Sidra stood on the balcony of her townhouse flat, sipping at a spicy
margarita and staring into the dark night sky. She was thinking of
someone, someone she could never have and would never want her. She
sighed as a lonesome wind howled past her, the chill in the air sent
shivers down her spine, sending her back into the warm house. Curled up
on the couch, wrapped in a soft cashmere blanket, she stared into a
painting of an empty fireplace. Beside the fireplace in the painting,
there was a young child, one long dead from exposure to the elements.
She didn't know why she kept that painting, only that it spoke to her
and she could not bear to part with it.
Again her thoughts traversed a landscape entangled with memories of someone with long honey-blonde hair and soft blue eyes, someone named Ana. Those eyes were like a calm blue ocean and she imagined she could fall into them forever. But that beautiful girl belonged to another, to a man. Something she could never compete with. Memories and regrets. She could never quite escape them, never quite elude those thoughts that haunted her. If only's were her constant companions, pushing and shoving for elbow room.
Was she in love with Ana just to be in love, just to fill that part of her? Why did she crave her, think about her constantly, wishing that she could somehow change what could never be changed? It had never been, so why did she miss it so sharply? Every dream, every thought, slicing deeper and deeper, until she bled uncontrollably. Tears were dripping into her margarita, the painting before her blurring. She couldn't stop them, she didn't care anymore. Alcohol did nothing and that wretched painting only made her wonder what it would've been like.
Maybe that was why she kept it. Without Ana there was no fire, she was just a dead child next to a long empty fireplace. She was that child, missing pieces of herself long rotted away from the decay and the cold. She shook herself then, spilling a little of her drink on her blanket. She set the glass down on the oak coffee table, righting herself to a standing position to dry the blanket. She glanced around her townhouse, looking over all the beautiful things she had. She had done well for herself, living up to her expectations and dreams, but they were all hollow victories compared with the losses that had come with them.
She returned to the chair and once again stared into the empty fireplace, avoiding the dead child curled beside it. Avoiding herself, she lifted her glass in a half-hearted salute, then drained it. She winced as it burned its way down her throat, warming as it went. If only getting drunk would help, she would've done it by now. Nothing ever helped; nothing ever stopped the constant laceration of memory.
Sidra yawned, her black eyes barely lifting to glance again at the painting. She started to fall asleep, adrift on a sea of semi-consciousness. In her dreams she saw Ana standing before her, pleading with her to come with her. She felt rooted to the ground, watching as long honey-blonde hair slowly flew out of sight, caught by the wind. She reached toward that perfect face, a placid smile etched into it. Those eyes, how they sparkled, how they danced! Frozen, she was frozen in place, she couldn't reach any further and with every breath Ana faded into a swiftly coming darkness.
A mannequin, a statue in the halls of memory, that was all she was. A scarecrow destined to stand watch forever. And Ana? She was fluid motion, a ballerina always twirling at the edges of her grasp. She was beauty and perfection, always out of Sidra's league, always too far for her to reach. She ran for hours down a hall, chasing Ana's shadows, always running and never quite catching. The walls were papered with paintings of dead children and empty fireplaces, broken hearts covered in ashes. They mocked her as she ran. She couldn't stand it, couldn't stand to lose her again. Hadn't she suffered enough for her sins?
She stopped running, panting. Doubling over she stared a moment at her feet, willing them to move again, she was so close and yet so far away. When she looked up Ana was before her, waiting and looking like a present day Goddess. Timidly, Sidra stretched out a hand to caress her, just to touch her would be enough, she thought. She nearly cried when skin met skin, she felt so smooth like milky satin. She pulled her close, kissing her on the mouth, tasting and reveling in the taste. She stroked her hair and gently caressed her cheek, begging her to stay forever and praying to never wake up again. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, Ana was gone.
When she awoke she was alone, still curled in her chair. Her Siamese cat was busily cleaning herself underneath the painting, pausing now and then to stare at her quizzically. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles; it always did when she slept in the chair. She swore she could almost taste Ana's mouth on her lips, too bad dreams didn't mean anything in reality. She stretched, falling out of the chair instead of standing. She looked again at the painting, cursing it with every breath.
