Platonic Love

Chapter 1

Underneath this skin
Is a heart that's bleeding
Underneath that heart
I'm waiting, I'm praying
Can You really feel what I'm feeling?
'Cause this world don't ask
It takes...it's stealing

The tyres of scream an estranged mourn on the platform as the Royce Roll Phantom swivels up. The door slams and the steady beat of shoes against polished marble follows its master up the stairs. Black Prada leather shoes, size ten. You know his shoes size, the contents of the entire wardrobe- from patterned Hawaiian shirts bought on a mad whirlwind impulse to cufflinks shining like knight's amour, his favourites and his sleeping habits- which are most peculiar. Your husband does not snore, nor does he sleep with his mouth wide open. He is too perfect. In the death of the night, you watch him sleep. It is a personal luxury. One day, soon, when fate decides he will never lay by your side again, the pensive joy of security will waver like static, fizz like froth away and become nothingness. A stabbing emptiness haunts your heart like a diseased ghost and chases your soul down lines of bleak cannels. You know that feeling. That awful feeling that gets caught in your throat and nothing will unstop that block. The intent climax is almost ricocheting, numbing senses and clawing at the locket in your heart several a times.

When your husband sleeps he is a canvas of frozen in-motion artwork. The mop of golden hair, now dyed sliver by the moonlight is tousled to a side. His half-curl lips are slightly parted and he breathes as the ripples on his bony chest resembled rising and receding tides. A sleeping man is most alluring.

Sometime you wake up from a bad dream, clutching the silk sheets you both share tightly. The web of illusions spins in your head; in your dream you see a land full of craters and not a sign of life in sight. Withered mulberry trees cross your path and adolescent doers lay at your feet- their legs curled up to the downcast sky like that of a spider's. Austerity, devastation and retribution. It is a bad omen, moans the superstitious side of you. The whole issue is not in full agreement with that conclusion. You try to dismiss thoughts of icy death but your head is shouting; The grim reaper is coming! The grim reaper is coming!

Don't, please… You whisper, even though you are not sure you prefer it coming uninvited. A ball of uneasy frenzy clenches insides. It floats up, as light as a gust if smoke and before escaping it pops into a shower of heavy fragments, sinking into your flesh and tormenting your heart. This feeling haunts you every day, every hour, every minute. Guilt.

Haruhi, are you okay? Your husband sits up and rubs his eyes. A glimmer of tear purrs down your oval face when your eyes meet his. They are mirrors- mirrors that reflect the fact; time is running out. Did you have a bad dream?

The previous feeling is suppressed by newfound relief. He spoke! He may live to see the sakura bloom tomorrow. Each day is a challenge. Each night is a game. Dusk falls and it will be an everlasting night. If your husband stirs in his sleep, you know you've won. The moon can wax and wane in vain, but you understand he is still with you.

Supposedly, the worst feeling is anxiety. You loathe worrying; every time the fear creeps in, your throat constricts and taste buds go awry. During mealtimes all you can consume is air. In whatever you do, concentration is absent. The sour taste left in your mouth keeps you from making a proper conversation. Your grandmother asks you how the weather is and you reply abalone is great, puzzled why she enquired about food.

Yes, Tamaki. You tell him and your glaze drifts away. You cannot bear to look at him. His cheekbones are hollow and features seem sunken although anyone can see that he was once handsome. Hurt plagues you daily; feeding on your soul like a loan shark demanding for payment. He resembles the withered mulberry tree in the dreaded dream. Pitiful and brimming with sorrow.

Our bed is facing north, the way dead bodies are laid. The feng shui is not good. You say this excuse each time he asks the question. This is a routine, performed every night. Soon, he slips an arm around your waist and pulls you back to bed. It feels familiar, of course. The other man you share bed activities with does that as well. Only he wraps both arms around you and kisses the nape of your neck.

Haruhi… Your husband says, before he nods off to dreamland even if you lie to me, I believe what you say.

It is your fault. You see him as a blue chip, wanting him merely for selfish desires. You marry this man because the other wouldn't. Soon, the other man replies, a brow wrinkled in annoyance and you cease questioning.

When I am tempted
To crawl back and hide my face
Will You wrap me up
With love, truth and grace
How'd I become the mess that I have made?
I'm afraid to look You in the eye
Because of my shame

My freedom – by Krystal Meyers