Cold Hands

March 6, 2010
By Anonymous

How has it come to this?

I feel like my whole life has been revolving toward this moment. It’s not a good moment, not a thrilling or happy or wonderful one of any kind. But I feel as if each part of me has been hurtling to this point in time ever since I first looked into your eyes.

Your pale as moonlight hand reaches out to me. It looks cold. Why do I want to hold that hand so much? I’ve wanted it to be enclosed in mine ever since you first touched me, on the arm, your fingers as chilled as ice. I’m sure they still are.

You have an unmistakable power over me. You say my name, Elaine, as you did the first time I ever did anything wrong for you. As you do every time. And every time up until now, I have masochistically complied. But I can feel now that this tiny scrap of time is different.

The day I met you, Jimmy McNair, seven painstakingly long years ago, you imprisoned me. And I have been captured ever since. And I don’t know if it is the memory of my ten year old self stealing my father’s whiskey bottle for you just to prove I could, or the smirk on your face as you try to slip the bag of cocaine in my pocket right now, but something inside me wants to be free. Free from your love, your hate, your rants, your sarcasm, and your glare that always seems to follow me wherever I go. You are my mercy and my destruction. But now I wonder why I needed you so much.

Your hands are cold as I stop them from slipping me the drugs. I don’t know what I am going to do without you, but I do know that I don’t want this anymore.

This moment has given me freedom. Freedom from you, this cruel lie, and your icy hands.

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