Limbs bare, yet again. Outstretched, they extend themselves into grotesque silhouettes, jutting out in random angles. Bits of flesh linger in the surroundings, clinging onto the rough edges of chipped bark and trampled branches. Besides a singular tree with naked branches, bone shards litter themselves among the dirt, hiding behind stray, half-broken leaves. A bystander stands still, holding a lighter in one hand. They stay for a minute or two, contemplating on their work.
The lighter falls onto the dirt, wedging itself in a make-shift hole. Streams of blood maintain their flow, seeping into the pores and rivets of the earth. The sun glares its eyes upon the viscous liquid as it continues to expand, settling into a massive pool underneath the body. Or at least, the larger piece of it. To the left, a telephone booth houses a couple belongings: a phone and wallet. The latter is shoved into a corner, the fake leather scuffed from the rough placement. A worn-out cord holds the telephone as it dangles, almost scrapping the steel floor below.
In the distance, a semblance of the fire dies down. The flames blur into grey husks of smoke, unable to lick the fringes of the sky. It dissolves into thin wisps, carrying its visceral body towards the horizon. His body, or lack thereof, remains below the tree. Pieces of burnt skin flake off into the sand, mixing with the dried blood and dirt. My knees wish to buckle themselves – to collapse down and reach over to him. To trace the curvature of his face, grazing my fingers against the contours of his cheeks. The triviality of these actions pain me. Without them, our relationship ceases to exist.
A flurry of noise bangs on my eardrums, pounding on its shallow walls. I hear various shouts, incapable of comprehending the origin of the voices, or what they are saying.
Sighing, I walk forward, attempting to forget today’s tragedy. Mindless and numb, the discomfort of his gruesome death creates a large ache within – a vacant smile ghosts his lips, eyes bulging, almost wishing to pop out from the sockets and fall to the floor. Attempting to ignore, my vision holds attention elsewhere, fingers clenching into tight balls. My eyes shut, lips trembling with a shaky breath.
“I need you. You need me.”
I move on, resting against the telephone booth as I watch from afar. The sun’s soft, golden glow creates a soothing warmth, caressing the patches of skin that are untouched by the sheer chaos before me. I hold onto the red box, its vibrant exterior a constant reminder of the liquid pouring from his veins.
Fingers grasp the handle. I am not alarmed by my touch, yet my body deceives me. Short breaths resume their pursuit as my throat closes up. My vision blurs, swaying side to side as my hands shiver. No one notices, too engrossed in the situation at hand.
“Just for a minute.”
Shaking my head, I turn to face the booth.
What would’ve happened if I didn’t let go?
If I confessed between the lines of affection, weaving a tale of sincerity and heartfelt admissions, the laments of today would dissolve. Exposing our bare hearts to the world to see. I yearn for a chance to admit my truth. But I didn’t. I chose to remain still, forcing myself to let you go. To let you go to her – the one that makes you happier. It aches, driving me into pure insanity; the intensity of my emotions unable to be spoken aloud in case it reaches you.
Once more, I squeeze the handle. The silver coating flakes off, as if mocking his burns. Of him and his burnt face. Shivering, I brush off the paint chips. I attempt to move on, discounting the tender twinges within my heart.
I stare at my reflection in the booth’s splotchy glass – the dreadfulness of my appearance gawks back. Mascara-blotched eyes, cheeks gleaming a bright, fiery red. It bears a similar weight to the flames before, but without the waning sparks and flickering of shadows unknown. I exhale, craving the desire to flee, to abandon the actions I’ve committed today. It would shift into a mere memory. The handle irritates me. I dig my nails into the rusted metal, marking the outside in crescent moon shapes. It leaves bits of silver and old metal in my nails, but I ignore it.
Sliding against the booth’s worn-out walls, I long for the softness of your eyes. Of a warmth that exists for a singular person. A sense of breathlessness; a revival of one’s essence. Again, an affectionate smile befalls your expression, a tenderness unlike the indifference bestowed upon me.
She takes your hand, pulling you into a deep embrace as you close your eyes, head resting against the nook of her neck. Her arms tighten, seizing the opportunity to stand as one, at least for a little while.
“Stay. Stay with me.”
Their interactions, albeit brief, stretch themselves into unknown lengths, unveiling an oddness unforgettably haunting. Bits of dust stick to my skin – I wipe them away. Looking around, the ash thickens, floating across the desolate plains. In another lifetime, a vibrancy would surround the area, with dashes of greenery and mixed variants of flora. A sun-kissed warmth would diffuse the lands, burying it with a subtlety unknown to the eye’s perception.
“Make you mine, and I’ll be yours.”
Closing my eyes, I hit my head against the wobbly booth walls. My right hand lingers on the door handle. There is a fleeting moment of tenderness, but it subsists, waning into slight twinges. I continue to rest my palm on the handle. There is a persistent need to not open the door.
Leave it unopened.
Leave it be.
“Don’t say anything, not even a word.”
His hand slips from mine, leaving it bare.
It could not suffice.
Stiff neck, sore throat. The handle breaks off and then bangs against the glass. It scrapes and scrapes, scoring the surface in an array of jagged indents. Soon, it falls onto the dirt, wedging itself into a hole.
I open the door.
A bare desert, it prepares itself for the hollow void that awaits. The worthlessness of it all, either intentional or not.
“Help me numb the pain.”
