innocent

by nocturne 17

Posted to Stories on 2002-11-05 21:15:00

I felt innocent as he lay next to me in the dark. I could still feel the mark of his fingers on my skin like invisible pulsation’s of the past. Scarred by something I used to like. His breath like fog before my eyes. And I find myself in his warm embrace even now in memory. It’s hard to abandon your past when it lives uneasily inside you. He was the other half of me I didn’t want to recognize. I never wanted to understand. He fell into me as easily as he slipped out. Over and over, back and forth, in and out. It’s pure evilness that made me open more than my mind to him. It’s the empty want and the flood of desires that drown all other thoughts out. It’s the stain of history seeping below the skin. He is a memory that wont fade, an apparition that wont leave me alone.

If I am going mad I’d like to be left in silence. It was his good looks I hated the most … they made me want to kick him when he smiled and flow like warm honey when he insulted me in public. Smacking was another way to impress me. Cutting, biting, breaking, yes, ingenious boy that he was, he did fine when he was not genuine with me. I craved one thing: that he would shatter me with his judgements. With his dirty jokes, his political incorrectness, his lies, his troubles, his full bodied resentments. I wanted to swallow his regrets in return, with anything else he had to offer. I wanted to feel some of that anger he held so precariously between his fist and my face.

‘Let me taste the REAL you.’ I begged. I conned. I mocked. ‘I promise I’ll give you whatever you want back, provided it’s not too intimate. My bed you can have…my soul is something else entirely. I cannot sell something I don’t have ownership of. I cannot offer something I don’t understand. Will a kiss do? Somewhere between death and forgiveness?’

I wanted to kiss his lips as he cried some inhuman tears … to watch him split someone else in half with a withering glance … to feel him way down deep inside, in frantic movements, with staccato effects … to breathe his dying breath and see if he is as mortal as they claim or a little god as I’ve always believed. I liked his coldness when its hot, his wild, irritable nature, his sour comical stories, his forceful conversation…his insistence upon passion, upon efficiency, upon my desires at that very second he wanted me. I long to hear his call to me once more, in the dark, without our voices touching, all soft skin, warm breath, inside me yes inside and out … and off away in another memory … knowing his kind of danger is lying around, waiting for me.

© r.s. price