The Game
The game. How it ebbed in her head. The game, the game, thegamethegamethegameTheGameTHEGAME!! She felt insane. How it plagued her mind, like a dog with fleas.
Y'know…dog is an anagram of God…So maybe there is a relation? There would be if I was playing The Game. She sighed softly, turning over unto her side on the bed. Her hand slithered to her flat stomach, feeling at the little drawings on her skin. Some were bumpy, some were silky. The Game is good. Makes me feel good. Gives me stories to remember, to feel, to hear, to smell, to see, to touch. Am I mad? Yea'.
She then rolls unto her back with a sigh, her long yellow hair sprawled across her pillow. I could. She thought. Her fingertip crawls over one drawing and she sighs softly. Like a smile.
I can be like her y'know. Porphryia? Do you know her? No. Why not? I mean…its such a good poem really…its…beautiful.
Her cerulean eyes move over so slowly…to the bedside table. Watching a small band for her hair. She grimaced like a corpse. Do you want to know about the game?
No. Maybe. Yea'.
The Game is life and death you see. Its fun. Makes me happy, makes me feel good…It helps me to escape.
And so I found a thing to do…I'm not her lover you see, so I have to do this myself. I took my yellow hair in one long string and wound it round my throat, three times. I tug. I choke. I wheeze. I gag. A tear drops. Its fading! Its fading…I see nothing, and I long for nothing.
You see, I'm free. There were no drawings this time. Just a watercolour around my throat.
So do you see? This is The Game. The Game of Porphyria. Not her lover.
We see. We see through our loss, the loss of you, of her. We didn't understand and now we do. But don't. But do.
Its only colours.
My last story was a watercolour.