Longing

Voice: https://drive.google.com/file/d/0B6yr4OoJNO21NVlhWGxROGFJc3c/view?usp=sharing

Again another quicky on the voice recording. There are sections I'd love to go back on, but I think it turned out rather solidly for the time I put into it (maybe seven minutes). Hopefully I'm improving at this.

This kind of poked into my head. Love is always sad, and longing is even worse. Perhaps this is a part of me peeking out, leaving me more exposed than I'd care to admit. Old hurts, right?

"Do you remember the first time we came here?"

He did. It was a sunny sky over a bright field, the embodiment of light in one location. The environment seemed to scream cheer, of happy days that would never end.

Of course, he now knew better. Where green growth once spread, now only infection remained. Gray grass and skeleton trees spread before his eyes, the cadaver of better days. He felt her fingers slide along his arm. He leaned into the touch.

"That was a long time ago."

"Not so long ago. Not long enough that it can never be again." She was right. All it took was a wave of her finger and a bit of color arose. Yellow pierced grey, stretching, rising, a single spot in a blighted landscape. She had always loved daffodils, and that graceful flower made its appearance here.

"Where one arose, so can a hundred. A thousand. Flowers without name or number, guided by my will." She squeezed his arm now, urging, aching. "You know all you need do to make it happen."

"I can't." He wasn't so sure of the words. He shouldn't, but he certainly could. He wanted to. Everything in him yearned to see her again. Her hair, as warm as the summer sun, her smile, as comforting as a hearth fire. She was light and love, and to see that again might stoke the flames inside himself.

"Can't or won't?" she whispered. He could feel her breath at his ear, a gentle tickle, a faint caress, the whisper of intimacy. Her fingers dug into his skin, kneading, needing, a slow rub that made him tremble. He began to ache, to long, to miss the feel of her wrapped inside of his arms. Those shining blue eyes, that bright pink smile, the total adoration she reserved just for him.

"Both."

The gentle knead grew sharp, nails biting rather than nipping. She laughed, but there was no light in it. That had gone out with her eyes. The longing in her lips turned to a low purr, a bedroom noise, coaxing, convincing, a smug superiority that asked for obedience but wanted worship.

"Do it. Do it and you'll have home, you'll have peace, you'll have me. How many years has it been since we held? Kissed? Fucked? How many years has it been since I was in your arms and you were happy?"

"Too many," he said, voice and body trembling as one. Her nails pulled at his skin, scraped, leaving little cuts along the way, tears that turned into rivers, lines of blood mixing and intermingling on their slow process down his back.

"Pull me up. Put me together. My arms from the East, my legs from the West, my head from the North, and my heart to the South. Make me whole again, my love, and I'll do the same for you." Her breath blew against his skin, icy, frigid, the stink of camphor, frankincense and the grave going with it. He reached up to the woman at his ear, brushing at the skin that chipped and flaked, at the cheek that crumbled with a single stroke.

"No."

Her reply wasn't nearly so sweet. It was a holler, a howl, a rejection of his own. The air whipped at his front as her hands ripped at his back, the circling fury of a cyclone. He squeezed his eyes and clenched his jaw, able to block out the sights, to bear the buffets, but never cease the sounds.

"I gave you everything! My love, my lust, my life, a sacrifice! I gave you the cord that hung above my mother's door, I handed you the box locked tight under the floor. I told you whispers of dreams no man had seen! I gave you everything and what did I receive?"

"A fate that I will always grieve," he intoned sadly. Slowly the wind died down. Slowly her nails pulled away. Soon he was left alone but for scars and flowers, some seen and others hidden. A cold wind blew against the bright daffodil at his feet, making it dance, having it sway. It and memories were all he had left.

He slammed down the shovel and wept.