Dead. Unmistakably, irrevocably. Death painted his throat, splashed ugly colors on his face. Even his hair, silky smooth as ever, was tainted with it. His last breath was just seconds ago, and then seconds unfurled into eternities, and he was not breathing.
Maybe if I wait long enough he'll suck air in, he'll blink, say my name again?
But he was lying here, unmoving, not breathing. So I shook him and shook him again, violently, begging him to come back to me. His head was lolling back and forth, but those movements were made not out of brilliant red life that once was flowing through his veins, no. They were made of black and blue imprints that death had scattered on his body.
So I lifted the death off the floor, carried it to the kitchen and sank a knife into its heart, for it took away my one true love.
And then unmoving silence fell onto our house, and then seconds passed since its last breath, and then seconds unfurled into eternities
This piece is about domestic abuse. The victim will always be the one to protect, and the abuser will always be the one to blame, but abuser was also once a victim. I don't believe that people are inherently bad; it is other people that make them evil. And this chain goes on and on, until someone breaks it with love.
But sometimes anger takes away the better of person, and they hurt their dear ones, because someone hurt them long ago so badly that damage was irreparable, and no amount of love could heal it.
And here love fought, fought so hard and relentlessly that they even were happy from time to time; but hurt overpowered it, and killed the victim, and then love turned into grief, guilt and more pain, and killed the abuser too.
I just hope that there's enough love in me to keep fighting against pain, because this is all I have
janainaart
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