Her blood rained, like droplets, on an unchanging spot. Beside her bed. Accumulated. Drop by drop. Every drop. Except the first one.
He closed his palm, felt the warmth of the first droplet with his eyes closed and walked out of the window.
His fall was long and complete.
He landed in a pool of blood. And the blood rained on him, like droplets. Over and over again. It burned his skin. And his palm. He had to open his palm. And found her sleeping in it. Carelessly, she must have cut her left wrist. And therefore, she was bleeding. Her blood rained, like droplets, on an unchanging spot. He had to stop the bleeding. It was the only measure. To stop the blood rains. He had to stop the bleeding. Or let go of her. And let go of her memories.
He closed his palm, felt the warmth of her breath as she slept inside and threw her out of the window.
Her fall was monotonous and sad.
She woke up after she fell. Landed softly on her spongy bed. She opened her eyes. And with a still hazy vision, she saw him walking out of the window of their room. Falling, carelessly. She found it all to be too absurd. Including her own life. She had the razor blade lying beside her bed. She used it well. It was the only measure.
Her blood rained, like droplets, on an unchanging spot. Beside her bed. Accumulated. Drop by drop. Every drop. Except the first one.
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Comments: 15
Wow! Is all I can manage to say. I could almost feel this.
Great to know that you could connect to it!
Smile.
Intriguing. The ultimate "he said, she said." Seriously, in the heat of crisis, in the throes of intense emotion people can have wildly different experiences. You have cut right to the heart of it with your poetic razor.
Either I'm a very good coronary surgeon or the razor must've been too sharp. *wink*
Smile.
makes perfect sense
Does it? Thanks.
Smile.
The way this tale repeatedly turns itself inside-out somehow speaks of the close bond between the two characters.
Nice interpretation. Thanks.
Smile.
A perfect circle. Romeo and Juliet, stuck in a time loop. Are they looking for a way out?
The way out is the loop.
Smile.
This dark tale is poignant and initially reads like a nightmare. Fantastic work as usual Clown. If you post this to The Poet's Circle, I'd like to feature it. You know I am a huge fan and have missed your writing since the series. Thank you.
My dear Clown:
There's a certain kind of detachment in the narrator's voice that allows this to work as a sort of Moebius strip of a metaphysical fantasy, a recursive loop of consciousness envisioned over and over as victim and offender, offender and victim, merge identities in a sort of amor fou. I like it, with certain reservations. I want more descriptors like spongy, less pointing to the cyclical nature. That is to say, more Jodorowsky, less Robbe-Grillet. It works, but it could be better if the sensorium splashed the blood a bit on the reader.
Of course you know I tell you this, Clown, because I respect you absolutely and have the highest expectations for you imaginable on Gather. Otherwise I would just remark impressed about its feindishly clever contraption as a short short and not try to ask you to embed a single slight variation in the tessellation pattern that could lead not to a way out, but a way into the motivation behind the story. I want to know more about the sort of trap of consciousness (ennui, or too much passion, or both? ) that would tie them together in a bardo realm of the absurd, forever.