The sound of absence
By –another moment gone-
:::-:::
She knows it's wrong, the most deafening sound of guilt and regret. She is quite aware of those beady eyes that are just blaming her for all of those exchanged words and that unwanted resolution.
She knows it all.
She's cruel, she's haughty, she's cold, and she's the only thing you have left.
You see her ice cold amber orbs, glare at you accusingly and you're absolutely speechless.
:::-:::
The sparkling happiness that occasionally flickered in and out of her eyes was a treat. The assistance was not needed, or wanted in her eyes. Because asking for help, was like asking her to change for you.
And that simply was not acceptable.
She was insecure, she was angry all the time, but she was the closet thing you've come to love. The angry words, the looks of pure hatred shot left and right, up and down, you knew deep, deep down—she cared. Whether she was aware of that very minuscule fact. At least you could say; you knew.
:::-:::
But in mid-October, you can't say what had happened was for the best. The obscurity, the comfort, all of it—gone as quickly as it came.
The only thing left was the absolute deafening silence that often proved how wrong you were. The screeching and wailing of the single sound was louder than any other noise you had ever heard.
"Do you hear that?"
Your best friend shot you a quizzical look, trying to search for that unfathomed noise. You shake your head, in denial? Perhaps. In frustration? Sure.
"It's shouting at me," you murmur, staring distantly out the tall thick glass window, peering down at all those small specks of bodies. Bodies that held lives of their own—in control, or sometimes incapable of control. She was always in control; and that's what you lived for.
"What's shouting at you?" He asked, his eyebrows crinkling in utter confusion.
"The silence."
:::-:::
She was not one for tolerating your silly, childish ways. The 'games' you play, or the 'immature' thoughts you voice. She didn't like to hear you when you complained about something—but you didn't retort when you cussed over some outfit.
She didn't need reasons, and you didn't have excuses for her. It's just the way you two worked—she makes up rules along the way, and you followed them without a single question asked.
She didn't like your input. You figured it was because half the time, you were actually right—and she loathed when someone else was right over her. So you didn't say what you thought.
:::-:::
The clouds pour rain, acid rain that destroyed so much that fateful day. But what was fate?
"What is fate?" You asked her on one windy December, the bitter wind nipping at your necks as you two trudged through the toppling icy snow, careful not to trip or fall.
She turned to you with a look of genuine annoyance.
"What kind of question is that?" She snapped, balancing herself as her gentle feet touched the icy snow.
You looked down at your snow boots, not really sure how to respond. You heard the cracking noise as you continued to walk side-by-side with the amber-eyed beauty. You listened to the rare thump from her when she slipped through that icy snow; she was elegant though. And she rarely slipped.
"Just a question," you cheerfully say, sliding across the snow playfully. She glares at you, those hating piercing eyes. The striking unsettling pools of amber that kept you up late at night, wishing, wondering, questioning.
"Well fate…fate is whatever the hell happens and is just a placeholder." She decided, her voice full of authority; as if she knew everything.
"Really." You reply, slipping across the snow, gliding atop the built on layered ice, playful with her at once.
"Yes, really." She impatiently sighs as you two head up the icy driveway, her eyes still cold and steady.
"Why so cold?" You blurt, unlocking the door with the spare key under the mat. She turns to you, a look of incredulousness.
"What's so cold?"
You sigh, "You."
She glares, "Because it's cold out, dumbass." And she turns the key, locking you two in the house. She slips of those designer boots and glides through the house to the kitchen to make something warm to eat, her back turned towards you.
"No," you call with an even voice. "Why are you so cold—your personality."
She stops pouring scoops of powdery chocolate specks into the mugs and is frozen in her spot; a deer caught in the headlights. She doesn't sporadically snap at you, nor does she glare at you with daggers that pierce you with a fierceness you can't deny.
She just stands, like a stature. And that bothers you more than it should've—because she does not let you question her ways.
But you just did.
"What did you say?" She asks in a small voice, her back still turned, the heat of the nearby fire washing over your bodies. The crackling of fire burns as you make your way hesitantly to where she's standing.
"—Never mind." You quickly say, nervous at once. She doesn't say anything though.
:::-:::
"You know," you regretfully mutter. "If I didn't say anything at all, none of this shit would've gone down."
He stares at you with pity-filled eyes, and you hated that. Why? Because she didn't like pity, and nor did you.
"Stop with the 'if's, what's done is done." He caught his slip-up.
"Whatever, man."
:::-:::
You wake up with chapped lips and a sense of apprehension. The usual heat next to you is absent and you can't help but feel as if something was wrong in the world.
You open your eyes, everything is still hazy. And blink a few times to regain vision, blinking some more. You turn to your right and everything is over. All bets off. Game over.
Because your Block, is gone.
:::-:::
You continue to peer out the window, sitting comfortably on the rocking chair that was her mother's, and you wait.
You ignore the dying fire next to you, and pretend to not see those carolers that came around to sing merrily, even as they knocked and rang the door bell.
You ignored them, still looking out that window. Searching for what was lost.
You are surprised to see a small crumpled up piece of off-white paper, laying uselessly on the counter.
It's a note from her.
You want cold? This is cold.
So sorry.
-B
It was exactly like her to skip out on you. To leave you in the murky, blinding dust. It was so like her to make this some kind of mind trick.
Because even married to a woman that walked out on you, called you names plenty of times, never listened to you, and blamed you for all failures; she was still that original person you waited for from the crack of dawn, to the sun saying good-bye.
And as you waited, she got better and better at playing her crazy mood-swing games. And you gladly joined her, in hope for a new slate to build upon.
But Massie Block doesn't give second chances.
So nor do you.
Author's Note: Uh. So, guess who you think the guy was matched to Massie, if you want to?
Review.
-another moment gone-