The twenty blades cut cause a fault in her foundation. The remaining eleven buckle under the pressure. She believes he saw this moment, her captured body in his bed. Even from fourteen, when he jumped below the succeeding mountains of granite into a five foot pool of water which threatened his existence. He would not dare to carve his name in stone that surrounded such demise. He left this place with these tales of death burrowed in his ears, and he would often recount them to her. She would sit, fingernails picking at slivers on the picnic table, as he told her his childhood stories. And she would give to him a limited selection of her own death stories in return, to let him know it was most common. But when she spoke, his eyes followed the peter pan shadow that detached itself from her body and moved east along the house’s panelled siding. He often found this occurrence to just be a small bird, that had been hidden behind her, flying south. Dozens of these moments passed between them. Where words spoken were muddled by distracting shadows floating by. While he became curious towards images of strange men walking across his headboard, she found herself spinning truths from threads left on the kitchen counter. The threads mimicked the knotted rope which held her hands, and they both found themselves under captivity.
*This was just a continuation of a piece that I have been working on in the past year. You can read the beginning here if you so choose...this section of it seems quite morose compared to the smile filled mood I was in writing it. happy sunday!