Vocabularily Adventurous
from the mixed-up files of E. G. Morgan
A Chip of Glass | Prose
Thursday, Oct. 16, 2008
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In preparation for NaNoWriMo, I'm writing this as quickly as possible. Apologies for any spelling and grammar mistakes that occur.
I talk about him all the time to my friends, talk about what he did to me, what I blame him most for. I tell them how done I am, how over this I am. They nod and smile and pat me on the back with their words, because they're proud of me. What he did was cruel, they say, and we're just glad you're okay. I grin, laugh, shrug, and continue.
The notes he wrote me are still in my closet, even though they've told me countless times to just throw them away, burn them, tear them to shreds. I know I shouldn't have brought them, but a part of me still held onto a crumb of hope. What if it wasn't actually the end? I thought. What if?
I brought them with me to remember, but as the days passed and the wound scabbed over I shoved them in a box in a dark corner; hiding them to forget. I wouldn't look at them, which made it simple to forget about them. And in the process I forgot about him.
Relationships are tricky things. I found myself in another one before long, and I couldn't be sure that it was right, or fair. But again and again I would say, Anything to forget. Anything to heal. I was healing, and I was fine.
I talked about him last night as if he was just an old friend I hadn't seen for years. I recounted memories of good times, the last good memories I had of him. I grinned and laughed as I said it, shrugged as I said it, continued on into a new conversation when that one had died. I was healed, I decided. I was fine.
Things have never "hit me" with a force like bricks, as much as every novelist and songwriter insists that things should. It never hit me that our love was about to end, and it never hit me when it did. It never hit me that I was over him. Everything rolled in slowly, like mist.
Today, though. God, today. When I saw his picture again, saw how happy he was. The air chilled as I looked at him, remembering. Then my whole body began to tingle, as if I was just thawing from hours in the snow. I can't explain the writhing of my stomach, the strange palpitations of my heart, the shiver in my fingers. It was like the mist slowly clearing, everything slowly focusing.
And then, like whispers, I felt his hand on my waist, his fingers on my face, his lips on my neck. I could feel his breath, soft, unhurried, and his heart, its tempo matching mine. I shook, my legs and arms numb, my insides melting, my eyes unable to blink.
I had lied to myself--my mind had lied to my heart, and my heart had foolishly believed. My body in civil war, I closed my eyes and calmed my limbs. The whispers of memories disappeared, and the cold air was imbued with a subtle heat, like steam. Everything went back to how it should have been, save for a cold stone in my abdomen and goosebumps on the back of my neck. Deep, deep breaths. Total release. I removed the picture from my sight and wept.
I talk about him all the time to my friends, talk about what he did to me, what I blame him most for. I tell them how done I am, how over this I am. They nod and smile and pat me on the back with their words, because they're proud of me. What he did was cruel, they say, and we're just glad you're okay. I grin, laugh, shrug, and continue.
The notes he wrote me are still in my closet, even though they've told me countless times to just throw them away, burn them, tear them to shreds. I know I shouldn't have brought them, but a part of me still held onto a crumb of hope. What if it wasn't actually the end? I thought. What if?
I brought them with me to remember, but as the days passed and the wound scabbed over I shoved them in a box in a dark corner; hiding them to forget. I wouldn't look at them, which made it simple to forget about them. And in the process I forgot about him.
Relationships are tricky things. I found myself in another one before long, and I couldn't be sure that it was right, or fair. But again and again I would say, Anything to forget. Anything to heal. I was healing, and I was fine.
I talked about him last night as if he was just an old friend I hadn't seen for years. I recounted memories of good times, the last good memories I had of him. I grinned and laughed as I said it, shrugged as I said it, continued on into a new conversation when that one had died. I was healed, I decided. I was fine.
Things have never "hit me" with a force like bricks, as much as every novelist and songwriter insists that things should. It never hit me that our love was about to end, and it never hit me when it did. It never hit me that I was over him. Everything rolled in slowly, like mist.
Today, though. God, today. When I saw his picture again, saw how happy he was. The air chilled as I looked at him, remembering. Then my whole body began to tingle, as if I was just thawing from hours in the snow. I can't explain the writhing of my stomach, the strange palpitations of my heart, the shiver in my fingers. It was like the mist slowly clearing, everything slowly focusing.
And then, like whispers, I felt his hand on my waist, his fingers on my face, his lips on my neck. I could feel his breath, soft, unhurried, and his heart, its tempo matching mine. I shook, my legs and arms numb, my insides melting, my eyes unable to blink.
I had lied to myself--my mind had lied to my heart, and my heart had foolishly believed. My body in civil war, I closed my eyes and calmed my limbs. The whispers of memories disappeared, and the cold air was imbued with a subtle heat, like steam. Everything went back to how it should have been, save for a cold stone in my abdomen and goosebumps on the back of my neck. Deep, deep breaths. Total release. I removed the picture from my sight and wept.
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