What a horrible thing it is to think that a person is ever more than just a person. The world is full of people who are constantly imagining and constantly being misimagined.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

My Perfect Memory

                “Honestly, I swear it was a stupid mistake, really.  .” Michael stared at me, his grey eyes searching endlessly into mine, writing their own feelings into my heart.
“No, don’t play this game with me, please.  .” I felt my eyes tearing up, my heart cracking right down the middle.
                Michael’s perfect, statuesque, domineering figure faltered. He looked at me for a moment before his chest seemed to collapse into itself. His arms lost their rigid structure and hung limp at his side, his legs seemed to lose an inch or so as his knees buckled, and his mouth. .I watched almost motionless as the thin lines of pink fell into a downward curve. I wanted to take a step towards him, I wanted to save him from his destruction, I wanted to save us. Yet, through all my maniac thought the world stood still and so did I.
“It’s not a game, McCall. I’m sorry, can’t you forgive me?”
                Sitting in my little bedroom those words held so much power over me. I grabbed the chair that accompanied my desk and before I knew it my knees gave way and I sunk to the floor. I was ruined, I was the shell of the girl I was before.  Tears streamed down from my eyes, the listless lids holding no protection against them. I grabbed my wrist and dug my fingernails into the soft skin that covered the one simple vein I had fought so hard to protect.
“No, no. Mic, please,” the anguish in his voice tore me apart. He was fighting with himself now, seeing how easily I fell back into the hands of depression.
                He took a step closer to me and went to brush the tears from my eyes, “Don’t touch me,” I shuddered.
“McCall, please. . .” he begged and pleaded, but I think we both knew it was pointless.
“You promised! You promised you were different,” I screamed, throwing the nearest thing I could find, a pen, at him.
“McCall, it was a mistake. I love you, you know that. . Right?” he asked, almost childishly, looking for the confirmation that he was still okay, that his mistake would be fixed all by itself.
“No, I love you. You are desperately confused,”

“Do you want me to leave? What do you want me to do?” I turned to look at him and saw that the thoughtful grey eyes I loved to look into were empty, soulless.
“I don’t know,” I uttered those words with careful consideration, what did I want?
“I won’t do it again, I promise. I promise on my life, I won’t do it again.” Michael wrapped his arms around my shoulder and held me as I cried into his chest, knowing I could never let him walk away from me. No matter how much he hurt me, he was Michael, he was mine. And for him I could learn to live half-alive.
“I forgive you,” I whispered, knowing I really didn’t.
“Thank you, Mic. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I sobbed harder into the black shirt that covered his torso, “I love you too.” 

My memory is still as sharp as the day it happened.
This one is for you Michael Wagner.

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