The Felo-de-se & Her Abandoned Love

October 19, 2011
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These idle hours of the day that are so easily capitulated by darkness is what he so terribly dreads the most.
It is within these hours his irritable mind desperately desires to be wafted swiftly by a fool's paradise free of fret.
The effulgence of the flourish lights of the restless yet peaceful city illuminates upon the floral wallpaper plastered on the walls confining the man who was consistently plagued with oppressive illusions.
He was tucked under the snug linen clasped between his white knuckles clenched in anguish fueled within every second by the quarrel of his emotions nourishing the nightmare.
His eyes were closed, his elongated eyelashes rested on the dark circles that made his struggle for a successful, undisturbed night worth's of sleep evident.
His subconscious was so easily beguiled during the dream that he was helplessly convinced while asleep that the imposturous fragment of his imagination was in fact her – the woman he loves.
The Felo-de-se was always wearing the dress, the one in which she was wearing when she committed suicide, plunging herself from eight stories.
The hem was always frayed, a strap snapped, the material frazzled, and dried crimson was caked in the visible crevice of her flesh between the rips of the dress.
Her soft brunette curls were disheveled and her body was limp and swollen, and her face was distorted and livid as if her body had only been decomposing for no longer than a week.
But it was not her decaying form that horrified him, it was her frenetic eyes and her voice – oh that malign. ominous voice – that had provoked the worst of him and taunted him with words that hindered any last shred of hope he had of moving on.
'Twas early morning the man stirred and his body sprang upright as his screech amplified.
His stomach perturbed, his emotions were confound, and he wheezed as his hastened heart thrashed against his chest.
His flustered mind grappled for the conviction that this is reality as his quivering fingers groped the pillow that her weary head had once slept on and tossed it frantically to the side.
On her side of the bed, the sheet rarely crinkled and where her curvaceous figure had once lie on the mattress was no longer hollow.
Where once her warmth emanated beside him is now as bleak and frigid as his entity
He snatched the scantily rusted vintage pocket watch that never was more than a short distance away from his grasp and he flicked the fairly lustrous bronze circular lid to expose the quiescent thin black slivers that were directing aimlessly towards printed Roman numerals.
As time gallivants his hope deteriorates more and more.
And his zeal to greet the new day erodes as soon as he is reminded that he is alone.

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