All around me the clawing tentacles of darkest night swirl, jeering,
taunting, laughing at my indiscretion, hurling contemptuous invectives at me, pelting pellets of scorn by the handful, plunging me deeper into that mire of shame.
Did I kill him?
And yet, I feel no guilt, no shame. My eyes focus on the center of the deepening vortex, the tiny bubbles of diaphanous, ethereal, kaleidoscopic color floating their way up to nuzzle my face, to cuddle me in their spreading warmth. Despite myself I smile, a smile that grows exponentially, finally bursting into peals of laughter. Laughter not cackling with evil, but effervescing into joy . . deep, soul-felt joy.
I used to love him once.
Even more than I loved me.
A love that knows no bounds. We sit side by side on the beach, burning skin touching burning skin, merging as one into the moonlight, listening to every gurgle, every gush, every tumble, every bellow, every crash as gentle swash produces powerful swell, breaks into a million pieces in the height of ecstasy and reproduces itself all over again. We tentatively touch and explore, seeking to recreate the movement of the waves. Natural perfection.
Yeah, we used to love each other then.
But seasons change and summer slips into fall. Then honey-dipped smiles turn down their corners, grit their teeth and grimace. She . . . silvery-tongued She . . . holds out a full, nectar-coated teat to him and greedily he drinks her in. And fall eases itself into winter. Leaves shrivel up, turn brown and dry, then die in the glorious afterglow, and we stand stripped bare of those fashionable threads we wear. Seeing for the first time the barrenness of our naked souls. Stark white and ugly. Then comes that December time when love lays itself down all feathered in the first whiffs of snow, and drifts calmly off to sleep. Then ushers in the freeze and limbs grow stiff.
I didn’t even know him then.
And winter rapes the very soul of summer hope. Slashes and burns and lays waste every once sun-kissed tree. Landscape rolls bare as far as the eyes could see. Huge mounds of ice hide red, ebbing heart that bleeds itself into frigidity, casting silent pleas of help to ears that fail to hear and eyes that cannot see.
Then what had he become to me?
The hunter’s report, the reaper’s scythe, the bulldozer’s roar, romping delight on freshly covered, petal-strewn grave, then stomping it some more.
So yes, I killed him.
I put an end to his charade, hastened love’s transition to that place called forgetfulness where only healing, no harm exists. I took his lame excuse for love, folded it carefully and tucked it eons far away. Now it lies cold below six plus feet of tainted earth, where it can neither feel nor flirt, nor feed nor on occasion hurt.
I killed him . . . and . . . so what?
Yes I feel neither shame nor guilt. You see it was either him or me. I killed him so that I could be. A reasonable choice, you must agree. So yes, I stand before you now, alive, joyous, and finally free, after a million years of misery, able for once just to be . . . me . . . simply because . . .
I killed my memory.
And I don’t give a s*** if history doesn’t absolve me.