The Memories
A/N; implicated themes
Torn jeans. Tearstained eyes. Tousled hair. Bloodstained hands.
. . .
Monday, 21st of March on a quite sunny, humid afternoon. Wind direction; southerly, a refreshing chill breeze blowing off the sea.
Sand underneath my fingernails. I told you it was a bad idea; I knew we’d get caught at the beach. It might work well as a title of a cocktail but its actual practicality in real life is minimal. But then again, that’s always the way is it not?
Cooler evening, possible chance of showers through the night.
We’ll risk discomfort for a night under the stars and the moon and our memories of sweeter times; it will be the smallest chance we’ve taken in the past twenty-four hours. Build one last smiling memorial to our love. Tearstained eyes are not what I want to remember you by.
Tuesday, January ninth; fancy sounding cocktail party with a fancy tasting cocktail in my left hand. And my right.
I never did hold my alcohol too well, you reminded me, as did my torn jeans and the broken martini glass in my hand. But we were in the company of friends, people we trusted; who we knew wouldn’t take advantage of me. you. us. But trust is a dangerous thing, especially when dealt unwisely. The wind was about to change, but how were we to know?
Bleary eyes, warm westerly wind, about twenty-four degrees. A comfortable temperature for an uncomfortable predicament.
You, unconscious, in the back seat of a commodore unknowingly driving down the coast (migrating south for the winter, I always knew you were a bird, always knew you could fly). And me; headache. Bloodshot eyes. Veins pulsing with unknown substances washed down with generous helpings of alcohol. Clothes; unaccounted for. Pain. And a smattering of blood.
Date; 14th, Day; Saturday, Month; June, Year; A while ago. The forecast was wrong, you muttered as lightening coursed across the grey sky, ‘This is not pleasant cool change eventuating in the late afternoon,’.
We met last night, you caught me as I fell off the table, you were always there to catch me when I fall. Dancing til morning light, playing out life like a sweet romance novel. The perfect moment filled with naivety, what could go wrong?
Standing in the rain; sitting; lying. Severe storm warning; heavy downpours with possible chance of hail.
Wet grass plaid through tousled hair, raindrops melting into bare skin. Indecent exposure requires someone to be exposed to our indecency, we reasoned. No one would find us; they were all huddled, worried and scared, inside. And the water couldn’t hurt us, it was innocence and harmless, like us.
A Sunday, March; the twentieth of the month. Partly cloudy with scattered showers; possible chances of rainbows.
You couldn’t let it rest, you just couldn’t so I had to come with you. Stop you from doing something you’d regret. I’d regret. We’d regret. Scars were what you had, revenge was what you yearned for but I told you ‘Karma might just be what you get’. You didn’t listen to me then. Thinking back, I don’t think you listened to me enough.
The sun was shining, with light cloud cleared by midday.
Sweet irony placed in a mockery of reality. Juxtaposing your bloodstained hands. And mine. We didn’t want them to die, we didn’t want to kill them; we didn’t plan it like that. So I suppose that doesn’t make it murder then, no premeditation? We just wanted to reciprocate, give them a little of their own back. Do unto others and others do unto you, so to speak. Cosmic realignment was what it was; we just wanted to make the world a better place.
. . .
But it didn’t turn out that way. It never does. Memories will always haunt you. me. us.
The bloodstained hands, torn jeans, tousled hair, tearstained eyes.
Torn jeans. Tearstained eyes. Tousled hair. Bloodstained hands.
. . .
Monday, 21st of March on a quite sunny, humid afternoon. Wind direction; southerly, a refreshing chill breeze blowing off the sea.
Sand underneath my fingernails. I told you it was a bad idea; I knew we’d get caught at the beach. It might work well as a title of a cocktail but its actual practicality in real life is minimal. But then again, that’s always the way is it not?
Cooler evening, possible chance of showers through the night.
We’ll risk discomfort for a night under the stars and the moon and our memories of sweeter times; it will be the smallest chance we’ve taken in the past twenty-four hours. Build one last smiling memorial to our love. Tearstained eyes are not what I want to remember you by.
Tuesday, January ninth; fancy sounding cocktail party with a fancy tasting cocktail in my left hand. And my right.
I never did hold my alcohol too well, you reminded me, as did my torn jeans and the broken martini glass in my hand. But we were in the company of friends, people we trusted; who we knew wouldn’t take advantage of me. you. us. But trust is a dangerous thing, especially when dealt unwisely. The wind was about to change, but how were we to know?
Bleary eyes, warm westerly wind, about twenty-four degrees. A comfortable temperature for an uncomfortable predicament.
You, unconscious, in the back seat of a commodore unknowingly driving down the coast (migrating south for the winter, I always knew you were a bird, always knew you could fly). And me; headache. Bloodshot eyes. Veins pulsing with unknown substances washed down with generous helpings of alcohol. Clothes; unaccounted for. Pain. And a smattering of blood.
Date; 14th, Day; Saturday, Month; June, Year; A while ago. The forecast was wrong, you muttered as lightening coursed across the grey sky, ‘This is not pleasant cool change eventuating in the late afternoon,’.
We met last night, you caught me as I fell off the table, you were always there to catch me when I fall. Dancing til morning light, playing out life like a sweet romance novel. The perfect moment filled with naivety, what could go wrong?
Standing in the rain; sitting; lying. Severe storm warning; heavy downpours with possible chance of hail.
Wet grass plaid through tousled hair, raindrops melting into bare skin. Indecent exposure requires someone to be exposed to our indecency, we reasoned. No one would find us; they were all huddled, worried and scared, inside. And the water couldn’t hurt us, it was innocence and harmless, like us.
A Sunday, March; the twentieth of the month. Partly cloudy with scattered showers; possible chances of rainbows.
You couldn’t let it rest, you just couldn’t so I had to come with you. Stop you from doing something you’d regret. I’d regret. We’d regret. Scars were what you had, revenge was what you yearned for but I told you ‘Karma might just be what you get’. You didn’t listen to me then. Thinking back, I don’t think you listened to me enough.
The sun was shining, with light cloud cleared by midday.
Sweet irony placed in a mockery of reality. Juxtaposing your bloodstained hands. And mine. We didn’t want them to die, we didn’t want to kill them; we didn’t plan it like that. So I suppose that doesn’t make it murder then, no premeditation? We just wanted to reciprocate, give them a little of their own back. Do unto others and others do unto you, so to speak. Cosmic realignment was what it was; we just wanted to make the world a better place.
. . .
But it didn’t turn out that way. It never does. Memories will always haunt you. me. us.
The bloodstained hands, torn jeans, tousled hair, tearstained eyes.