A Night to Be Forgotten

This is a dark tale about a girl who goes to claim her undying affections for her lover, but ends up tragically dismayed after realizing her perception was only that.

Her heart beat unsteadily, but slowly as she walked down the carpeted stairs. Awkward did not begin to describe this misadventure she was unwillingly about to have. If she loved this man, she had no choice. She had to declare her unconditional ardour to the woman that had let him go. She had to let them know she would always be there, the situation was not ideal, but she couldn't help it, she had fallen in love for the first and only time and was going to make a life that included it. A life without it would also lack significance; she would be alive, but simply existing.

She sat down on the uncomfortable leather sofa, watching as he fumbled nervously with inconsequential items in the house, flipping the fire place switch on, then off again, turning knobs of the light dimmers; she smiled internally, there was no ideal ambiance for having your wife and girlfriend discuss the future, or for one of them lack thereof. If this was not testimony of the impossibility of such a man, as to the meticulous nature one can behold, she did not know what would be.

She came down the stairs; a middle-aged matriarch playing the part of the indifferent (but the cautious eye detected- indignant) wife, prepared to cast them both aside as degenerates, with a stroke of her hand. She sat arms folded in a defensive posture, understandably perturbed, but menacing nonetheless. The girl was not ashamed of her delicate emotions, but embarrassed at having to defend them nonetheless. He sat encroached in the middle of the couch between them, clearly more nervous than either of them. Not wanting to hurt either of these vastly different females, but sure it was likely to happen. In a way, he was relieved. The lies likely to dissipate and decisions made without him being the executor.  was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce was lone. Someone had posted a sivf also lack singfivsmce

 

As if sitting before an inquisitor, the girl was asked a series of questions she answered truthfully, mostly of her unconditional love,  but then of awareness of the accusation she was just one of many past, present, and future women present solely for the purpose of stroking a maniacal ego; she wondered if she would next be accused of witch craft, of casting a love spell over an otherwise devoted man, and hung for her crimes of breaking this woman's iron clad definition of marriage and family. She clung to her love, reaching deep inside of herself for the courage.

She pictured beautiful nights of being clung to in the darkness, as a beautiful nude boy told her he loved her and her alone- he said their intimacy was the best he had ever known (when he trembled naked inside her she knew it to be true), and as she lay on his thin chest as he slept feeling his heart beat in her ear, she knew they were two halves of one whole; soul mates in a cruel and unforgiving world. She pictured this and not a single part of her could ever let him go, as long as there was a breath of life between the two of them. She was lost in her own beautiful memories, a little girl, but one with womanly desires, she defended as if the chaste memories of the Virgin Mary. To her they were sacred memories, because they were of a shared and intimate bond between a man she believed she was rescuing from a fate worse than death; a fate of mediocrity and a life of guilt- one such a lost soul was surely not meant to endure.

 

The woman before her was a stranger, but in fact the family of the man she loved, so she tried to appreciate her the best she could. When asked if she had made love to him, or more inaccurately if she had “slept with him,” she felt this question would have such an obvious answer it was not worth replying. Had she not declared her absolute love, and unwavering devotion? Had he not admitted his undying passion towards her? Would one withhold affections with such ardour? What, were they members of the clergy? Of course they had made love, any person could tell that by the way their eyes held each other. The way she followed his stride from one room the next, the way he gazed at her legs unknowingly even in the most inappropriate circumstances. Their affection was unparalleled and unbreakable. Why when this woman had cast him aside, and shared her bed with him no longer, would she close the door on a man that made her feel so much?!

 

It was at that moment she heard the woman's cruel blade of revenge cutting through her like a knife. As the woman looked at him, ready to crush the fairy-tale image the girl held him in, she plunged the knife. He has not been a stranger to her?! This was incredulous! Why would she not be enough, this love she had so intricately depicted, so utterly precious, why would it be tainted by this figure now standing with power as she saw the girl’s jaw drop. As she saw could yield the vivacity right out of the girl, the horrendous details begun to pour out and the girl felt paralysed in a prison she had willingly entered in several minutes prior.

 

 She had spared the woman the details, she had not brought light to the beauty of their nights but she was forced to hear exact dates of his relations. As this dark sphinx revealed the fact that he had had declared he missed her body on those sporadic encounters he had shared her bed, she begun to feel psychically sick. Her youth drained out of her, onto the floor; he had called her his Egyptian princess, but she felt like a slave girl tied to the pharaoh; everything bestowed upon her was a mirage. The walls went up like an Egyptian skyline. Pyramids to block the grotesque, entombed with the beautiful lustre of folly.

 

She could not handle the pain anymore, she would rather be transported into another dimension, one where all she held dear had not been stripped from her. She could feel her feet walking up the stairs but her mind was far, far away. The last thing she remembered hearing was this woman telling her to leave, she had done this gladly, and as she floated away, he yelled so coarsely “you killed her, her blood is on your hands.” This was true, she was dead. Not in the traditional sense but her last bit of trust in humanity had been slaughtered on the basement floor, and she would not choose to remember the sacrifice. Lying prisoner of her mind, the sarcophagus offered sanctuary. She embraced its coldness and felt no more. 

Author's Note

has not been edited and was initially written with auto-text on iPad, so may contain obvious errors. Please tell me which character you feel the worst for? This will be one chapter of many in a novel written about a very dysfunctional affair, if it does not seem interesting the idea may be scratched. Let me know your thoughts.

Reviews

[MarkAndTheOcean]

Quite good. Nice work with the erotic nature and malicious psychology. I always love these sort of stories. Keep it up!

[Honourbrite]

Thanks Mark. Malicious psychology is my specialty (well psychiatry), occupational hazard. I have more on the way, and the feedback helps give incentive.