Alpha Centauri

To many of you I am unknown. I enjoy writing from time to time, and often never finish pieces that I start. I do, however, post around once a week and pin up an idea I had during my rather uneventful day.

– @lpha

 

There’s something here

but I don’t quite know what it is. It may be the way she smiles or the dress she wore to the only event of the year. The way her cherry gloss tastes. Yum.

Evening: 5 pm

But I know that it is the humour in her eyes as she bites into someone’s over-inflated ego. Maybe I hurt her at some point along the way. Maybe she wounded me. Maybe we were meant to fall apart. Maybe we were meant to be.

Early Night: 7 pm

Alas, I will never know because she left for good. She waved – and was never seen again. This girl, in the year that she has been at this school has transformed it. She erased lines. She drew others into line. She lit fires in the eyes of the dead. But she was burning the fire of life, and she was out of fuel. So she left. She never looked back.

Night: 8pm

I still think of the only time I have felt alive. I know that it is wrong, when there is another lying in bed with me – whispering sweet nothings I could never hope to feel. I leave. The fire is uncommon, only found in a few – you need it to be alive. I do.

It’s been years since I graduated – a millennia since I’ve seen her. I long to catch the glint of her edged words, a spark of her flame, a sign of life. I don’t. The fire she lit is still burning. I crave more.

Morning: 3 am

I do not sleep anymore. I do not eat. I do not want this fuel. I want her. I am not satiated. I never will be. I’m human.

Morning: 6 am

I didn’t need to wake up, but I do. I rouse from the trance I have come to know as insomnia. I walk around – catching sight of a blade. It’s not her. A pity, honestly. She wouldn’t pull out her swords at the slightest provocation – there was also her poisonous tongue, it would leave many scathed and was unforgiving in its nature. I had scars carved into my skin. Maybe she did hurt me.

Morning: 8 am

I reminisce about her sarcastic humour. Her dark aura. Her magnetic touch. It hurt, yes, but she was worth it. She was infatuated with the thought of perfection. Yet, she never strived to achieve it. Maybe that’s what did me in, the final factor, her crooked desires. She was the one for me. For many.

Morning: 10 am

I see my reflection in a mirror. I see her. Bright and alive. Her fiery eyes are livid. Her life force replenished. Her desires set. She turns, walks away – twin blades gleaming on her back. Again.

Early afternoon: 11 am

It has been exactly fifteen years since I saw her. Give or take three minutes. I have dreamed of nothing more – not that I sleep. My face has become little more than a skeleton. I have started to eat. It is not for her smile, or her vibrant dress, definitely not for her cherry lip gloss. It wasn’t for her at all.

From love, from hope, from joy, from everything I wasn’t capable of feeling was born a child.

It was for the child that I lived.

It was for the fire that had consumed my entire life.

It was that fire which I had fed my life into.

So she could have fuel.

But that was an inadvertent benefit.

You Were Never Mine

Many would be shocked, astounded even, that a leading business woman was attending a wedding – of a soccer player nonetheless. He had no tie to her past, no bad blood, nothing that the media or press could recover.  It was only later that the public realized that there was no history between the two of them. None that was recorded anyways.

Chemistry is not outlawed – it’s a subject in school for those who wish to pick apart hairs. Ever since middle school we’re taught that chemical bonds are hard to break. So, taken out of context, it would mean that we should follow chemistry when we see it. That’s definitely not how the marital world works – at least not legally.

Maybe that’s why she showed up on his doorstep. She wasn’t wearing anything extravagant – a simple pantsuit with a couple stray hairs here and there. He’d opened the door in his sweatpants and undershirt, and let the woman in. The cameras devoured the evidence and attempted to raise a scandal mere hours before the wedding – waiting for the fiancee to call it off.

The business woman knew that he would let her in, he always had – whenever she had run to him in the past. Be it a broken heart, a failed test, a flunked interview, or out of pure joy. She would always return to him. They had tried, yes, the romantic approach to the world. Sadly, the duo never felt that they could stand up to world. Their romance fell apart with the autumn leaves – they were a summer fling.

Flung away.

Regardless of their tumultuous past, they stayed.

In college, he was the type who would wake up earlier than her. Make just enough coffee for the two of them, and set the pancake batter next to the pan – having already made some for himself. He would stand for hours in front of the mirror – sure of what he was wearing. He despised being rushed. Yet, he would always prod her awake two minutes before they had to leave.

In college, when they had been suite mates, she was the one who would be snoring away till he poked her. She’d rush through her morning routine of make-up, moisturiser, and dressing. She had never spend more than two minutes in front of the mirror – and that too it was only so she looked presentable. Later on, her routine would adapt to her lifestyle. But, she still loved his pancakes.

When being hit in the face with real life, they had taken to the professions they thought they were best suited for. Her, economics. Him, soccer. Three years after graduation he thought he had met the one for him. So he’d called his old friend. He wanted her approval first. Having received it, he was allowed to proceed. There were things he could never tell her. Always wanted to though.

What if? It was a dangerous question and the woman wasn’t quite sure she wanted the answer. What if the odds weren’t stacked against them? What if she’d paid more attention? What if he was still her’s? These were things she wouldn’t dare voice. So she pushed them out of her mind and smiled – as if nothing had happened.

The wedding was simple and small – with little accents of lilies here and there. The business woman had always favored them. However, the presence of the cameras forced tight-lipped smiles on everyone. They were soon banished from the premises. One would think that everything would become easier after that. Au contraire, the vows were accompanied with the suffocating silence that hung between the declarations of love.

