02-19-2017, 09:51 PM
He knows, quite literally, what it’s like to be shattered by love.
(Torn – again, quite literally – asunder between two impossible romances, women dressed in red flags, a woman he loved and a woman he still loves.)
What he cannot recall so distinctly is the exact feeling of the pain, of dying – memory has done its part, has blurred the memory, because pain such as that can only be experienced in the moment, but when it’s gone, all that’s left is a vague memory of the hurt. It’s a way of surviving. Of persisting.
There is still an ache in him as he thinks of her (how it had been like looking in a mirror, different colors but built by the same architects), he still carries this weight and perhaps that weight can be noted on him, but only if you know what to look for.
(Love – and the loss thereof, or the unsure nature of it, or the impossibility of it – has a gravity, a weight, pressing on the skin. These two strangers know this.)
She refuses his apology with a sweetness that keeps him there, and he smiles.
“I’m Contagion.”
(An ugly name, but his.)
She comes closer – not much, only a few feet – and it allows him to see her more clearly, see some of the crimson on her skin, as if she had walked through blood several days ago.
“Do you live here?”
He asks because he is unsure of what else to say, and because he wonders. Home is a queerly fascinating topic, to him, as most things we have never had are fascinating to us, strange and glimmering things just out of reach.
contagion
be careful making wishes in the dark