A Perfectionist Cure.

Chapter 3

I would often go to her remains to lose myself again. Hoping again. Hope is a funny thing when you are next to a headstone that read, I lived three infinities and one forever. Very funny honestly. Hope seemed to be not a bird but winged, that started by perching at the light blooming of reaction. Perhaps a winged human-self it was, that began to fly higher and higher every time it hit hard ground. Sarcasm in her dead and wild aura laughed at my egged face each time I hoped for what I hoped. We loved. Full stop. I felt her hand holding on to me and I touched her. She couldn't just be gone, not just like that, could she? It gunned worse as her absence questioned my touch to reality. What if she was just my imagination? Of course, she wasn't! I couldn't find another way to convince myself for a goodbye to her return. I had to stop hoping- that she would come back and this was all just a bad dream. Not a nightmare, a bad dream I say.

Her name was Nora, is Nora Adam. NA.

I sat in front of him anticipating; as though seated among charcoal desires, my call was gullible enough for him to hold on to- hand in hand, a karmic cycle.

He kissed me on the neck as my robe unclutched- dismissing its bodily desires. I lead him to my shoulder; my damp fingers caressing his hair in wicked strokes. My skin crawled as he soaked on my freckled shoulder. He eyed the hallows and he slowly figured his way around as I firmly held around his gut. It was an unavoidable and lewd delight. I gasped heavily while his fingers brushed against my thighs. It was sultry and desperation majorly thickened the air. Just as I began to resist, he heaved a deep sigh at the fall of my neck and jolted me off guard. I hit the wall with my bare back, locked eye to eye in lucid gazes.

He looked at me and let out a self-satisfied smirk, "That's a fair routine."

-NA

"Misery is loneliness in the face of love. Don't you agree?", she asked me as I read through for the second time with the intention of reading between the lines. I didn't have to answer. She went into her mind to answer her own question.

She sparked thought in me and I fueled it. 'I would love to drown in misery with a person flawed and scarred in right adequacy- one who could make time thin to an extent that I would isolate every second just to count it all over again- with her, making nights more abundant and luring as I breathe in and out with a filled heart'. I then vowed to never settle if it was even a pinch less than what is required to drench me without drowning in my hopes just as I looked at her but dared not to say it out loud.

"Well, I seem to be rendering you speechless too often lately", she called herself out to the world with a smile to one corner as her naughty and living eyes checked me in and out from head to toe.

How could I possibly answer her? To my ear the words she spoke were so soft and bending but those I read demanded for undivided attention- they were fierce and purgatory. They tormented the mind that read along the lines. One can never imagine her talk in such a straight tone. She mostly just babbled or spoke to herself or laughed endlessly. I never imagined her to write so robust and calling. She knew what to put where.

Akin her own words, she drowned before me in the love I now loathe.

***

The weeks followed as I stuck to routine. I spent more time scrubbing the furn and I resorted to writing out of all side-lining crotchets. The thing about writing- I could keep adding words to words until I found the better ones to pen.

Kate steered off sight through the weeks that followed the disconcerted interaction. Noel dropped in for his hours with Kate's mother and Liv was as happy as ever! If only Liv could spread even to the numbest corners of a flying wing.

The rest; same.

***

Happiness is a choice- some would say. A happy ending would again be a choice- then the strain of life too would be and so would be that of death- she chose hers in happiness but it didn't happen so. Words in plethora, but to describe my state of mind in the end- even the winter of words proved unworthy to suffice. I wrote not to maintain a record of myself in happiness, but in life and worth to address someone- a crowd of someone(s). Anything worth thinking of was in paper. What is to follow may seem hasty and indecisive to the naked eye. It would be called mere cowardice. When I took to it, the air around my head would wound strict and vigorous. I wondered if it was the same when she wrote as well. In decision, I could not guarantee a rapt audience to my amateur word sequence. Metaphor, was it?

No idea. Not a single one. Trust me. The old ones might surely cry when this travels the dead air to reach their half and unbent ears. To me it seemed healthy- to my mind and body.

Alas everything under the carpet was on paper. Forgery in its face overtook the inspiration on bay to possess my intention behind writing. Writing for her? I would answer that with a pause in plenty. No. Not for her. I would never write for her- not that I didn't want to, just that I didn't have to. I skimmed through the cold pages, folded 'em up neat and nice in an envelope and walked the path of the magnolia. Those pages contained all unbreathable contexts from my life- the ones too significant. It was no longer going to be mine; I bid goodbye to those chapters of inundating sentiments and mailed 'em off. To Kate- the only family interested. What is to follow might tag me cowardice.

Goodbye. Perhaps won't be my last.

***

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