1000 Short Stories

Story 1: My Tears Ricochet

My Tears Ricochet
(Inspired by Taylor Swift)

How magnificent is your imagination? How deep can you go? Can you picture a beautiful woman in a white gown put to rest in an expensive white translucent box? Or would you rather imagine a faceless image of a lady in white seated on the tombstone where her name is boldly written on it alongside the day of her death? How magnificent is your imagination? Tell me.

Can you conjure the image of a man in a dark suit that falls off his shoulders unattractively, crying his eyes out in regret while the preacher preaches about "dust to dust"? Are you having some kind of feeling for him? Are you beginning to develop pity for this mournful man? Don't! He doesn't deserve it. He only got what he wished for, sadly, he didn't think it through before putting out to the universe.

Are you confused?

Are you wondering where this is leading to?

Do you think it has anything to do with you, the reader?

Relax. It doesn't; you're just about to read into the secret love life of a hero and a villain. An artist and his muse.

If anyone had told me that I would be seated here narrating this mournful and sorrowful story about my sad existence as human? I probably would have nodded without giving it a second thought. I probably would have laughed over your words with the same man crying at my funeral. I probably would have had heated sex with him while making dark humor about how he was making love with a potential ghost...well, here I am!

I blame Disney and DSTV for making a mockery of my emotional senses. I blame the movie production companies for approving works of fiction that only enabled me with an idea of romance that never really exists. I blame the internet for making me believe that all the entity of marriage had to do with the success of your wedding and the wedding photographs, and the likes and the comments. I blame the society for pressuring me to settle for the first man that looked and acted responsible because of the fear of "never finding someone like him". I blame myself for not listening to my guts; that thing was screaming all the red flags but I turned a deaf ear, I was in love. Ah ah ah. I blame my mother for hiding the sadness she experienced in her own marriage; I would have learnt a lesson or two if she hadn't sugar coated marriage to me as if she wasn't sick of the commitment she herself had made every single day. I blame love for making a mockery of me.

You're probably wondering why I'm not blaming the sad little boy crying his heart out at my cold feet. How can I? He's going through worse feelings of regret and I would only be crueler to add a speck of blame to the mountain of sorrow that has overwhelmed my dear...little...beast.

I worshiped him like he was God in human flesh.

I kissed his feet like he was a spiritual being.

I changed myself for him.

I turned everything and everyone away for him.

I became him.

And to be honest and fair, he wasn't a total prick during this entire adoration process, in fact, he was heavenly; I mean that's probably why I kept giving more and more of me to someone who ought to be receiving an Oscar for his acting skills rather than crying for a dead fool like myself.

Yup! I'm a fool. A mighty one.

While I worshiped at his feet, he was taking lessons from me to show other undeserving ladies.

His lips lingered in the bosom of all my friends and sisters while I devoted mine to his feet.

He was a chameleon with a million shape shifting powers so who was I really changing myself for? A manipulative bastard who played with my mind and made me into an emotional slave? An abusive hot headed coward who always needed me to fix the fires he started?

As I watch him cry himself out in pain, I wonder what I ever did to deserve the hell he put me through, even on my worst days.

I loved him.

I loved him like I loved taking risks.

I love him like I loved the color red.

I loved him so bad I'm writing about him even on my funeral.

I'm a fool, I told you.

I loved him so much, I became his muse. He kept me indoors, swiping all the God Giving talents and ideas I casually gave him, ideas which went on to becoming huge contracts awarded by government officials; I mean I got a few flowers and some fake bags as compensation so...

I was dead to him when I couldn't bring him something innovative.

"Think, Sandra. That's the only job you have!" He yelled at me one day before storming off to work...or the arms of a close friend of mine. I remember staring at the mirror for hours, waiting for the tears to come out, but they only came out as smiles. That was all I could do for a long time, smile.

I smiled when he threw a tantrum, I smiled when he raised his fist at me, I smiled when he said I was fat as a pig, I smiled when he raised his fist at me.

I smiled when he said I was good for nothing—I smiled because I had just written a surprise for him, I smiled when he said he didn't care about the surprise, I smiled when he pushed me to the wall and I hit my head and blood began to gush out. I smiled when I dragged myself to the cupboard, picked the paper up and burnt it into ashes while recording myself bleeding and burning. I smiled when I sent him the recording.

I'm smiling now that you're reading this, I hope you send it to him.

Now picture a woman in white smiling so beautifully. I'm at peace now and he's forever a murderer. He killed me. Arrest him.

Before you lock him up in jail, help me whisper these words to him: "I couldn't shed tears because they ricocheted into smiles".