Pictures

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The beauty of it all was amazing. The dark clouds looming over the world, pouring rain onto the streets. Me, standing there in the dark, face stained with blood, tears, and make-up; him, looking at me with laughter not only in his eyes, but in his mouth, filling the air. The mud, splashing up onto my dress as I fell onto my knees, and the city as our backdrop, far off into the distance, ignorant of its part. It was all such a beautiful picture. Just like one that you might find if you searched on photobucket, or maybe deviantart, keywords like “misery,” “pain,” “betrayal,” or any of the other depressing searches that find you sad pictures which make you believe you like your life. But here, there were no cameras, no artists, no set up, no keyword. There was only us, only that moment.
The absence of emotion in that moment, was beautiful, a preview of what was to come, but never came. The beauty of his work made by punches, nails, rage, and disgust upon the canvas of my body to the beautiful music of his laughter; it was all frozen inside me. A memory never to be forgotten. As we looked at each other, I smiled. He stopped laughing. He didn’t smile. His body, so tense with rage, eased as he collapsed onto his knees in front of me. He asked only one question, it was in his face. Why did she die?
We sat there, facing each other on our knees. My face echoed my answer. I took him in my arms as he took me in his. Our bodies shivering from the cold, tears streaming to mingle were our chests met. There we sat, two orphans, another pretty picture. This time the keyword could have been “rescue,” “savior,” “hope,” just for a few. I didn’t smile for this, nor did he. We bandaged each other, now all we needed to do was heal. “It was my fault. I was driving.” My voice echoed off of invisible walls as it fought its way through the tears. His voice was certain, clear, warm, despite everything, “No, it wasn’t. I was drinking.”





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