I was born, but not raised.
I am the weed that grew in the distance fed by rainwater whenever the skies deigned to yield it, sharpened by brisk winds, hardened and spiked by icy cold. Hued by occasional kindnesses, the heat of the sun’s glare.
No, I was forged the day I met Serena. A blade sharpened, a gun barrel loaded, a fuse lit.
My track was laid over her rocky earth, and it only made my soul darker, my heart denser, my blood fiercer, my purpose raw.
With her I was everything I’d never known before. Not helpless, not exposed. Not powerless.
And even through all these years without her and all that I’ve achieved in the world, I’ve been nothing but an open hand grenade, idling, ready to detonate.
Now, having broken into her house, standing here in her bedroom, selfishly stealing the air she breathes as she sleeps, that idling is over.
Her sleep is fitful. She murmurs words, she scowls and twists the sheets in a fist the same way I do.
I still have the dreams, too, baby.
“Touch me. I need you to—” I’d once pleaded with her in the dark.
In my dreams I plead and I wait for that touch to come, like it once had. But it never does. I strain against the iron, but she’s not there. I’m alone. That dream used to come more frequently, regularly. Each nightmare was a visitation reinforcing my passion for her, my passion to love her, to hate her. Each morning, my resolve would be screwed on tight once more, an unyielding cap on an ancient bottle.
This morning, before the dawn had even broken on this brand new day, that resolve was stronger than ever, but my purpose has changed.
I want her back.
I hope she dreams of me. I hope her dreams are as tangled and snarled as mine. The cut of the blade, the sting of her mouth remain fresh. They’ve inspired me, demented me.
All the jagged pieces of our hearts, be they sharp, be they blunt, red or black or gray, are indiscernible now. Me and her, we’re in pieces, shards, but we aren’t broken. She had given up, let go, and so had I. But standing here, inches away from her, I know deep, deep inside I hadn’t, not ever.
I run a thumb over her full, soft lips, and they part under my touch. A slight intake of breath passes between them, warming my skin. Beautiful lips that were once mine. Lips that once shared words and thoughts and hopes with me, the good kind. Lips that shared fears and horrors. Lips that offered a violent heaven.
I want to take those lips now, possess them, but I stop myself. I need her to give them to me willingly.
And she will.
My finger grazes the tip of her nose. Her eyes dance under her lids, blinking open.
Blue green glory.
My heart settles in my chest and kicks to life all at once, and I know nothing has changed.
I’m a quiet man, observant, introverted, not given to dramatic declarations. But here I stand, feeling that agony, that swell of emotion that only she invokes in me, all of it wiping away the ugly I’ve been clinging to all this time; the remote wilderness where I dwell.
Those eyes hang on mine, and I see her reflection in all the shards of me. She is at the crux. She is the flame. My fever, my fury.
Let it roar.
FURY ©️2017 Cat Porter