8-17-05
She had loved him once. That she knew. It seemed almost laughable now, the idea of having feelings for such a twisted creature other than loathing. But there was no changing the past, and in her defense, she didn't know the extent of his madness when he walked up to her in the bookstore. She had no idea what would happen, the pain and fear that would come after he asked her where to find a copy of Edgar Allen Poe's stories and poems.
That had revealed itself in due time.
She knew it wasn't healthy to be so afraid. He had died a long time ago. He couldn't hurt her now. There was nothing left of him but a few papers and paintings. Even the house and the body had been eaten up, vanishing into ashes when the fire broke out. She had viewed the spot herself, the gray and white dust mixed with black debris, the brilliant flashes of melted color poking out like malignant tumors.
Still, she could feel him watching her.
She should focus on her work. It was all she had left now. She had pushed them all away, all of her friends, for fear that they would turn out like him. The only constant was her canvas, her paints.
Her memories.
She could feel the pressure on her mind. The memories crowded around her, threatening to spill into her and devour her from inside. It was all she could do to keep painting, to drown out the voices with blaring music and the sounds of brush on canvas. Her demons wrenched themselves out of her head and pinned themselves to dark, post-apocalyptic scenes and snarled at terrified faces.
But one monster refused to be woven into the fabric of her paintings.
She understood his need for numbness. She finally comprehended his insane need to be without feeling. The long nights and even longer days of fear, of despair, of madness drained her, took control of her. She hated letting go of reason and letting her emotions reign. It repulsed her to feel the wet, hot tears carve channels down her face. Even her work refused to deter the torrent of emotion.
How deeply she understood him now.
He had been sick. She knew that then, and she knew it now. But his sickness had spread, had engulfed her as well. As it had him, it was slowly eating her away until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. In time, she would probably go as he did.
Of course, she didn't have a gun, but that could easily be remedied.
She had loved him once. That she knew. What she didn't realize, though, was that she still did.