She was my angel. Because I fell for her demons first. Vowed to kill and bleed for her. I was the devil of the story. But her presence gave me a reason to want to go to heaven. How she could affect souls! It was awe-inspiring. Worth seeing. She was the one, who loved me eternally, irrevocably, and unconditionally. She had me in her thrall. She completed me. Washed away the blood of brutality off me.
Her voice was more soothing than a thousand kisses. Her touch was softer than feather. She was the proof that one could walk through hell, and still be an angel. She knew me inside and out, and still loved me for what I was. She was my guardian angel.
It was hard to say in the pandemic years why there weren't different rules for the self contained university campus students. If they could be their own community and not interact with the locals, or at least only to a minimal degree, and the virus wasn't much of an issue for the young - then why not let them have a fairly normal life? Halls weren't built for social distancing or isolation. It's tiny bedrooms of a very prison-esque design and, for most, shared bathrooms and kitchens. In essence, a university hall is one household not many. You wouldn't ask families to stay in their bedrooms, right?
Her face wasn't anything extraordinary or significant, and yet, he felt somehow magically draw to those serious and silent features. Though she always avoided his gaze, he couldn't help but notice her clean skin and lack of makeup, along with her always messy hairstyles. Perhaps many would consider her homely, but he found her awe-striking.
This grammy is here because I grammed me the right way, I took photos of my soul and post-it noted them on the community sign-post. I didn't game me, or sell me by the pound. My soul, what was left of it, grated its own raw edges until it bled, then applied pressure to that there wound until it healed. This grammy is here because you hear me, because my words heal the soul.
That warm, raspy voice that possessed his cords that night, sent nerves dancing up my spine. His smile sent my mind into an uncontrolled, captivated spiral and his light touch lingered, it branded my soul with a simple mark: infatuation. To call it love would be a mockery of my heart, a symbol of my dying innocence. But every tempered word he spoke invaded my mind, like ivy tendrils seeking any point of weakness to enter; they wrapped my body in a blanket of comfort and consumed my soul in the heat of lust.
I remember that night in a soft, painful haze. It's the night that taught me the difference between love and infatuation. Love is unconditional, eternal... Infatuation? It dies.
He wasn't an alcoholic, well not exactly. He was addicted to cheap stunts that boosted his ego at the expense of my own. Good people feel good when they lift others up, poisonous people feel good when they put others down. Good people get addicted to doing good. Poisonous people get addicted to causing the hurt. He'd talk me into helping him sweetly, as if he had some work to be done. He'd ask me to sing, a vulnerable thing to do, then say my voice was too hoarse and not up to his standards. I wish I'd stood up for myself, yet when you are being so emotionally drained by another person it's harder to do than it would appear. I never mustered enough courage to speak to his face, only calling him a lot of names in my thoughts. I would release the pent-up energy on pen and paper. Once, in youthful innocence, I believed that my situation would change, but with the passage of time, it was my attitude that changed. I lost faith in him. I realised that I would be happier if he'd leave me alone, if I could gain the space to grow into being the kind of positive person I can be proud of, a person who brings others emotional support instead of pain.
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.