of dreams and memories

She opened her eyes and saw nothing for it was still dark. She sighed, she had been dreaming the same dream since. In her dream her little Sarah Jane skips towards her and jumps onto her knee. She would rearrange her white skirt that creased underneath the little girl and they would have bread and jam in the garden on their little afternoon tea table. Cross legged on the grass they would sit and she would butter the bread with the knife and allowed her little Sarah Jane to pile on the peanut butter and jam with her little teaspoon before she spreads it. Sarah Jane would often eat peanut butter out of the pottle and stuck the little teaspoon back in. She would wince and the little girl would start to giggle, and they would both giggle and giggle so hard their whole body would shake.

The sun would often shine through the trees and their little afternoon table was strategically placed on the spot where the sun shone through. They sat a little shaded by the trees. On the ground was grass, and pink and white daisies. Sarah Jane would begin to pick these flowers and put them in her hair. And she would smile, even in her sleep, she would smile. If she woke at this part of the dream, she woke happy. So every night she would try to wake, she would force her eyes open before he came. Before he walked into their messy afternoon tea. Sometimes though she would be too tired, and the dream would reel on.

He would come, and picked them both up and told us stories as he drew them close to him and they would snuggle up close, just like they used to do in the old days, and they would rest on his chest and listen to his stories. It was about here that the happy scenes fade, and there were gunshots to be heard, and he would get up to leave and Sarah would often cry when it was time for him to go but he would leave a little gift behind, a little painting, or a pink and white daisy chain and she would let him go hesitantly and he would wait till she smiled, through those tears, and when she did he would leave.

And in her dream she would fall asleep, and time would lapse, and she would often wake up to find herself lying in the rubble, alone. Where is Sarah Jane, she would ask, and she would frantically look around for her little Sarah Jane in the rubble and her heart would break so hard in the dream that her sleeping body would ache right through from head to toe and she would toss and turn in discomfort. At times her tears would stream down her face, whilst she was still sleeping, and at times she would wake, tired and she would squeeze her eyes shut again, because it would often be dark and she would feel the cold, and the hollowness of the empty house her little tiny body was an occupant of and she would feel loneliness, the kind that was amplified so much that she would hear herself calling out for someone to come, and then hear the echo in her own head, and that echo would resonate reminding her of the hollowness inside. And it was hollow indeed, and it had been hollow for a long time, hollow ever since...

The next part of her dream she feared the most, but knew too well. There was nothing she could do, waking had other nightmares in itself, especially at this hour, and so she would often fall back into that same sleep, and let that same dream haunt her. That dream savoured every moment it could to torture her, and so sometimes would replay the happy scene, again and again, to remind her of what had been lost. She would feel herself lifted up, high, during the happy scenes, and then, when she awoke, in her dream, in that rubble, she would feel herself drop a thousand feet down into a sort of dark depth. Hopeless.

She would toss and turn unwilling to see what was next, but her dream would not allow it. It would now force her eyes closed, sat on her and lay on her heavy, so she could not move, could not jerk herself to wake and it would play before her, very slowly, savouring every moment of pain. She would see herself in the rubble, and she would see his face, his gentle face, loving and kind and then she would see herself.

It was this part of the dream she understood the least. She really felt lost. She would look far and wide for Sarah Jane, and then she would find her with him, safe and she would walk back to the rubble. She would often yearn to speak to them when she saw them, and when she approached, they drifted further and further, and she would not be able to reach them. At times he would see her and wave, and then a sadness would come upon his face and he would pick Sarah Jane up and draw the curtains. She would keep searching.

And she would arrive, at a corner of the rubble and see his feet behind a large easel, and she would speak to him, and he would not speak back, all she would hear him say was the word why, and she would ask him why what, and he would just repeatedly ask her why. And she would be frustrated and ran to the front of the easel and grab him and he would collapse and she would see his face, bruised and battered, with no eyes in his socket and she would scream and there would be blood on her hands, and she would look in the easel to see a picture of Sarah Jane and her heart would harden just so she could brace herself for what was to come.

And she would stand in horror, her eyes glued to the open eyes of the pale little girl lying in a fetal position looking up with pleading eyes at her. Her tender hands and he once pink cheeks drained of all its blood, its colour, its life, drained to the pool on the floor and there was a knife right in her chest, her heart, and all life had been drawn out of her by that. Her eyes studied the pale little girl who lay still in fetal position, in pain and she stared, and stared for what seemed like forever and felt, all of a sudden, a deep calm, and nothingness. Wide eyed she would stare at this painting in her dream. Wide eyed she would stare at the picture of her Sarah Jane in pain.

