Profane Lips

Chapter One

My heart races against each Formula car. My heart cracks my ribs . Inhalation and exhalation have become a burdening task. There are barely a couple of oxygen atoms clutching to my red blood corpuscles. My pullover is stained with gore . I cough repeatedly as more lumps of clotted haemoglobin struggle their way out of my old 1880s Victorian lungs. My condition is rapidly deteriorating. My heart beat's accelerate. My lungs and demise are at a constant combat, and the will  for survival has become an offending and daunting task.
My lungs pant, suffocate; sending an impending tone through my quivering limps. My strength is fading away, surrendering as my hope to make it through the dusk becomes a challenge. The hope to conquer my chronic disease is a pale shimmer of moonlight on this dismal Christmas night, but hope springs eternal in the human breast . I start to believe in grandma's lies about the afterlife , doom's day, redemption, resurrection and Jesus Christ. I grab Nietche's book for comfort; I entertain my thoughts with more misery. The book in comparison to my prowess is way heavy for my hand to sustain a state of balance so the book falls and as it rests on the barren floor; a roaring sound echoes in the vacant room. Something is moved. The dust particles hover in the sick , morbid air giving enough capacity for the book to joyfully unleash its papers after they got numb from the same position on the crooked table ten years from now. The table is in gales of laughter. My severe illness has brought freedom and merriness to an artefact object. I did not mob the floor since he left me. I can see his footprints clearly for the thick layer of dust acts as a great revelation for every trodden step of his. His foot is 43 in size, moderate as I recall. He was graceful . His steps were very concomitant with my feeble, turtle like moves. He never accidentally stepped on my feet nor made me fall. He was better in dancing than I practically was. His body moved like a gifted ballerina .
I used to stop and listen, straining my ears for any sound . Wondering what sort of music drove his delicate hands on my skinny waist. When we danced , we had no music . We played solitude on and on for hours; surprisingly , it
was never  tedious.  My body was in sole acquiescence to his movements.

Vile reminiscences.

My feeble body hangs loosely on what
seems two legs dangling from the couch. The couch was white long before luxurious parties were held in my mansion. The couch smells rotten rum, Noir perfume, shaving cream. It is two after midnight as the decaying watch indicates. The needles scarcely capable of pointing to the digits which are indeed fighting to keep recognised. The pendulum of the clock sways to the left more than it does to the right. There is a mystery in the theory of gravity here . Everything in the opposing direction to my sofa situated three meters to the right sways to the left ubnormally. From my seat, I could see the kitchen utensils reclining five  degrees to the left. Never mind the sophisticated physics ; I have never been fond of numbers. The weather is below zero. The windows are covered with a thin layer of frost . It is eerily quiet. The gloomy corridor is badly lit by five candles ;the remains of a two -day old molten ones with barely visible threads keeping the falling pile of wax in a proper condition to light the hall for the coming three hours. I hear an awkward sound in the vacant horizon of my garden. I strain my eyes peering into the dark corners , trying to catch a glimpse of any weird creature hiding in the shrubs. I have a queer feeling that I am being watched. At first,my voice quivers with indignation. I shudder with revulsion . I am frantic with worry.
When there is nothing to fear, I went back to my desolation , pondering how this night shall end . I take a deep sip of a strong caffeine beverage made from water filtered through coffee beans and glance for a moment at the small ice crystals coating the freshly cold surface of the dilapidated pavements.
I take a trip down memory lane in an attempt to recover reminiscences which the fog so well conceal . My dismal mood is not dispelled by finding the garden empty. Relief. My eyes hit a portrait of us when we were seniors. His hands delicately curled around my waist; my red, short dress of satin almost totally revealing my curves. My long , silky , brunette hair which extends to the end of my back drove him insane. I was wearing a Valentine red lipstick -his favourite. I remember how the heels have made me slip ; my cheeks went from pale white to crimson red. Luckily , he caught me before I was about to hit the floor and passionately caressed my lips between his skim , white teeth. How astounding the moment was. I pulled back, choking for some oxygen, still intoxicated by the arousal and immediately pressed my lips against his neck- this explains the red taint behind the first button of his black T-shirt. My graduation cap fell and I did not bother with getting it back to where it belongs.
The smell of rum ; that alcoholic spirit distilled from sugar -cane residues or molasses coming from the neighbouring apartments fills my lungs with yearning and lust. It tickles every nerve composing my spine. It gets me butterflies and makes me weak to the knees. Rum! His preferable refreshing drink before intercourse .