I’ll never forget you
And I’ll never forgive you.
For love can last a moment
And hate can last Forever.
She held the sweatshirt in her hands, completely awestruck by how powerful it was. It had seen plenty of wear and tear before it had fallen into her possession, which was visible by the eroding cuffs, half a dozen holes, and a multitude of unidentifiable stains. In her eyes, it was a symbol of love. But in his hands, it had become a weapon of hate, almost as if he had been telling her, “Dress yourself. I can’t bear to look at you naked.”
And still she cradled it in her hands and ran her fingers over the rough red fabric. It was far too big for her to wear; her hands barely peeked out of the sleeves and it draped down almost to her knees.
Just as well, she had thrown it on, bundled up the clothes she had lost to his ravaging hands, and disappeared out the door. For a moment, she had hesitated outside, hoping his face would appear in the frame of the cheap, poorly attatched screen door and he would beckon her inside with his big, childish grin.
But he didn’t. He never welcomed her back inside, did not embrace her within his warm form, and did not slide his hands up her thigh, groping at her body the way he had before. No, that was far too much to hope for.
So she had walked the three blocks home, naked accept for his sweatshirt, bright pink underwear, and foam sandles meant for sand and surf rather then bitter Midwestern autumsn.
By the time she had stumbled back through her bedroom window, her hair was a windswept mess, far from the sheet of shiny brown perfection she had brought it to when she had slipped out her small basement exit.
But her body ached for sleep and her mind cried out for a reprieve. Her throat was worn raw from screaming out in a motley mess of mixed sensations and she couldn’t deny that it had been good, had been great.
She had loved the way he had pulled at her clothes, pushing loose the buckle of her belt, fumbling anxiously for the clasp of her bra, and nearly ripping her out of her jeans. His touch was rough and warm, pinching at her skin and prying her loose of inhibition until she had been his willing plaything. Her body cried out for more as it had all night. Every touch had awakened a new awareness in herself. She had been alive. She had felt a whole new form of love.
But there she sat the next morning, cradling his sweatshirt in her hands, wanting him again and again to reach his fingers up her shirt, to grope at her breasts, to nibble at her flesh.
Still, the sweatshirt said everything that needed to be said. He didn’t want her for anything more then rough pleasures. He would never look at her and find her beautiful, even pretty. Her brown eyes were too simple and she was trapped in a state of being neither plain nor unique. She was average.
With shaking hands, she folded the coarse red monster and burried her face into it.
More hurtful then anything was the knowledge that she wouldn’t forget this. Worse still was knowing that someday, he would forget.
And she couldn’t haut the tears.
Lily's Notes: By the way, this is only the begining of a semi-long short story I'm working on in parts. Like a little bit of a novella. Anyway, though there isn't much to this section just yet, there will be more and everything will hopefully tie together quite nicely.
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