Back to "a dream you did not have" 8. story-part

 

 

I want to run. Part of me carries a voice not unlike that of Isabelle, the sound of her bare feet on the ground, almost the same as hooves. I am thinking of horses now. Giant, gentle creatures who bear an uncanny, though sweet smell. Isabelle's feet are only as soft as the thickened, hardened skin on her soles will allow her. Next to a horse, she is nothing but a lightweight, a feather of air. What is it that makes us so tender to the approaching eyes, tender despite black leather jackets and boots, candid beyond bondage pants and chains and chokers with spikes? It's ridiculous. I have never been kind. Would I let Isabelle be kind to anyone? Try and see if you can get past me; blurry eyes at night, winning every staring contest there ever was. And what am I, besides being a sliver of a shiver of a fragment; the thing that remembers all the wars, all the countless dead children, skinny boned people standing behind barbed wire. What am I, besides a fidgeting little weed, outgrowing the nightmares of my mother, turning the tables at 13; writing deeper and deeper.

It's the same. Again, I am nothing, Isabelle is nothing. But at least she is a feather of nothingness. Shivering in the morning light, slithering beneath your doors, crossing the step. Cursed, abandoned, discarded, but well used. And we will be, before the doors of the next day, standing there; me and Isabelle, hand in hand. She'll be making the call on your heart, you will not deny her smile. But the gun of bone, my trepid fingers will hold against your chest, circling onto your heart. She will eat your soul like it were a vanilla pudding, slurp it with high delight. I love that sound, you see.

We want to run. We always run away. I can't really stop being so manipulative, and I know the cost of my own arrogance. But Isabelle really delights in weakness. She'll nurture it, she'll love it. In all of her art, she squeezes the ticks and shifts the buttons, brushes her eyes over silent walls. Her innocence is not fragile, it's despicable. I'll throw her in front of my feet, she's a small pebble, she catches the eye. And then I'll just follow in her tracks, dangling her like a light. So, don't blow out that candle. Let the shine into your apartment, ignore the trailing shadow. We have come to feast. We have come to run.

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