A physical torment, an emotional agony.

How do I describe to you my fear. I miss you. I miss your warmth, the scent of your skin against mine. I miss catching you looking at me. I miss seeing the love in your eyes. Were they a reflection of mine?
Am I afraid I'll stop missing you? Or am I afraid I'll miss you so much it consumes me.


I guess, I just...


I miss you, that's all.

Don't put the trouble into trouble later the trouble will trouble you.

Little Red Riding Hood

She is restless. She sits in the corner. Wolf has been as well. The warmth of her fire has been the source of their comfort; now it is the reason they can stay indoors, yet apart. Wolf can barely look at her, and when he does, she can no longer sense the pull they had towards each other. He is repulsed by her. No matter how she fills the table with bountiful meals and graces the table with thanks to the Lord for them having each other, she knows it is for not.

That night, she puts out the fire. Stores away the last of the food. Drags out her old wolf-skin blankets and piles them on the bed so there is no room for Wolf. Finally, she leaves the door open. Cold, crisp air enters and fills the house. It is no longer a home. Not for her, not for him. He howls by the window. Sniffs the air. There is game outside. A small hare, no bigger than his snout. It would be his first kill in months. He closed his eyes and imagined crunching down on the limp body, the fresh scent of blood as it dribbled down his teeth. The taste.

Instead, he turns slowly and pounces at the bed. Down tumbles the blankets. Wolf curls up to Red and waits for her to reach her arm around him. She does. His heart feels nothing, but maybe tomorrow he will. Maybe. Red pulls him closer, tears streaming down her face. He licks up her tears, wishing he didn't. Wishing instead he was back out in the wild. Yet there he was, in bed with Red. He puts his head down, and comforts himself with thoughts of running out the door in some undetermined future. He imagined Red's tears as he ran out, and she was helpless to stop him, and those thoughts brought him to a deep slumber.

Hold on while we can.

There was a time when I smiled. Life was light. Pain was bearable. Hardship was endurable. Each day it gets harder to smile. Maybe it was me all along. I'm not built for society. Correction: I'm not made for families. Lord knows I've hated being part of one. Worked hard to rid myself of it. Despise it. I'm not meant to be part of a family. I don't want to be. I don't.






Forgive me, for I will walk away.

All I am, and all I could be, is your ultimate mistake.

...and then it was gone.

Today was like any other day.
Went to bed, woke up.
Sleepy, tired, groggy.
It was supposed to be just like any other day.
I packed my belongings as I had a million times.
I held the dress in my hands, imagining myself needing it.
This is just like any other day.
Comfort, safety, to chase away the pain.
All into the bag.
Because today is just like any other day.
Got ready, prepared for class.
I shouldn't eat so much.


try to shake off his brisk manner.
Unfeeling.
Efficient?
Get the job done.


The drive felt horrendously long.
Why were there so many cars on the road?
Four hours felt like twenty.
Eternity.
I took the time to say grace and thanks,
You know, in case it was my last.
Today is like any other day.
These tears are just as they flowed on other days.

Drove home, another agony awaits.
I wait.
No, today was not to be the day.
This really was, just like any other Saturday.

Went upstairs, showered.
There are some stains you can never wash off.
What have I done..and what will I do?
What would I have said if this was someone else?
Turn off the taps.

The bag needs more packing.
It's heavier than usual.
Can I carry this burden with me?
Will its weight crush me down
Is there still room for me way up there?

Tonight we laugh, we joke, we plan.
Could this be my last night?
Goodnight, have a restless slumber ahead.
Tomorrow will be just like any other day.

The distance felt horrible.
The wait even more so.

if I die young, bury me in satin
Lay me down in a bed of roses
Sink me in the river, at dawn.
Send me away in the words of a love song.

countless time he hears the sound escape my lips,
Countless times I say I said nothing
For today is just like any other.

I don't think I'll ever be able to listen to the click of a padlock the same again.
Metal against metal.
Keep me in,
Or shut you out?
Today is just like any other day.
Here I lie, closing my eyes.
Shut them tight.
Breathe.
Am I still breathing?
Did I make it through?


