Sunshine & Chocolate & Everything Writing

Writing as if I have something to say.

Fictional fiction #4

Posted by Line Larsen on October 23, 2008

AN OCEAN OF

Water lingered at the corner of my eyes, a whole ocean full – the Dead Sea. I waited for my skin to burst and spray salty, sticky tears over everyone and everything within reach. I waited for giving up and giving in. With envy in my frown I watched those who had arrived already, who had gone through the worst and were now resting in limbo. They could cry an ocean and no one would wipe themselves off with a scowl and tell them to stop it, to pull themselves together, to get on with it.

I considered falling over on the street, purposely, and twist as if the pain was physical. Scream, cling to passer-byers and let it all out. If my intestines were hanging out, someone would have to care. It would only be fair that they stop for this too. I wasn’t there yet, though. Not yet. Some day.

What happened to all the tears I didn’t cry in the meantime? The tears that built up inconveniently, but never made it past my guarded eyes? Maybe they were absorbed by my brain, so I have a wet, splashy, tear-soaked mind now.

It might be experiencing draught. Madra came yesterday and I cried an ocean, a river – “Go on”, she said, “cry me a river” and she wasn’t sarcastic – so I did. She held my hand and stroked my cheek, but not too close. She never gets too close. And most important of all, she never asks me why.
Madra is easy to love. My eyes always rest on her, she brings calm with her. It helps that she’s beautiful, naturally. At first it made me feel out of place. My blonde, thin hair never measured up to her ivory, thick ponytail. I had the sense to tell her and make her laugh.
“Explain to me”, she said, “how do you measure hair? By length? Then I win. But yours win in shortness. By colour? Mine is darker and yours is lighter.”
“You measure it by beauty”, I replied.
“And how do you measure beauty?” she asked.
How can I not love her. She gently sways her hips when she walks across my tiled floor and do not think about more or less beautiful. There is something worthwhile about her, we were old friends from the moment we met.
“I’ve written him a letter”, I say from my safe spot in the sofa. She nods and waits, as she should. “Maybe you can read it?” I ask.
“I’ll read it aloud to you. Then you can hear it too”, Madra says, as she accepts the folded piece of paper. It’s pathetically drenched in sadness. Her voice is dark, sweet and deep, like a cherry. It’s a pleasure to listen to.
“’Dear John’”, she begins. “’I am writing for me and not for you. Let me just make that perfectly clear, that nothing I do is for you any more. Not a thing. I don’t get up in the morning for you, I don’t put on silky underwear for you, I don’t cook for you. I don’t brush my hair or smile for you either. There isn’t a thing I did that was worthy of you.’” She pauses and mirrors the letter in my reaction. “Shall I continue?”. I nod.
“’And since my heart is laying there, so perfectly still now, breaking slowly, I realise that you were never the one to make it flutter in the first place. You were never the one, I was. I alone did that and can do it again. So in short, my heart never played to your tune, but to mine. Let us never see each other again. Even if you look right at me, just don’t see me. That is all I want from you. Never yours, Hannah.’”

Madra leaves me as she entered me, crying on the sofa. She leaves because she has to, as people sometimes do.

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