Perplexity (Writing Competition)

Familiar

"Tell me about it"

Her words echoed the hallway. Everywhere he went was a war in his mind enveloping the destruction of the innocence. The hole in his brain wouldn't close. He didn't know when it would end or whom would end it for him.

All he knew was that the end of their story was ongoing. Annabelle and Peter were lifeless names given to them. Him and her being called that by fellow peers was incessant and perpetuous. Names were not pompous or gratifying to them. Rather, them as a whole was the profit of living.

Not that neither of them cared about living. He knew that.

They lived next to each other. On a fine street, in a fine town, near a bloody ordinary school where motionless chickens would run around and drop books all day.

Something was crazy about the world to him. She seemed to fit the perfect puzzle yet.

His perfect puzzle.

It was cringe, saying it out loud. That's why he let the thoughts perplex and penetrate his mind creating fascination and fantasy without overstepping the boundary of communicating his desires.

Instead, he made up a story that he had no where to live which was uncanny that she believed it because he lived right next to her. Apparently, his mother had died and he was an orphan. None of the sort was true but he wished it to be if it meant he could sleep in the same proximity to her. Which did not happen because his mum caught him of course off guard and dragged him away to help her with gardening.

At night, he dreamt of killing his mother. She was short and spout and served no purpose in the world.

A couple years later, he became happily married. No kids, they were a waste of space. Eventually, he could barely remember the name of the girl that took on the role of his accustomed neighbour. Alison was it? But still, names were not important to him.

Worried that the house he had betrayed was lonely, he decided to move back. He had not spoken to his mother in years and his wife thought she were long gone. He almost hoped. But no, those thoughts were for immature, old him. Destructed thoughts they were. Destruction of innocence.

Betrayal was the first word that came in mind when he saw the girl. His house was empty and she told him his mother had passed last month. When saying this there was not a flick of empathy in her eye or a look towards him to clock he was OK. He was not okay. It was unambiguous now that the girl had killed his mother in her sleep to regain back his attention.

Not that he made his attention or intention clear in the first place.

Although maybe she knew he was homeless all along that time and was playing along. She had been extending her lips upwards after all.

Nevertheless, he had to stop overthinking. Thinking at all. He had a wife now. But no kids. They were a nuisance.

He wondered if Alison had kids.

Suddenly, the worry submerged that Alison was indeed not her name. He wondered about asking her but it could set them off on the wrong foot.

The path to their success was internalised delectation of another and eachother and speaking would be difficult. Especially because she intended on killing him.

Abigail... Alison? Annablle. Had intended on killing him the first day she met him. He was sure of it. It clocked on her that the killing was necessary and needed when his presence became too much for her to handle. Probably.

Maybe he had been wrongdoing her. He did not know her name after all. Before the fate of her stabbing him became, he would find out her name somehow. Possibly in the yearbook. She must have been at that school.

Or perhaps he could time travel back to her doorstep when she forced him to, 'Tell me about it.' Why were girl's so desperate? Instead of his made up story, he could have shooken his head mysteriously and asked for her, 'name? By the way.'

Her name didn't define her. Neither did his to him. But especially to her, she had this whole house and aroma that was different to everyone else.

So she killed his mum, that wasn't good. She didn't deserve revenge. She didn't even deserve revenge!! That's how special she was. To him, she was a block of ice about to crack, and his. Perfection. Any second now, she may go, but he had to make her his' before then.

His wife on the other hand, she had heard about this last night whilst he spoke to the mirror in his room. "Is that really why we moved here?" She spat at him. He shook his head solemnly and walked over to her, visioning a dagger steep a hole in her head. His hole in his brain was metaphorical and not of the sort. He wished sometimes it was real though. So he kissed her, on the dance floor, and begged on one knee so he cried and she reminded him that they were happily married, silly. So much for that then, he promised her that they would be together, forever in heaven. His moist, desirable lips would only belong to hers (and Alison's). Just them two.

Allison? He called for her in his mind that evening. She did not answer, yet it was obvious it was because her name was one of the other two he guessed. Writing Abigail on his thigh made him sigh a great relief. Just in case, he added Annabelle onto his hand.

That night, him and his wife planned to murder each other. Well he did. She laughed at his funny "jokes." But she did it because he regarded he would get back at her otherwise. He stated that unless she killed him he would rape her then rip her mouth out and wash the excess with soap. He thought this would be his forgiveness. Why on earth was it not working? If only he could stay alive and she didn't it wouldn't be a sin on his part. He would have just been the lucky one. She would be a angel forever floating above him, preventing him from receiving any of the karma of the world.

So she did it, and ran away. Far, far away. Perhaps to a mental asylum, or a psych ward. It was what she needed. He did not. Not because he was not mentally capable of it. Because he was dead. Actually dead.

She was a 'dumb fuck' and deserved no one. That's what he had planned to write on her tombstone. Instead his was invisible and his solid body that lay flat in the coffin of the Church Hall floor. If only he could open his eyes and say one more thing to Alison.. Abigail.. Annabelle.

Ananabelle. My love. My lover.

I have your name written on my hand for you.