She took it down, carrying it into her bedroom and shoving it under her bed. Later she would drive out to the country and set a fire, she would purge herself of memories and regret. She would burn up what love she may have felt for the painting and for a young woman with long honey-blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes. She would cut out her heart, she thought. Wouldn't that help? Yes, if she had no heart surely it wouldn't hurt so much. There would be no heart left to hurt.
Again her thoughts traversed a landscape entangled with memories of someone with long honey-blonde hair and soft blue eyes, someone named Ana. Those eyes were like a calm blue ocean and she imagined she could fall into them forever. But that beautiful girl belonged to another, to a man. Something she could never compete with. Memories and regrets. She could never quite escape them, never quite elude those thoughts that haunted her. If only's were her constant companions, pushing and shoving for elbow room.
Was she in love with Ana just to be in love, just to fill that part of her? Why did she crave her, think about her constantly, wishing that she could somehow change what could never be changed? It had never been, so why did she miss it so sharply? Every dream, every thought, slicing deeper and deeper, until she bled uncontrollably. Tears were dripping into her margarita, the painting before her blurring. She couldn't stop them, she didn't care anymore. Alcohol did nothing and that wretched painting only made her wonder what it would've been like.
Maybe that was why she kept it. Without Ana there was no fire, she was just a dead child next to a long empty fireplace. She was that child, missing pieces of herself long rotted away from the decay and the cold. She shook herself then, spilling a little of her drink on her blanket. She set the glass down on the oak coffee table, righting herself to a standing position to dry the blanket. She glanced around her townhouse, looking over all the beautiful things she had. She had done well for herself, living up to her expectations and dreams, but they were all hollow victories compared with the losses that had come with them.
She returned to the chair and once again stared into the empty fireplace, avoiding the dead child curled beside it. Avoiding herself, she lifted her glass in a half-hearted salute, then drained it. She winced as it burned its way down her throat, warming as it went. If only getting drunk would help, she would've done it by now. Nothing ever helped; nothing ever stopped the constant laceration of memory.
Sidra yawned, her black eyes barely lifting to glance again at the painting. She started to fall asleep, adrift on a sea of semi-consciousness. In her dreams she saw Ana standing before her, pleading with her to come with her. She felt rooted to the ground, watching as long honey-blonde hair slowly flew out of sight, caught by the wind. She reached toward that perfect face, a placid smile etched into it. Those eyes, how they sparkled, how they danced! Frozen, she was frozen in place, she couldn't reach any further and with every breath Ana faded into a swiftly coming darkness.
A mannequin, a statue in the halls of memory, that was all she was. A scarecrow destined to stand watch forever. And Ana? She was fluid motion, a ballerina always twirling at the edges of her grasp. She was beauty and perfection, always out of Sidra's league, always too far for her to reach. She ran for hours down a hall, chasing Ana's shadows, always running and never quite catching. The walls were papered with paintings of dead children and empty fireplaces, broken hearts covered in ashes. They mocked her as she ran. She couldn't stand it, couldn't stand to lose her again. Hadn't she suffered enough for her sins?
She stopped running, panting. Doubling over she stared a moment at her feet, willing them to move again, she was so close and yet so far away. When she looked up Ana was before her, waiting and looking like a present day Goddess. Timidly, Sidra stretched out a hand to caress her, just to touch her would be enough, she thought. She nearly cried when skin met skin, she felt so smooth like milky satin. She pulled her close, kissing her on the mouth, tasting and reveling in the taste. She stroked her hair and gently caressed her cheek, begging her to stay forever and praying to never wake up again. Then, just as suddenly as she appeared, Ana was gone.
When she awoke she was alone, still curled in her chair. Her Siamese cat was busily cleaning herself underneath the painting, pausing now and then to stare at her quizzically. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles; it always did when she slept in the chair. She swore she could almost taste Ana's mouth on her lips, too bad dreams didn't mean anything in reality. She stretched, falling out of the chair instead of standing. She looked again at the painting, cursing it with every breath.
She took it down, carrying it into her bedroom and shoving it under her bed. Later she would drive out to the country and set a fire, she would purge herself of memories and regret. She would burn up what love she may have felt for the painting and for a young woman with long honey-blonde hair and dreamy blue eyes. She would cut out her heart, she thought. Wouldn't that help? Yes, if she had no heart surely it wouldn't hurt so much. There would be no heart left to hurt.
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