A souls Rift

28th March 2010

‘Oh Dear Agony, you have peered into my soul once again....’

There are times during a person’s time of reflection that they emerge posing more questions than answers. I’m afraid to tell you, this is one of those times. I have only been awake long enough to cover the wounds of a night filled with nightmares and the tossing and turning of a restless soul.

We were talking about Dana, funnily enough as she lay here pressed up against the forefront of my memories; it is her image that masks the dark as I peer into nothingness. But as you reader have previously discovered, we met on some cement stairs, capturing eyes, frantic apologies and a spilt coffee became the humorous take on our first date. I was 19 when I built up the courage to ask this girl out for the first time, sweaty palms, palpitations that played a hopeless tune on my chest and a tongue twisting experience made it difficult to pursue the want of my curiosity. Her smile was beautiful, a trait that mesmerised me, I haven’t been witness to many beautiful things in my life and here standing before this shy smile, I had been lulled into a trance. My cold jaded eye’s sparked to life as the answer to my whispered incomprehensible question returned with a muttered ‘yes’. She swayed with her books tightly held to her chest, her whit skirt flitted about her legs and her long brown hair covered her ocean blue eyes. The swaying would thrust locks of hair away to present these jewels for viewing, if only for a second. And with each passing my temperature would raise, cheeks glowed irradiated red and my heart would as cliché as it is, skip a beat.

The moon sat high in the sky, full, royal yellow and the ugliest bearer of bad news, an omen I have come to hate. The night marked our 4^th date, we sat, her with her head resting on my shoulder and an occasional glance followed by a smile of satisfaction in my direction. Her perfect fingers would hold the popcorn as she placed each puffed up, buttered kernel into her mouth. She was dressed in a low cut shirt, green; her denim jeans were tight, leaving no curve unknown to the imagination. Her intense concentration on the movie made a slight forehead crinkle, a fact I teased her about. The drive-in movie theatre was unusually crowded, but Dana was thirsty, I don’t know why I didn’t go, maybe she insisted on going herself, but all I know was the piercing scream. I turned around, and saw the green shirt, the denim pants contorted, the limp figure, the scream that silently resounded in my mind. I don’t know when I left the car, but the first thing I remember are the streaming tears, her lame body cradled in my arms, the gurgling of clotted blood, splattered as she whispered ‘I’m sorry’, as if it was her fault. The angel’s anthem that was her final scream replayed over and over as I looked at her beautiful face. People surrounded the area, curious onlookers, scum that fed off tragedy congregated as if it was a feeding ground for hyenas, their whispers and conjectures fuelled my ongoing anger. As I brushed my forehead free of sweat, I caught a glimpse of the blood, Dana’s blood, on my hands. The crusted fluid left an everlasting impression, there is no such thing as love, and we are forced to discover this truth, sometimes in the most horrific of ways.

It is late, and this topic weighs heavy on me. But readers make sure you return for the movie theatre is the next arena, Dana’s death was a prelude to a fantastical awakening, a cocoon of epic proportions if you will.