01-05-2020

the candle is barely beginning to gutter, the flame drowning in softened wax, and in that flickering light something in his eye catches your attention. it draws you in - hook, line, sinker - and you can see him shiver when his eyes meet with yours, locked there, fixed in place. 

silence. then, softly, his voice. “my love?”

there’s a thrill that runs through you at that - love, the two of you so honest, open with one another about it that the fear cannot touch you in these late-night meetings, dalliances. you love him and he loves you and these two things are truth as much as two-plus-two-makes-four. 

“you’re beautiful,” you say, which are not the words you meant to let leave your mouth but they make his cheeks colour and his gaze dart away as he coughs, clears his throat, caught off-guard and suddenly flustered in two words. “i mean it, you know. you’re breathtaking.”

“charmer.”

“only for you.”

the candle flickers again and you glance down at it, frowning, noticing his eyes

tracing the soft edges of your silhouette against the strings of lights on the wall behind you. the sharp smell of the smoke catches your throat immediately after you bend to blow it out. the room suddenly seems so much darker, despite the fact the small pillar had barely provided any illumination, silver spirals making their way to the ceiling and into the cool night air through the cracked-open window.

“smells like a birthday,” he says, bouncing one leg, soft pyjama pants over his scabbed knee from where he’d stumbled the day before. “you know what i mean?”

“i do,” you say, because it’s the truth. “happy birthday.”

“it’s not for another six weeks.”

“happy early birthday, then,” you say, grinning, laughing when he reaches across to take your hand in his and hold it gently, bridging the small gap between the two of you.

blue ink snakes its way up and around his arm, the letters and shapes so smudged you can’t make them out anymore, but the patterns are almost a kaleidoscope, up almost to his elbow, an insight into his mind, the smallest glimpse into his innermost soul. it’s intimate, in the strangest way.

“do you want a drink before bed?” he asks, glancing down as he brushes his thumb over the backs of your knuckles. “got that hot chocolate you like.”

“yes please, then,” said with a smile. “you’re so thoughtful.”

“i try.”

he does. you know he does - really, truly. you help him to his feet and set the candle on the window ledge before you follow him to the kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind and pressing your lips against his hair as he measures the milk out for the pot. he laughs, and his hair tickles your nose, so you spin him around to kiss him properly.

“i can’t wait to live together properly,” he says, an admission against your chest, forehead pressed against your shirt. the faded edges of a graphic catch his words, embrace the secret, brand it into the muscle of your heart and you don’t bother fighting the smile.

“neither can i,” you say and then, just because you can. “i love you.”

reaching out

they reach out, twisted branches that look more like claws as they cling to your ankles, dig nails into the hems of your trousers and leave you stumbling and tripping. they reach out, as though turning towards that which will help them grow, as though you can aid them and help them and lead them to new heights. they reach out and mark your face with moss, with mud, smeared green and brown and red where the thorns caught your skin and tugged.

salt runs over your lips, into your mouth, dances on the tip of your tongue. you squeeze your eyes shut instead, feel them burn at the corners as the clawed grip turns into something gentler, almost comforting, mostly pitying. they have begun to pity you, these beings, older than anyone you’ve ever known in your so-short life, older even than the pages that crumple beneath your fingers as you turn them and the ink that smears as you touch them.

they are old, they are so old, and you are so young, and they caress your face as you cry in the middle of the woods, the smell of rotting leaves thick in your nose and throat. they comfort you - or, at least, they attempt to - and they ask what’s wrong, child, tell us, tell us the secrets and let us make it all better and you are so, so tempted. it would be so easy, after all, for the bitterness of honesty to fill your mouth instead of the salt that lives there now, for the words to overflow and become rivers, rushing water that fills the space around you with heavy, weighted words. they ask for honesty, and you are so close to giving it to them.

they ask for your name, your true name, and it would be so simple to give in and tell them, let familiar syllables escape your mouth for the last time as they lift the weight from your body for the final time, reprieve eternal rather than sudden and short. caressing your face, whispering in your ear, telling you how they just want to help, they want to save you from yourself and all the monsters that haunt your life, that stalk in the shadows and lurk just out of sight before they finally reach out with their own shadow-heavy claws to drag you down, down, down.

i will not tell you my name, you say. they can probably hear the hesitation in your voice. they know people better than people could ever know them, after all, and they know the nuances of lies and truth better than any other beings on earth possibly could. angry, they hiss, but retreat, their gentle hand lingering a few more moments, just enough for your heart to ache and batter your ribs, but you stand strong. you do not make deals with them. if you forget all else in life you will always, always, remember that.