In the middle of NYC, abstract letters were dancing on red brick walls, white starched, among rainbow-colored laundry on thin beams of line held firmly in place with wooden clips, waving with the warm breeze.
My body jogs repeatedly about the perimeter of the neighborhood for hours at a time and I run as far and as fast as I can. Sometimes it seems like I'm going to fall off the edge of my world into a pool of deep thought, drowning, until someone walks by and finds the remains of my body, blood spurting viciously from all orifices. Stream lining through my fingers, down my legs and I scream a silent scream and I smile and hide behind it. Hurt yourself on the outside, kill yourself on the inside.
He told me he loved me. That he would never do anything to hurt me. But down came the rain and the darkness swallowed the sun's rays and I reincarnated.
Have you ever looked into someone's eyes and seen death? It's a strange death because life has not killed the soul nor has love. It's the death of a silent wound. Unrevealing yet immense and as you stare into those eyes the feeling of pain estranged from the world but in our midst miraculous, inviolable like a flower unfolding, exquisite martyrdom holds your gaze.
In a split second of fury and inattention, a horrendous inhuman roar exploded through my head and I was taken back. "I have to ask, are you wet? Because I'm getting hard just looking at you." Forced smile, "What?" Uncomfortable, "No, not at all." "Hmmmmmmm not wet yet? Can I help?" His facade of civility snapped as he lashed out and jerked me by the hair so hard all I could see was stars. I screamed and fought, bit into his hand and drew blood as he dragged my head toward him, his hot breath on my face. "Don't be so puritanical and do not call for there's nobody here. Do not shout, do not ask or beg for there is nobody, there is nobody."
Vomiting on the edge of the sidewalk. Release me. Midnight. Two ambulances silently flashing their lights. One on the left the other on the right. My legs were vibrating. I'm stagnate, standing at the red light and both ambulances pass through it with ease. And I don't know who I am.
BIO: Theresa Cecilia Garcia is a free spirit and a former elementary school teacher turned writer. She is an active member of www.zoetrope.com and has been published in numerous ezines.
¶ 12:52 PM
An E-Zine for the Unafraid
Email submissions to: velvetgarrote AT yahoo DOT com
We pay $5 (via PayPal) upon publication.
We prefer you provide your own artwork, but it's not required.
All work must be your own. You must own all rights.
Other than that, there are no rules.