Friday, April 16, 2004

'Patience'
It occurs to me that I'm probably a very morbid person.

To others anyway. To me, this really means something. I won't add the element of death to anything unless I can respect it. I wrote this at 3am, with nobody around to bother me for it.

There's a lot of symbolism here, but I doubt anyone will find it.

Well.. enjoy.



Towards the light, she travelled. The night gave no association to past

deeds. It was dark, silent, and forgiving; not like the daylight, which

held nothing but curses, nothing but omens that she could never regard as

her own..

Omens which were hers, but never to be truth.

Omens. Omens and lies.

She travelled on, the murky green footsteps of puddles along the muddied

sidepath of the highway gauging her time, her ability to run, before they'd

find her with the daylight, and try her for her crimes.

Crimson shades marked the lining of her jacket, her hands, pale and cold.

The telltale markings that shocked her body, the blood stains that were not

of the fluids of her own body.

She was in shock now, most likely. Her footsteps were jagged, unresolute;

and the only thing that stopped her from straying into the line of traffic,

to end this escapade, was the fact that night often took away these things

as well. There were no cars.

She had no escape.

A deep sigh, shaky, threatening tears, rose in her chest, but she would not

allow an escape. The knife from the grueling activities she'd performed was

stray in her pocket. The blade had cut through the bottom of her long

overcoat, cut through to her leg, and had been rubbing against now raw

flesh for the past hour. She felt the white pain in her, but didn't have

the energy or patience to reposition or move it. Her mind had left her.

He was dead now.

It was an easy game, really. They'd both been drunk on white wine. The

wedding had not happened yet.

There would be no wedding now.

She'd lost control; the words he'd uttered were foreign to her now. His vow

of celebicy before marriage had been wrought upon by a whore, a

philantropist. Herself. Her, Jane. Just Jane.

Her eyes had fallen. She did not remember the action performed, but the

feeling of her wrist flicking forward, staking him. Again. Again. And

again.

Until he stopped moving, and calling for her. For her to save him.

Strange.. that he would call so lovingly to the person who was ending his

life.

The woman stopped along the highway, and stared back over her shoulder, to

the soaked highway, the fields of corn and metal fences, the light of the

morning soaking through the sky. She did not regret her decision to kill

him, she realised..

But.. did she truly want to die? Or be jailed? Which was worse?

Her mind wandered with these questions for a long while as she moved

through the cold of the morning, eyes trained on the ground.

Her question was answered by the loud blaring of a semi truck's horn.

And her body was smashed like nothing across the Alabama state line.
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