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What if I had a story?

She wakes in the night, our heroine. The silence is deafening. Something... something is not right, something is missing. She reaches out to find empty space. Her queen sized bed, too large, too empty. That's right. She's alone. This is not an awaiting throne. It is an empty hall of great proportions. A place where revelry should be. Where is he? Who? Why, our hero of course.

Who will he be, in the end? She imagines. Superman to her Lois Lane? Or the Sultan to her Scheherazade? Perhaps the Hamlet to her Ophelia. Even now she fears she is sinking into madness.

A glance at her clock. 1:38 AM is it's reading. Too late to be acceptable, too early to be normal. What has woken her? She does not dream, at least none that she can ever remember, so it cannot be that. She forces a shaking hand through tangled strands of heat straightened hair. It brings back the night just passed, before it turned sour. She remembers. They walk, hand in hand. A hundred other people pass in a hurry, children dressed in frocks of every imaginable type, a storm trooper, a handful of Spidermen, there are so many bodies, voices, but they are all meaningless compared to their hands pressed together and their own laughter. They are full of happiness. She wishes her siblings were there, beautiful children all under the age of eight that she loves so dearly. The night is good. It's lit by a thousand tiny lights, the kind that littler houses at Christmas, gaudy and bright and special. Tonight they are added to the candlelit pumpkins and tiny spot lights. They give off orange and yellow glows and the world looks magical. They sparkle off the water of a pond and dance on their skin as they try their best to make out the forms of flamingos, heads tucked beneath shadowy pink wings.
He smiles, she is fretting, worried about his health. He assures her that it's fine, he doesn't mind, no she's not keeping him out too late, he's not cold, everything is good. Ever the gentleman. He doesn't even mind that they are spending their Halloween night in a zoo packed with families. He mentions the song they've fallen in love with, he's listened to it a dozen times that day, or more. He is always making her laugh. She will not wander any further down the path of the night's memories. She will not think of when it began to go viciously wrong. When the phone wouldn't stop ringing until she answered. No, she will stop here, where the image of the two of them, fingers interlaced in the shimming low light.

From time itself she snatches these things, the memories she wants to keep. She cannot sleep. Sitting on her too large, too empty bed she spends the wee hours typing them into her blog, posting them to the internet where they will remain, crystallized and pure until the end of technology. Will he be her hero? She does not know yet. She can't wait to find out...

If I had a story to tell, would you listen?





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dellafiamma
dellafiamma

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