She turns on the light, the hum of the electric particles reverberating in her eardrums. The stark light hits her pale skin as she turns the faucet’s knob, water running like the fragments of him down her leg. She places her trembling hands under the water and splashes it onto her cheekbones, yearning for rejuvenation and possibly salvation. Then, her hands canvass the rest of her body, washing him and that which they will never be off of her bruised limbs, her body war-torn soil and he the clear victor.
Thoughts stream through her mind, each tinged with guilt and regret, having yet again allowed herself to be conquered by him, someone whose sole aim is to ravage, to destruct, to incinerate all that is whole in her as a fire rages through a pillaged city.
She returns to his bed, him lying there satisfied, his appetite satiated, he the lion and she the devoured prey, solely a naked carcass remaining of her. But she paints on an amiable smile, continuing this charade, playing the designated role so well it’s nearly believable. Nearly.
About Me
- Oreet Felcher
- I am:
The blossom pressed in a book, found again two centuries later. A patron of the arts. An Existentialist: the master of my own destiny. An utter work in progress. Defective merchandise: The Borghese Vase whittled away by time but still standing at 1.72 meters tall. Achelois, ardently attempting to eradicate universal pain. Aegle, epitomizing healing or its need. A daughter. A wine and food aficionado, particularly that from France. A sister. A perfervid bibliophile, devouring books as a lion would its prey. An animal lover. A traveler in the subconscious confines of my mind. A patient; the most patient of patients. A nationalist with no nation. A science zealot. A conversationalist. An idealist, stricken with the “pessimist disease”. A writer: weaving lives with the tip of my pen, the ink flowing like the Colorado River—carving out the crevices of man’s hearts.
I am all of these, I am none of these. I am me.
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