Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful man and a handsome woman. They had not known each other for long but had already developed a strong bond. The man was a young gentleman, he’d grown up in the suburbs with a wide family and abundance of care. His build was tall, yet he had thin and elegant fingers extending graciously from their joints. His dirty blonde hair was spoiled with darker shades which accentuated his defined features. He had been a man of academia; you could often find him tucked away in a corner of the local library, which he preferred to the bigger one in the city centre, reading or taking notes on a scrap piece of paper. Ideas. Disconnected and random. Images. Seen and devised. The woman rather enjoyed company. At times this would be the company of a friend, a colleague, or a stranger; otherwise, the company of simply her inner world. Turning to herself, she would explore the sounds, the uprisings, and the turmoil of her mind. Her charcoal hair and her eyes shining like rare gemstones, often bypassed as a lesser-known treasure with its common deep brown colour, dominated her appearance. They both had their own troubles but put them aside during their time together. It was all very cheerful and easy-going at first, but they changed sooner as time progressed.
The man was enraptured by the innocent essence of nature he witnessed in the countryside. His entire recollection of childhood was imprinted with vast grassland and interactions with animals. Amidst all the rurality, he still found the opportunity to break away from the illusion of the natural world and dedicate his time to reading. The solace of a book – be it fiction or non-fiction; prose or poetry – was always appreciated when he felt the quiet of country life get to him. When he started to grow into a young adult, he sought to get lost in a bigger, more crowded city. He desired to be invisible and live in seclusion. The smallness of his amicable town, the fact that everyone knew each other, the formalities of being hospitable and having to adhere to expectations from local people overwhelmed him. He was ready to move out.
The woman was born to a small family, both her parents were married to their work. As a child she would find herself left alone in the roomy house they owned by the woods. Those lonely times taught her to brave the darkness and take matters into her own hands, regardless of whether they would be trembling in fear of solitude. Her mum, a remarkable woman with undeniable charisma, would arrive by midnight; skittish and edgy from all the work she endured during the day. She would read aloud in her room until then to distract her thoughts from the eerie songs the whistling trees composed. She did not venture into the other parts of the house. Every corner posed the threat of an unaccounted-for ghost. When she grew old enough, it was devastating to bear the burden of this place she called home and so moved to the city to start anew with different people. Warmer. Caring. Sincere. Interested people.
There was one thing she forgot to bear in mind: she was brittle – bound to break.
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Her form was a major source of inspiration to him – she was the reason he picked up his pastime of drawing back again, this time with a newfound seriousness. Occasionally he would weigh their relationship on a scale. He thought his love and passion for her always surpassed what she could offer to him in return. It was not that he necessarily disliked this imbalance. On the contrary, it gave him comfort to have something so invaluable to him to the point that he no longer worried about not fitting in with society. This one thing he had in the world was more than enough for him to dwell on; he did not need or expect anything else. That day they were laying on the hammock, which was bolted to the wall and swinging slowly in the breezy veranda. She was clearly lost in her own thoughts. There was a mildly troubled look on her face, which he could understand from the slight tension built up between her brows and the tiny pout forming on her lips. It would be nice to drill a hole into her head for her thoughts spill out, he thought. Their limited time would go by in the blink of an eye and he did not want it to come to naught.
She was constantly in a foul mood that day. Her desperate efforts to conceal this made it even more apparent that something was wrong. He was denied access to her sadness, even though he wanted to share it and show her how much he had changed. There was a coldness in the air while she kept conversing but with an undetectable wall separating the two of them. Even a warm cup of chamomile tea, which was her favourite way to ease into a tough day, was futile in the face of this ill state she was in. It pained him as much as it must have hurt her.
Days, weeks, and months went by without a remedy for this sickness. It had an infectious effect on him as after a couple of weeks they were both ossified in a melancholy trance. Time dragged on and on, not wanting to pass just yet, against the pleas of both. On the surface they were doing well, it was what hid beneath their façade that shifted their mood.
Her head was not her own anymore. She had lost command of her emotions and her reactions. The face, which was one of the territories that used to belong to her and which she could manipulate to fit in with the expectations of the outsiders, was refusing to act on its previous owner’s whims. It fell into laziness; childishly repelling the urge to put on a mask and preserving a void expression. She could not overcome the numbness she felt towards the world around her. The exit from this calamity was nowhere to be found and she inevitably lost herself within the crowd of her head. THEY were taking over, and she was reduced to a mere prisoner in her own body. Imagining her escape and the coming of better days was to no avail. The coldness inside her grew into a massive hole, sucking her deeper in. Since the hole had no tangible effects, her cries were trapped inside her head.
His patience was running low. It took him a great deal of composure to put a lid on the venomous thoughts he was starting to have. He barely managed to abstain from saying or doing anything forceful to wake her up from her passive state. There were boundaries to keep, lines not to cross and pasts not to repeat. Her apathy...not helpful. He was inching closer to his tipping point day by day.
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It was a scorching day. The sun did not avert its gaze even slightly from the city, feeling bold and brave that afternoon. Cemented pavements were glistening with sweat thanks to the sun’s determination. Clouds had already evacuated the scene to open the way for this glorious, energized being. It would soon become very distraught by the things it would witness. Becoming a witness that holds no credibility in the court of civilization; one that is doomed to silence for ever.
He was brooding over the couch. Pent up and tense. Twitching in his muscles. Knuckles tightening into a fist. Powerful.
Her on the couch, looking up at the ceiling with nothing particular in mind. Absent. A stranger to her own existence. Uncomfortable in her own skin. Hesitant, timid, stifled. In no hurry to make sense of life, to utilize the finite time she had left on this earth, in this body, with this soul. She did not have much time left there and then, in that passing hour. Unbeknownst to her, time was ticking away eagerly, like someone rushing to catch the last bus of the day in a bleak, promising midnight haze. Taking that one leap forward with exceptional desperation to make it to the end. To reach a satisfying finale for the night. In her case, she had already missed the bus...
Leaning over in a seemingly gentle manner, he first grabbed her chin. Caressed it with care while looking straight into her eyes the whole time, seeing the depths of her withering soul. Or at least attempting to do so. When he realizes the hopelessness of his efforts, he hardens his grip on her chin and slowly brings her face closer to his. The softness in his eyes is gone, instead a crimson streak of blood has flooded in. This shakes her to the core. She suddenly starts apologizing, begging, pleading. She knows it is too late – he has also been taken over. It is not him that she is calling on.
She feels the wetness on her blouse. She examines the tiny puddle of salty water on the floor where she is sitting collapsed. There is a spot on her arm that is turning a yellowish purple. Others on her neck and face. Fear has engulfed her sense of pain, the only thing she can concentrate on is the sounds. She waits for him to come back. The rhythmic footsteps are heard from behind the closed door. 1, 2, 3, wait, turnaround, 1, 2, 3... Then, he renters the room. There is a moment of silence, he is back to himself but cannot gather the courage to take a step closer. He has crossed the line again and this time she is visibly terror-stricken. Unable to utter a word to her in shame, he watches her from a distance, giving her the time, she needs to get it together. After all, they need one another. She gets up and embraces him.
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