Pain. Another four letter word. What “wait” derives it's torture form. Pain. Her's, mine, all of ours. Pain. When you're in pain, things that should be beautiful, aren't. When you're in pain, the sun's bright rays are too bright, painfully, blindingly bright, and fag and darkness seem oh so appealing. Safe, in the cloak of darkness.
But I had to come, had to see her. And so, despite pain, here we both were, beneath the too bright fluorescent lights and with these people, these faces, these voices. None of them knew. They all were... so trivial. So oblivious. So separate. But all noisy, their obnoxious sounds trying to claw their way into our already beaten and bruised heads. Go away. We have shit to deal with, too. Real shit.
There she sat, behind her desk, dutifully reading papers full of meaningless letters that formed meaningless words. No longer perched, carefree, on her desk, but confines, trapped by him, by the world, by lies, by love, by me.
All I wanted to do was to save her, but how could I, when I was in as much pain? How cold I, when I too needed saving?
YOU ARE READING
Her
Short StorySome say love, it is a river, that drowns the tender reed. Some say love, it is a razor, that leaves your soul to bleed. Some say love, it is a hunger, an endless, aching need. I say love, it is a flower, and you, its only seed. It's the heart afrai...
