She walks through a field of serene emptiness. It is a field of secrecy, a hallowed place home to memories both sweet and fierce. The air is restless. Wild grass bends and rises, bends and rises, as though a nascent pulse sifts in the earth beneath it. The sun hangs in the sky precariously, as if by a thread, just grazing the treetops. Her neck falls back and her eyes lift upward. She watches the spools of raw wool inch by in the sky. The murmur of the creek lingers in her ears, jostling alongside the echo of his words.
I tried. You didn’t.
The colors of the horizon change, and dusk begins to form. Her bare feet wade through the field, the blades of grass tickling her skin with a soft slice.
I let it go. You didn’t.
From far away she seems an emblem of serenity, elegant and stoic: a mere specter of life. But inside her tumbles a creature of strange power, waiting to be unleashed.
I stayed. You didn’t. But no more. I’m leaving.
Without warning her knees buckle, and she falls onto her back. The grass bends beneath her body, as though submitting into an embrace. A bumblebee buzzes near her ear, and the swift razor sound of it comforts her--an unmistakable sign of life. She lies motionless; her lover’s words, and her own actions, immobilize her. Thick sunlight seeps into her pores like paint. She could stay like this forever, until rainwater collects in the basins of her collarbones, until the earth recognizes her as a corpse and pulls her under. Forever.
Near her head is a wild violet, straining in the throes of first bloom. Its beauty aches. Upon a blade of ribbon grass she sees two damselflies mating. They are very close to her, thoughtless to their surroundings in the moment’s searing brevity. Their lithe bodies curl into one, and their black wings absorb the light. The grass quivers in the graceful frenzy of their embrace. With effort she raises a hand to touch them, a chance to feel that same brief heat…
But in an instant the pair complete their task. Abandoning one another, the damselflies soar in opposite directions, never to meet again. She sighs, an almost inaudible sound. To love so freely.
There is a rustle to her left; she turns to the source of the sound. He lies beside her, hands folded behind his head, eyes fixed on the bleached-blue sky. She should have known she would find him here, so close to his own home, a sylvan hollow of shared memories. He glances at her, and his lips tilt into a crooked smile. She moves her body closer to his. The same hand she raised to touch the damselflies now alights on his cheek. Her fingertips brush against scars of acne.
“You’re back,” she whispers. The giddiness of the disbelieving courses through her, more potent than any rush of heroin. She inhales his distinct scent, cigarettes and lye soap.
“I was always here,” he says. “It’s you who’s gone.”
“I’m trying to… to get better. I’m trying to… be here.”
“I know.” But it’s not working. What he does not say hurts the most.
Letting her hand fall from his cheek, she lies on her back once more. As the sun descends between the trees, sparrows twirl above in patterns known only to them. She tries to focus on the surroundings, but his gaze upon her is like a thorn, pulling at the corner of her eye. Like the damselfly she is senseless with desire, unaware of what dangers lurk within wild grass.
He murmurs her name; the sound ripples down her spine. His fingers press on her skin, and the heat of his body burns. His smell of cigarettes, thin and acrid, prickles in her nostrils.
“Please--” she cries, her voice trailing off into a whimper.
He kisses her bare shoulder. It is a kiss like poison, one that inflames the skin and leaves behind a scar in memory. She trembles, running a hand through his thatch of sandy hair. A moan escapes her--an unfamiliar sound. Her lips reach for his, but at the last moment, at the moment before purest contact, he balks.
She bites her lip. “What’s wrong?”
He cannot look at her. “I can’t… do this. Not anymore.” His fingers massage the scars at her wrists; they have almost faded entirely, but the memory remains vivid.
Fresh unshed tears singe her eyelashes. “Don’t say that,” she says. Her voice is raw, emerging from unexplored depths. “Don’t ever say that--”
“I’m sorry.” Sweet venom drips from his voice. The words seem to tear him apart, but he plows on. “I loved you, but--”
Loved. That final letter destroys her.
“No.” It is all she says. Not a question, not an outcry--only a declaration of what cannot be.
Sighing, he slides onto his side and is silent. “You can’t let those wounds go,” he says at last. Her gaze swivels to her wrists. The jagged scars burn.
Bereft of his voice and his touch, she must cope with her fate, a back perpetually turned upon her. In desperation she falls against him, nestling in the gentle curve of his back. Embracing her lover, her torturer, her executioner. Inside she howls.
In an instant he vanishes, whisked away into oblivion. For he was never there. It is nothing more than an elaborate game of make-believe, designed to comfort her but successful only in hurting her. He is still gone. All that is left is a shallow indentation in the grass, a throbbing emptiness. The pain of his departure is full and clear, as though she has opened her veins once more.
He is gone, but the field is alive with his scent and his memory. His voice carries on the waves of grass. Though lovelorn, she rouses herself from the earth. Blood rushes to her head as she stands. Following the hum of running water, she saunters toward the creek. Instinct controls her. At the creek the damselflies glide without fear, dangling on cattails, skimming on the water. They live, they fly, they mate; then, the cycle renews.
She aches for them, to be like them. But now she understands that she can be like the damselfly. She can live without care, for life is nothing. She can love without thought, for love is nothing. So reckless a life will inevitably kill her, sooner rather than later. Damselflies have short lives, and so will she. But she would rather submit to death having known ecstasy than having shunned it.
She kneels and dips her face into the creek. She drinks deeply of its waters. The taste is clear, invigorating; particles of silt grind against her tongue. Now she rises once more, feet sinking into the supple soil. The damselflies hover around her in a flurry, their obsidian wings catching the light. Licking her lips, she stares at the horizon. The numb shell of her surface shatters. The taut muscles in her neck ache to shoot from her skin like shards of glass. Her eyes fall closed, and she feels the breeze’s brush upon her.
Death, she is prepared.
(edited for the helpful suggestions)
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