Inseparable

I watched the muscles strain in his arms as he struggled to keep me from falling. I remembered how easily those arms swept me up and carried me around. I watched his lips form a grimace as he leaned out of the cab of the truck. Those lips that were so soft against mine and whispered sweet nothings to me in the middle of the night. The truck slid an inch farther off the broken highway and I screamed as he started to lose his grip on my arms. I saw him slip farther out of the truck. Tears rolled down my cheeks through the grit and dust. “You have to let me go.”

“What?” he yelled at me; I knew he couldn’t hear me over the fire and explosions below me.

“You have to let me go!” I yelled up at him, my voice cracking at the end.

“I can’t let you go! I will never, ever let you go again! I promised you a long time ago and I’m not going to break it!” He tried again to pull me into the truck with him, but only succeeded in letting me slip down further. I heard another explosion and felt a rush of heat on my feet.

“Please! If you keep trying you’re going to go down with me and I couldn’t stand to die knowing that you could have lived!” He gritted his teeth and started trying to pull me up again. I swung my legs at the wheels and got just barely a grip and launched myself into the cab. I clung to him and wheezed the smoke and heat out of my lungs. I kissed him over and over in the cab of that truck. I loved him so much in that moment. He was my everything and there would be nothing without him.

“I love you so much,” he said as he pushed a curl behind my ear. I started to say the words in return as the most horrible screech formed all around us. The truck fell from the ruined highway.

And that is when everything and nothing mattered all at once. I saw every moment we had spent together and every second we would not live to see.

As we plummeted to our deaths, together, I thought about his big round eyes, and his smile, and everything that made me love him more than anything else.

I didn’t see the fire. I didn’t hear the explosion. I didn’t hear the gunfire. I didn’t feel the flames. Because I was already gone. And so was the love of my life.

Your Sweet Assassin

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I See Without Seeing

I

am

burning.

I think this slowly, as if my thoughts were yawning while they said this information. It doesn’t quite bother me right now, this sense of burning. I am barely conscious anyway. My eyes see without seeing. My ears hear without hearing. I feel without feeling. But I suppose that’s not true. I see the smoke, and the flames. I hear a distant sound. Like when the wind howls. I suppose that is me screaming. I feel the tingle of my nerves dying. That is what my body is doing. Dying. I should be worried. Concerned at least. But my mind has been ruined already. Scarred, shredded, bruised, beaten, however you want to say it. And the mind cannot exist without the body, and neither can the body exist without the mind. Unless you count floating in between existing and death in a coma. But what is the purpose of being alive without living?

So here I am, my mind fading from my body, my body being burned away from my mind. How did I get to this point? I cannot remember. I cannot remember many things now. I cannot remember my parents faces, or their names. I cannot remember our house, or what city we lived in. I could remember my name yesterday, but not today. All I know is that I am burning.

I will not linger much longer. I feel the warmth from the flames in my bones. In my numbed state they feel soft, smooth, like it wants to give me one last comforting touch before I succumb to death. Because I will have my death. I will welcome what most fear.

My eyes grow tired. I am so tired. I want to sleep. So I give in. The darkness washes over me slowly. Like wading into a warm ocean. Only I am not moving. I am so tired, I am asleep now. I must be. There is no light now.


A small child plays with a red rubber ball in the front yard quietly. A man watches calmly from the porch with a smile on his face. He sips at a mug. A woman yells from within the little brown house. He moves quickly into the house, as if expecting the call. A few moments later a visibly pregnant woman and the man walk together to their small car. She looks slightly pained as the man helps her in. He calls to the child urgently, though kind. The child runs on stubby legs and drops the ball. When they return many days later, they are no longer three, but four.

Life exists only with death.

Your Sweet Assassin

My Fault

“He says it’s all my fault,” I sob the words into his shoulder. He rubs my back softly, whispering that it’s not true into my ear. He picks me up gently and sits with me in the overstuffed recliner. He knows its my favorite place in his house. My feet burn in my shoes; I ran to his house after the latest fight with my foster dad. He kisses my forehead tenderly, then my nose, and my mouth. The sensation grounds me, and I start trying to cage my emotions. I wipe my eyes roughly. I refuse to let my hands continue to shake. I entirely shut off my emotions for ten seconds. Ten, I bite my lip, nine, I close my eyes, eight, I breathe in slowly through my nose, seven, I feel his fingers push a few hairs away from my face, six, I exhale slowly out of my mouth, five, I unclench my hands, four, I tell myself I am not worthless, three, I open my eyes, two, he looks in my eyes to tell me he loves me, one, I say I love him. And I smile wide. Because I am still alive, I am still happy, and I will be okay. 

He, my foster dad that is, could be cruel sometimes- physically and mentally. I’d gone through so many families since I was given up at birth, but this one was by far the worst. The whole family was dominated by this one cold-hearted man. His wife tried to act like she wasn’t terrified for the children, but I still saw how she flinched at every movement of his hands. They had two little kids who trembled when he walked in the room. Most of the bruises and cuts I got were from stepping in front of them so I could protect them. It made him so furious when I did, like I was preventing him from administering some twisted form of justice.

I cried in the middle of the night, quietly, but the sobs still racked my chest. I cried for his wife, who could not leave because he didn’t allow her to have a job. I cried for the kids, who would never know what a healthy relationship was. I cried for my boyfriend, who worried every night that by morning I could have been fatally beaten. And sometimes I even cried a little selfishly for myself, who had been dealt such a lot in life.

Your Sweet Assassin