SCENE 1
My thoughts are dark. Not the kind that would sing you to sleep but the kind that would keep you awake, baring its fangs into your very existence. Robbing you of your life. Tearing away your pieces and watch you gleefully as you moan your agonies out loud. Almost as if it was alive, only to watch you crumble. The wicked grin of malice that could cut you open like shrapnel, spilling your guts and reduce your will to nothing.
You understand, don’t you? Out of all the people on earth. Fate mocks me. The person- you- I want nothing to do with is the one who understands me. Completely. Entirely.
Is this me going mad? Losing my sanity? Because I’ve heard sanity is a dangerous thing to lose. And it scares me, more than you can imagine.
“I see that you’re busy.” Your words draw my attention. I find your voice sublime. It has the power to dissolve all my thoughts, to leave me dumb to everything around me but you. When your enigmatic self enters the room, unannounced, even, I can tell that you’re there. We have a connection- something I pray dies a horrible death but till then, I will find myself living for it- even after you robbed me of my own life.
“Yes,” I try not to look at your face as I drag the flat brush across the rough surface of the canvas. Your face, your face, is an image imprinted in my brain. So even when you’re not there, I am counting the freckles on your cheeks, like stars in the sky- a tact to call sleep, a tact to escape the memories of my previous life.
I am drowning in you.
“What are you painting?” You ask me as you peer over my shoulder. It is a tactic that you use to buckle people under your will, in your presence. If you wanted to, if you wanted to, you could’ve pulled up a seat next to me and observed my hand... but you did not. I know why. I am not as oblivious as I seem.
You like being close to me.
You like to torture yourself with the closeness- as you like to torture me- but you can’t quite make anything of it because you’re not supposed to feel like this toward me. I’m supposed to be your victim, yet here I am, not a victim but a shell of what I used to be.
Your dark hair falls as you grow closer, I catch it in my peripheral vision. I’ve always wondered how it could look so shiny and clean.
Also your scent- you’ve changed your perfume.
It annoys me. I liked your previous scent better. I try not to be concerned with it but it is an attempt in vain.
My hand trembles and I drop the brush. The deep red colour splatters on the polished white floor. It doesn’t look like blood, I am not that morbid. Thank goodness to the medium used, it does look like red wine.
“Why did you have to change your perfume?” I snap at you which takes you by surprise. This is also the first time today that I have so much as turned to your face. You don’t shift. You don’t even flinch at my harsh tone, instead, you stare at me.
My breath is caught in my throat. Our noses are almost touching. Almost. Everything about you is almost. The thought makes me want to laugh bitterly.
Almost perfect, almost obscure, almost kind, almost evil, almost insane.
Your dark eyes are like a kaleidoscope. I can’t ever pick a colour that would even come close to it. It’s always a shade darker but if there’s anything I know, it’s not black.
“I didn’t know it would bother you so much.”
And that rough and raspy voice tells me that you want to touch me, that you want to close the minimal distance between us. Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the tone of your voice and I find myself wanting the same thing you do. To close the distance. To touch. To kiss.
I am disgusted with my thoughts.
In another lifetime, maybe, I would relish the feeling. If you were not you and I was not me. Then maybe, maybe then, we could have something- but at the moment, I don’t want anything to do with you.
At least that is what I am feeding my mind.
“I- I don’t like this one,” I manage to hide the burning desire that stings my chest by lowering my head. I glare at my fingers as they weave into each other, wringing furiously, displaying the nervousness that I aimed to hide. I can feel your eyes on them too and it infuriates me, how well you know me.
A sick joke- that’s what you and I are. We’re the playthings of Fates. When they are bored, they take us out and play. I think they relish my broken mind- and like a fool, I fight back.
Would it be so hard to give up?
Would it be so hard to lean in and bite your lips so hard that I feel the filling rolling down my cheeks as I latch onto it, drinking it, taking your life into mine?
Would it be so hard to lunge at you with the back of my brush and gorge your eyes out to figure out what colour they really are?
Would it be so hard?
Would it?
