His fingers were like sandpaper icicles on her chest. Two of the snaps on the western shirt her aunt gave her for her seventh birthday were torn off. Breathing will never be this difficult again except in fits of passion. Flashbacks aren’t only experienced by war vets.
She will never get married.
The entire room was dark except for the disgusting moonlight resting on her face and torso. She hated that window. Heavy breaths whistled out of a nostril and brushed against her temple after going through a filter of whiskers.
Imagine that sound penetrating each one of your senses. Taste those breaths because they will resonate mildew in your mouth for the next twenty years until memories simply turn
into defense mechanisms and you are subjugated again.
She accidentally knocked Furball, her stuffed seal, off of her bed and wanted to apologize, but language was now a foreign concept. The only things she knew were those icicles and that whistle. She will loathe every boy who tries to love her. She will break their hearts and they will secretly hate her.
She really did love you, she just couldn’t tell.
Every boy will tell her that she is beautiful and she will hate them for doing so.
They meant it doll, I promise.
In college she will flat line from taking too many oxycontins. It won’t be a cry for help, it genuinely won’t. Her boyfriend of the time will wake up to her foaming at the mouth and rush her to the hospital.
He will be forced to drop two classes and beg for one “withdraw-passing” in his final semester of med school because he will spend every waking hour at the hospital. Combine that with the problem he had as a freshman of treating hang-overs as opposed to going to class, and he will loose his scholarship and won’t have the money to reapply but he won’t care. His mother will disown him at dinner in front of her side of the family (the only one he associates with) and militarily claim that he shat upon his education for a whore. He will never associate with “her side” again.
She will wake up to sandpaper icicles clenching her hand, but his fingers and compassion can never just be fingers and compassion. She will break up with him a week later. He will end up hanging from the famous campus bridge wearing the suit his grandmother got him for graduation and with the engagement ring he hadn’t given her yet strapped to his hand. She will wear it on her right ring finger for the rest of her life.
In another life she would have married you and been the best wife you could have hoped for. She would have learned your favorite meal and prepared it better than your favorite restaurant, even though she hates to cook and works fifty hours a week. Some days you would come home from work to her laying in bed, waiting for you with a new piece of lingerie she bought with the money she got from piano lessons.
She would tell you she loved you.
She felt bad that Furball had to watch. She never slept with him again.
Her Wal-Mart Levi’s were her only source of protection and those were failing. Icicles have never been so frigid and neither had she. By the time she turns thirty she will have slept with eighty-nine men.
None of them meant a thing.
She will die at thirty-six succeeding where she failed in college. At her funeral the icicles will scrape her one last time as her father cries at her open casket. Even deceased they always find her.
She would have been the best wife you could have hoped for.