And she would begin to feel faint, in her dream, and fall a fall that felt like forever back onto the rubble where she awoke, and when she awoke she would find, the thing that hurt her most, the knife. The knife she would find in her hand, and the the dream would force her awake by opening her ears to the sound of her alarm clock echoing in that huge empty house and she would force herself up with Sarah Jane’s pain still fresh in her mind, wondering why she held the knife in her hand and then she would go through the day haunted by memories she was unwilling to accept as hers. And then she would come home exhausted from the battle with her memories so ready to sleep, only to find no rest, because at night, when memories rest, that dream, would replay itself, again and again and again, probably until the day she dies.

Warped romanticism

She was beautiful, and  as he watched her lying there in the sofa, with her head resting on the armrests and her black hair draped across the red chair, his loins stiffened. He tried to tear his eyes away from her and pulled them towards the television but his eyes caught sight of the creamy skin that was the top of her breasts, round and firm and he felt an urge, a real urge to reach out and hold them. He turned away and got up and walked to the balcony.

No one had looked at her that way for a very long time, it made her feel sexy, beautiful and so she enjoyed it, and basked in it. She felt his eyes on her, and saw him looking at he breasts. She knew he was hungry. Hungry with a deep longing. He was always hungry, especially since the void his recent failed marriage had left him. Being wanted by him though, was an achievement, every girl wanted to be wanted by him, and now, she was wanted by him. She felt beautiful, powerful.

He walked towards his seat, but he was restless, so he went to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of water. The more he tried to turn himself away, the more his eyes found its way back to her body. The top buttons on her white silk blouse remained unbuttoned, and he could see her dark beige bra that was almost the colour of her skin. He scanned the outline of her body that was lying reading on the sofa. Her red pencil skirt hugged her hips comfortably, he felt blood rush to certain parts of his body, and his hands began to sweat.

She looked behind her towards the kitchen, at him. He was well built, and something about him always made her heart skip a beat. He had the stature of a man, tall, confident strong and she wondered what it would be like to be held in his arms. She caught his eyes and he turned to look away. She turned back to her book and smiled. She was beautiful enough for him. She shifted and crossed her legs  in a way that caused the slit at the front of her skirt to split open, revealing her right thigh.

He glanced at her legs and then her thighs, and let his mind run wild, imagining what it would be like to touch that skin. He put down the glass of water and walked towards the windows. For him beauty should be consumed, whole. Her beauty was unbearable to him, and everytime he looked at her he felt a deep deep need to possess her, to have her, to consume her and to reach deep within her and draw, take, take everything that was her within himself and possess her and he drew the curtains and turned to look at her.

She looked at him, coyly at first and he came at her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He sniffed her hair and ran his nose down her cheeks, neck and stopped at her breasts. She watched him as he hungrily kissed, nibbled, and sucked at her breasts. He ran his right hand up and down her thigh before gripping her upper thigh tightly. She felt the fingers of his left hand under her skirt, her underwear, before resting it warmly between her legs. She pulled up her skirt and spread her legs open, for him.

The many minutes after passed quickly. He kissed, she kissed and he thrust as far as he could, to reach within the deepest part of her. She moaned a deep moan and in that moment they abandoned the world for one another and he moved slowly, deliberately allowing their bare skin to touch as he dived deeper and deeper into the depth of her beauty. He plunged in and allowed her beauty to flow fluidly around him, to wrap around him and he had her all to himself and he thrust himself deeper and deeper into her until he finally let out a victorious laugh and lay to rest on her, still and almost breathless. She lay beneath him, coloured and consumed.

They  door opened and they looked up from where they were. And as they scrambled helplessly from the sofa his heart dropped and the fear of what was to come washed over the intense passion and deep want that had overwhelmed him just an hour ago. He looked up to face the face he had betrayed and a sharp pain shot through his stomach and he knew his relationship with his brother would never be the same again. He looked down at his brother’s bride and closed his eyes to braced himself for what was to come.

A deep regret welled up within her, why, she thought immediately, had she done it. A stupid thing. She had just been wed, a couple of days back, and although she found him endearing, their passion was nothing like what she had just experienced.

He looked at the face of the man lying on his wife and his heart hardened. He knew his own brother would betray him one day. His fists clenched and jaws gritted in anger. He looked at the figures on the sofa and suddenly felt a deep pain. He looked at her face, and hot tears sprung from his eyes. Energy drained from him and he turned his face away. He walked out, helpless and hopeless.