He had smiled. He had said: I do. But in his mind, forbidden thoughts had whispered: but not to you. 

Bonded by Blood

Avery lay on her ground with her back against the dewy grass that brought early morning. Her chest rose and fell as steady as the feet approaching. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was, either. It was her place. Her secret. She’d only burdened one other with it. The girl sat up, her shirt moist.

Raven hair spiked out from behind her ears, streaked with rebellious purple. If she really tried, she could become beautiful. She’d chopped her hair off the summer before. She’d outlined her eyebrows and eyes with an unforgiving black. Her blue eyes were covered with an opaque black. She’d rubbed white powder on her face – giving her quite the ghastly look.

But when the other girl, Carmen, sat down, she didn’t even speak. She handed her an apple. The other girl was slightly taller than the goth girl. She sported caramel layers with round glasses. Her lips were coloured a dusty peach, and her face was highlighted by a honey toned blush.

The first girl, inspected the apple and then gave it back to the second. Her braces would hurt if she bit into the apple, as rebellious as she was – she wasn’t going to subject herself to the pain. Tattoo inked most of her pearly skin. A piercing sliced through the center of her nose, and her ears were battered beings – having more holes than a strainer. Carmen lay on her back, looking up. They said nothing. There wasn’t anything to say.

The second girl looked at Avery, and wondered whatever had gone wrong. This was her best friend. It had been four years. Her glamorous black hair that had reached her chest was sawed off into a choppy bob. Her captivating blue eyes were hidden behind the eyes of a demon. Her normally defined eyebrows were overdrawn and coloured in with a black crayon. Her face resembled that of a ghost.

The first thing that changed was the smell. It was earthy and mixed with the fading tones of summer. It was the smell of the thunderclouds that had gathered in the sky above them. Lighting forked out like a snake’s tongue. The drizzle was of no difference to the second, but to Avery it meant a clean slate. She contemplated running for cover, but then decided against.

It looked like she was crying milk, then veins of darkness joined the crying. The rain washed away all of the façade that Avery had built for herself over the past four years. It had been exactly four years ago she realised, looking over at Carmen. Avery realised that Carmen knew too.

“Avery! I need to tell you something!” The two of them were sitting on the crest of the hill that provided a picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline. Avery turned to face Carmen, a smile ready. Carmen sat down, shaking. Avery threw an arm around her friend. And then she saw what was in her hand. 

It wasn’t too intricate, but it was handy. A rubber black handle, complete with a sharp blade. It was a regular fruit knife. Except that Carmen hadn’t taken fruit to school today, or any other day of her life for that matter. Their sophomore year lay ahead of them, blossoming with opportunities. The knife of reality sliced through the dreams of the future. Carmen’s face fell, she had a bright future – not one easily put out. 

Bright crimson outlined the knife in it’s haunting shade. Avery knew. Carmen would break. 

That’s why she took the knife from her friend’s hand. Plunged in into the ground. Wiped the handle free of any marks. 

Held the blade. 

 

Lov-etry

Dark lashes on light eyes.

She’d never really known exactly how to say good-bye.

He promised to never let go.

But when she did – her heart broke.

Reunion – A One-Shot

Many turned to look at him. Many stared as though there was nobody else in the room, save their significant others. He paid no heed, arrogant, head raised high, sure stride. It was quite the sight when he saw the bride. She met his gaze, cold as the chilled champagne served. That was when, barely if even, his confidence faltered. The waiter, dutifully attending to the empty glasses, collided perfectly with the man – apologising profusely at the spoilt suit of the unsuspecting victim. It wasn’t the suit that was ruined as much as the ego and confidence.

“I see you finally plucked up the courage to come out and meet me. You’re a bit late – it’s my wedding.” The man nodded, not with approval – but with a sort of understanding that passes between friends. They were friends, they had been for the last nine years, but even so he didn’t really know the woman in the creamy white dress as she floated down the aisle on her father’s arm to another man. His heart broke in his chest. It was almost as if he was losing her all over again. It had happened once: five years prior. Twice was too much for him. Everyone thought that he was crying tears of joy for his old friend. It seemed that only she knew that his heart was slowly imploding inside.

“Nice of you to make it.” The woman was tired, everyone had been bid farewell and she was just about ready to chuck off her white pumps and free herself from the dress. Just as she was about to do so, a voice interrupted her thoughts and actions.

“You looked ravishing out there.” His voice was soft, as she’d heard it many times. Before she turned to look at him, she allowed herself a smile. He was a good friend, but he wasn’t all that dependable – he forgot to bring the confetti required. Yet, at the end of the day she gladly threw herself into his arms. His smell has always been the same. A sweet dose with a dangerous, but inviting undertone. She buried her sweaty face into his already-stained shirt. He held her for a while, neither daring to speak. Words wouldn’t do justice to what they felt. He put his face down in the crook of her neck. The gesture would have almost been romantic, that is, if he hadn’t blown and thrown the girl into a fit of chortling laughter.

“Hey! Seriously, what took you so long?” The man, with a boyish smirk plastered all over his face, laughed. Then he stood in silence, he couldn’t remember the last time that he’d laughed. She stood there, meek, most people would have called her a bride getting cold feet. He knew that it was quite the opposite. It took a total of twenty minutes for her to extricate herself from the contraption known as the wedding dress, and a grand two more to throw on some sweatpants and a spaghetti strap top. The duo set out into the night.

Friends forever.