Hermione

To see the real and dreaded Hermione, double click the avatar - I just want to remember my friend, the scarf.

 

I see her standing - leaning, rather at the bar. She's there first, beaming that rictal smile - why can't she just arrive after me for once. Ugh! She's an enigma; impeccably dressed but with that dreadful orange-red lipstick clashing with purple nails, for goodness' sake, behind which follow arthritic knuckles over which she insists on forcing flashy rings.

 

Hermione, as ghastly as her name. Why did I ever get involved with her? Two years of bliss, then eighteen more of abject misery and domination. My mistress in every sense. There she leans, just as she did twenty years ago, still trim - except for the knuckles- ready to start scoring intellectual points off me, mentally hounding and oppressing me. I hate her.

 

Once I loved her for the brightness of her conversation, the heightening of my seemingly perceptive reaction as we spoke, her appreciation of what I said, then her expansion of my ideas. It all made me feel intellectual, a great brain with lucidity of expression and communication.

 

Now she has strode ahead of me. Debate has become débâcle. She hammers my brain into the ground and treads on my self-esteem.

 

We had a relationship, body (Ah, yes!) mind and soul intermingling. Yet now, looking at her, I cringe. Oh yes, she still want her hands on me but only when her - alright - superior mind is in a position to humiliate, annihilate even, everything that is me.

 

Why does she look at me like that? D'you see that look? “I have you exactly where I want you, you insignificant little worm,” it seems to say.

 

I take her picture on my digital camera and she seems pleased to see its instant reproduction. So pleased in fact that she almost loses that smug, supercilious smile. We leave the bar and go to the chalet at the edge of the wood that has been the scene of so many of our assignations. I take another picture. Reader, regard it carefully. It's her epigraph. Eighteen years of misery end with the application of just enough tension to the ends of her once carefully arranged scarf - - - - - -.

 

Now, what shall I do with the body?

Author's Note

Beware - Hermione might get you!

Reviews

[Lady Sothis]

Well told! I very much enjoyed how you showed the gradual degradation of their relationship as well as the descriptions of her (although personally I always liked the name "Hermione" . . . . result of too much Shakespeare, probably. ;) )

Anyway, the only thing that struck me as odd was her liking the picture taken of her. Now granted, it could be considered just another quirk of hers but it struck me as slightly off since she values the mind so much. *Shrugs* On the other hand, it could just be my own tastes worming their way in.

It really was an excellent story. The leading up to the ending throughout the story was done to perfection and the ending, while a bit of a surprise (for me at least) was expected enough so it didn't jolt. Wonderful job!

[JC]

How interesting that the author, claims to dispise the subject, but can't seem to stay away. The eptiome of can't live with, can't live without. Well , that is, until driven to madness.

"It's her epigraph. Eighteen years of misery end with the application of just enough tension to the ends of her once " classic.

Enjoyable read.

JC

[Treasaigh (The Solitar..]

Bury her right there. This was a very intriguing story. Marvelous imagery. I was left wanting more. Great write!=)