Bruises

He walks away from her tearing apart the promises. The lobster from yesterday in the pits of her stomach churns,  making her breathe deeply, till it calms down. The hot summer wind leaves her sweaty, the force of the crack in her heart unnoticed.

A grin. A hug. A word at the right time. That’s all it took for her to give herself to him sincerely. Without a doubt, without a question. Just like in the movies. Wasn’t that supposed to be love anyway? No questions asked? Every moment as if from a dream. Every touch, every eye lock, every nervous laughter. A slow dwindling road of trust and care. The walking stick during arthritis. A paracitamol during nights of cold, sweaty fever. The side-wheel to her unbalanced bike-rider. Her everything.

It was sudden. Fights. Insults. Crying. A night of passion. Bags under their eyes their friends chuckled (un)knowingly to. It was something they should have forgotten a bouquet of flowers and a movie later. But their monsters were stonewalls, denial, and more insults. Till something in him snapped.

He came close to her. Enough to make her smell the mint in his breath, and feel the shivers in his body. Enough to feel this was it-the moment they found their answers. She tried to turn away, but found herself immobile. He looked at her with eyes almost shut, and jaw tight. At that moment she saw what was attractive about him, and that scared her.

A blow of wind hit her before his hand did. Her heart broke before her wisdom tooth did. Her spirit tore before her eyes flowed.

As he walked away from her, a month later, in that hot summer night, she felt nothing. The black-blue bruises -a souvenir of her bad decisions- would sting for months to come.

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About TheBlackWallflower

I'm just your average unique person. I love to read and write (no surprises there, eh?) and think a lot. I adore Rowling and think Harry Potter should be a religion. I also hate pink. I love fluff generally because it makes me feel intelligent and I love poetry because it makes me feel different. (yes, references.) I'm married to Sirius Black. So I sign myself as The Bitch alarmingly often. Oh, and I love Mr. Darcy. And Jo Longo. And Chandler Bing. And Sherlock. (Yes, I'm a fantard.) And in case you want to drop in a good, or a critical word, feel free to email me: theblackwallflower@gmail.com OR, follow me on Twitter: @WallflowerBlack Enough with the babble. OkBye. View all posts by TheBlackWallflower

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