She was immediately embarrassed, and regret filled her. She regretted firstly for not reigning herself, but when she searched her mind for the second arm of her regret her heart sank. She regretted, not for doing what she had done, she felt no regret for that, what she regretted was for doing it right there, in the living room, for being found out. She was not embarassed for being used and consumed. In fact she felt like she saved him. She felt like she was his salvation, the one who fed his deep hunger and satisfied him. His satisfaction gave her a deep sense of pleasure she should not be proud of. She felt like a powerful giver, goddess. She realised there and then she was like a whore. Used and consumed. And from there spun a series of thoughts that led to a beginning of what would be a lifelong hatred for herself.

Her heart was a little hollow and pleasure for her came from being pursued. She never loved him. She paused and stared at the face of the man that was still on her. She would never love him either, he would never give her the same pleasure she yearns for the second time around. She felt a sad sadness at the next thought that came to mind. She had never loved, and she may never be able to love. And then she got up, in pursuit of that fleeting feeling that rushes over her each time she seduces a new lover.

And he, he dressed and walked out of the house knowing nobody will ever do to him what he just did to his brother because deep inside, he was empty and there was no heart for anyone to ever break. Funny though, he thought, although all his life he had aimed to become heartless, he hardly felt any satisfaction, in fact he hardly felt anything. Probably because without a heart, he is unable to feel. And then it hit him, without a heart, he would always be hungry, for he will never ever be satisfied.

Moon turn moon

The moon turned upon itself. We never know which side we are looking at, its good or bad side. Frankly speaking it does not make a difference, nothing will make a difference. I had my mind made up, and this was going to be how it all ends.

The thing is, I was mistaken, I was always trying to give her what I thought she wanted, but she always had what she wanted. Always. That was what she said to me one day, that when she thinks about it, she is living the life she always dreamt of. So she said she was, the only thing was, she said, when she got there, she often found it was not really what she wanted, and she would crumble in disappointment. Crumble. Romantics often crumble at disappointment. Over the years though I think she has learnt to accept that it whenever she arrived at the destination, it will never be like how she imagined it. Never. Her imagination was too good for this world.

Six a.m. and she said she needed to finish her book. Alright, I will let her be. I knew exactly what she was thinking, and exactly what she was going to do. Everything was already in place. The kettle boiled, and she got up to make the cup of coffee like she did every morning. I watched her as she floated around the kitchen. Her graceful motions almost perfect. I scanned the outlines of her side profile and appreciated every curve, every feature. I took it in, for although she was not the most beautiful I have ever seen, she was. She was really.

She looked up at me, and smiled as she sipped her coffee. So what was the story about? She smiled, you have got to read it. Read it I will, I hardly read, but for her, I have read fiction of many kinds just so I could see the thoughts that shape hers. No, of course I have yet to understand her complicity. And yet she tells me she is simple. Simple.

She read of a little girl, and a man who were having a conversation while he was walking his dog, and I was immediately enchanted. She was always writing of innocence and perfection, innocence and perfection was always identifiable, because it was different from the rest of the world, and so hard to find. Our birth often marks the end of our innocence really, and perfection. And our whole lives, was in fact a journey to find it, again. How many of us though, know that? I thought about it, each things we experience was a slight corruption.

I kind of wish I we spent all day, I wish we had all day. But I could not deal with what I will be responsible for. I wish deeply I did not feel that way, so when she got up to get ready for work, I walked into the shower with her, and I stuck around with her for as long as I possibly can. And then I kissed her the longest, sweetest kiss ever, which of course surprised her, and she looked at me warily. I smiled and assured her it will all be alright. It would, really. I hope it would.

She chirped an I love you, which I responded to. Most of the time when I said I love you, I hardly knew what I meant, I was barely 19, barely mature enough to be honest. How much feeling could I have felt, to know enough what love meant? I wish I knew what I knew now, then I would have...wouldn't have.

I watched her turn the door, and walked out. Every thing we had done I sometimes wish we could do again, better, but woe to us, every single minute we live, is a little longer we are corrupted and robbed of our innocence. Every moment we loved, made love less perfect and the minute I walked out the door, never to return, I, knew I took steps I should not have taken. Now deep inside, really really deep inside, wished I had not walked this way. For as imperfect love was then, the further I walked away, the further I was from innocent love and I had walked out on something that could have been, love perfected. I walked out on a family, my family.

The thing is, I did not know that, I would somehow cause a death.