Experimental Desire (Short Story)

I walk hesitantly toward the front desk, picture at hand. The brunette greets me with a warm smile. Her eyes open wider when tears start to fall.

“It’s okay,” she says. “Tears are normal,” she claims.

With shaking hands I fill out the form , having flashbacks of the best moments as I go along. I still can’t believe I’m doing this.

…First kiss, first sunset, first “I love you”, that night at the park, laughing like crazy at the pool..

I sum up all anger of the last few months, and stop my salty tears from falling on the form. I walk slowly towards the waiting room when I’m done, and make my best attempt to feel even slightly strong. This is the best way to move on.

As I open the door seven eyes meet me, giving me a glimpse of their broken souls. Their eyes filled with fear, some let out a sigh of relief when they see I’m nothing but a broken soul coming to join the party. They must have thought I was the Doctor’s assistant or something…

On this cold room there are seven of us. The white, plain walls contrast perfectly with the pitch black color of my soul. If Only I Could Be Stronger. There is but one crooked frame on the wall. It holds a picture of a girl’s face, and she cries. It’s one of those somber black and white prints that somehow capture every bit of REAL emotion. It portrays your darkest days, or at least mine. It is one of those cries that only happen when your soul can’t take any more burden.

What a way to fucking mind-fuck us…

To distract myself, I look at the others. Some hold the photograph like it’s the last thing on Earth, like it’s the last slice of life they got left. It makes me wonder why they are sitting here. Others sob and cry like they’re in the privacy of their home; everyone’s careful not to stare. A man in particular starts calling out a female name as tears stream down his face and he falls from his seat to his knees. Poor little thing. Some of the sobbing women go to him and offer help. It somehow makes me glad to see how broken he is… to see that a man is capable of such love. I, personally, just want my name to be called before I realize what a mistake I’m making.

Or is this a mistake? It isn’t. It can’t be. It’s the best for me. Anyone else in my position would do it. As a matter of fact, this people are also doing it… Or are we all just making a mistake?

It can’t be a mistake to want to get rid of the pain, of the agony of having every memory hurt you… of mourning over and over again every time the sunshine hits the empty side of your bed. To stop slowly dying inside whenever you see a cute couple on the street. It CAN’T be a mistake to want to avoid crying yourself to sleep every night, and waking up with swollen eyes every morning. To feel your heart is being ripped open with every tear, and to feel the consuming fire inside you burn every inch of your ever-so-bright soul. No, this can’t be wrong. Deleting him from my memory is the best way to move on. He’s dead. It’s unfair for me to go through this alone… I’m desperate.

Tears had formed in my eyes and gone unnoticed. My blurry eyesight lets me know they’re there. I turn the picture and hold it to face me as they fall down my cheeks. He’s so beautiful, with those small eyes and that bright smile that for many nights was my moon. Now crying, I put the picture in my lap and place my hands inside my coat’s pockets. A coat he bought me as a present two weeks ago the day before he died, and that I found this morning as I gathered and packed all his clothing. I smiled as I remembered the feeling it gave me to have found it, and how I cried and held the box for hours before opening it. As I recall the finding, I feel a piece of paper against my fingers. Strange, maybe it’s the receipt. Inside is an embellished piece of paper, which reads

I adore when you lie with me ’till I fall asleep,
And flutter eyelashes on my cheek between the Sheets.

I love you, baby. Enjoy.

The streams flowing down my cheeks now become waterfalls, and fall on the picture on my lap. Oh, what am I doing? The air inside my body can’t find its way to my lungs, I can’t breathe. I stand up and run towards the door, eyesight blurry, disgusted by my actions. I am such a horrible person. How could I even think of doing this? How could I possibly think of erasing every feeling or memory of him… everything he’s ever given me ?

Once in the haven  on my car, I cry, and cry… and cry. No restrictions. I leave everything behind and cry until my tired body cannot cry anymore. I cry until there’s nothing wet left inside me. I cry until I feel at peace.

6 thoughts on “Experimental Desire (Short Story)

    1. I was referring to your response
      “Again, nice track.
      NIce taste in music”

      definitely the other way around, too
      cause you like it, too

      meaning

      You must have a nice taste, too🙂

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