no friendly smile. She hated me now.
I shoved her inside the Boys' Bathroom, kissing her lips bitterly and hauled her inside the stalls unwillingly. There were two or three people in there, but I didn't care. They'd soon leave. If she hated me, then I'd make her hate me even more. She shoved me away, but like all those times I pinned her wrist on the stall's door biting down hard on her neck. And like all those times, she'd give in and kiss me back lustfully and hungrily.
Then she'd exhaust and I'd push myself even farther, push her. But she never fought back or gave in, just stayed still and let me fuck her.
She didn't deserve a stone or burial. She deserved to be burned, cremated; for this suicide and all the hurt she's brought because of it.
Teenage prayers cannot wash the hands of a suicide. I will never be able to help her….or hurt her anymore. It's all she ever wanted….
I observed her taking handfuls of her already-wavy hair and try to scrunch it up even more. Her bangs were ironed and blow-dried straight, covering tired eyes adorned with mascara and eyeliner.
I rested upon her bed, messy and dirty.
She nodded, finished and grabbed the car keys from her bed-room dresser. I rose and followed her out of her room. As usual her house was quiet; the echoes of moans and screams could be remembered.
We hurried down the stairs.
I didn't understand her. I would never. With both hands on the steering wheel she stopped at the red light. It beamed down on us, the early morning was dark. It almost seemed night; cars consumed the road.
I studied her face. She had this olive skin. And now her hair wasn't its raven-black. It was a reddish-brown contrasting beautiful. It reminded me of autumn. I don't know why but it did. I sighed.
She didn't hang herself or take pills. She didn't even jump off a bridge and I knew, every time she held that gun in her hand it was always on safety. No she did none of those. She bled to death with one swift slash to her wrist cutting her veins and sitting by the corner of the bathroom thinking. And before long, she was sitting in a pool of blood as her eyelids flickered back and forth. And I know she pretended I was the one holding the blade, the one which took it and slashed her wrist.
I knew she pretended I was in the room watching her die. I knew she pretended I was singing a haunting melody and when an Angel would come, I'd sneak up behind those wings and glowing halo and slice open the Angels' throat.
I still watched her grave. I loved her. I hung my coat over my shoulder, my white long-sleeve lacking a tie was disheveled and my business pants hung down lazily.
It's been five years. And I can still remember what I told her when she had her hands on the steering wheel and we stopped at the red light. I remember every time I stop at a red light.
She told me "Baby I love you"
And I said "Don't…"
"Why?" She asked.
"Because I'll never love you back"
"I lied…" I whispered, staring at the stone angrily. I bit down my bottom lip, enough it'd bleed.