That Dying Feeling

I am sad today, because I have a story. It is a beautiful one, let me assure you. But I can’t share it with you. It wishes to escape my pale, thin lips as I lay here and stare into space. I close my eyes and feel my heart beat in my ears. I feel the touch of Gods fingers against my hand. Though I sleep and fear death, I know he is with me. Six letters popped into my mind, skittering, with each letter appearing block-like, like done by a typewriter.

            I, a and m.

            S, a and d.

My tears drop into my lap and quarry into a pool. I know you’d be sad if I told you my horrific story. Of going to Eden with God. You’d be sad like I was when I heard it. My story. The awful tale you’d like me to tell. It’s about an ocean. The Pacific. The bluest sea in the world beneath me. I bob. Not knowing where to go or what to do. I’m lost. My tragic story is about an abyss; an indigo; and the dreams of coming home to the life before. It’s about the scent in my moldy attic and the snore of my mother as she sleeps beside me on the camp bed. My wonderful story has knights and kings and queens and dukes of childish royalty. Lovers and Gods, sick with Russian longing. It’s about that one-way road down MacClean Place, ya know the one? The one with the picket fences and scary witches that rock on their broken chairs. Maybe when I’m tired and grey – sick of the same re-runs of American cable – I’ll tell you about that kid with round eyes and thick, curly blonde locks. Long after I put away my photo albums of my youth. When I’m tired and dying, I’ll tell you about the death in the safest place. My sobs still ring in my throbbing ears. It turned like the wind.

            And how it turns…

            And how it still turned…   

            And how it will always turn…

            I am sad today because I have a story.    

            A beautiful one.

            But I just can’t share it with you.

It's about her, whose perfect hair fell in layers of rich shades of mahogany and bronzed yellow. It flowed in grand currents to complement her sweet, porcelain-like skin. Her round, precious eyes, framed by long, black lashes, was a sweet, emerald green and seemed to brighten her face. They brought zest to her angel-like face. When she blinked, the lashes would quiver and shudder, as if waving. A straight nose fell atop her full lips; she seemed the picture of perfection to any boy. The cheek bones, neighboring her short face, seemed perched and tight in neatness. Had she grinned – her signature grin – the world would smile back at her. Had she laughed –  a gentle laughter which embroiled the hearts of so many – the world would laugh along with her. And had she wept, the quiet sobs draining down her softened cheeks, the whole world would want to comfort her. Her voice was as soft as a bird. It didn’t squawk, but gentle hummed. Whenever she entered a room, she was greeted with smiling faces. The guests smiled because they were gazing at her beauty and seeing her darling eyes lighten the room. This was the girl that killed me. She killed me with her heart needles. The girl was called Macy and I loved her. Well, I felt what I thought was love. But, she’s gone now. The flapping reins of her life fall upon the ground. Lifeless, they lie.

   She was what made my life so happy. Well, the remaining weeks, anyway. 
 

The End

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