She's a fighter, she is.
always is, always has been.

Now here's the hard part:
Will tomorrow be just like any other day?

And then there were none.

 Fiona combed out the last curl of her hair. She wished it was straight. Just like all the other pretty girls. She looked in the mirror and sighed.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother what will I be
Will I be rich
Will I be pretty
Here's what she said to me:
"que sera, sera"
(whatever will be, will be)
"The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera"

Fiona felt Tubbles glide across her shin.
Fat cat.
She picked him up, folded him so he curled up to her chest.
She looked at her reflection again, holding Tumbles.
Somehow, she didn't feel so hideous anymore.
Maybe it was because Tubbles was so..... tubby.
Tubbles pointed his nose towards her chin, and she met his cold, wet nose. He smelt of cat food.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother what will I be
Will I be rich
Will I be pretty
Here's what she said to me:
"que sera, sera"
(whatever will be, will be)
"The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera"

There were days she ran home in tears, and there Tubbles would be. He pretended to be all cat-like and not understand her tears, but she knew he did. He would pretend he was snuggling for purr-ly cat-fish reasons, but she knew.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother what will I be
Will I be rich
Will I be pretty
Here's what she said to me:
"que sera, sera"
(whatever will be, will be)
"The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera"

She loved cupping her hand and tapping it onto Tubbles' meaty drumstick. It gave her comfort. He gave her warmth. Just by being there, he gave her comfort.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother what will I be
Will I be rich
Will I be pretty
Here's what she said to me:
"que sera, sera"
(whatever will be, will be)
"The future's not ours to see.
Que sera, sera"

Little Red Riding Hood

He is afraid. The warmth of the fire in Red's house has been his source of comfort, together with her loving embraces. Yet he is afraid. Perhaps she, in her human form, she can supress her need to kill. But he, he is a wolf. It is all he knows. He misses the first pounce towards his victim, feeling his own teeth sink into the crying soul's flesh. He yearns for the fear he so easily instilled. He yearns to cause pain. How much longer can he keep himself hidden in plain sight?

Red seems contented the he knows her evil ways. The moment he tries to show his fangs, or bristles his fur, she is quick to silence him. "Enough" she says. No, it is not enough, growls Wolf's inner voice. You have refuse to see the monster that I am. I am not good. I have no good in me. All I am, is instinct. All I am, is a need to feel superior, and to destroy. There is no good in me. No matter how many good deeds I perform, deep inside, there is no good in me.

Wolf looks longingly at the door. Maybe if he went out for a hunt, away from Red, perhaps he could then come back and lay at her feet again. Perhaps.

He sees Red has kept her dagger. Kept away, but she still keeps it with her. And it is still sharp. Wolf knows of the others that have died at the point of that dagger. He sighs. Once again, he looks at the door. but it's so warm here ...outside there is nothing but cold, harsh vast lands. Wolf closes his eyes, thinking of the countless nights curled up under fallen tree barks, mounds of earth, or anything he could find to remotely resemble the presence of another. So he could feel like he wasn't alone. Yet now that he isn't, he finds he constantly speaks of his life in the wild.

From where thou cometh?

Hair had to be washed today.

Hair was washed.

Washed hair had to be dried.

Towel-dried.

And thus the towel was wrapped around the head that housed the hair that was wet due to it being washed.

Bent down.
 twisted the towel once around the head.

Flipped the tail end of the towel up.





Wait.






Something was moving.



At my heel.



Half the girth of my pinky, and about half the length.


It was moving.


Light brown.


And did I mention it was moving?


Curled up, it was moving.




Sugar Hot Iced Tea.... it was moving!!




I squatted down.



Yup, it was still moving.



Where did it come from?

I unwrapped the white towel around my head and carefully inspected it to make sure there wasn't the rest of the party there.

Could it be caterpillar season?

It's been years since I've had to worry about that.

But it was a valid worry.

Those things could itch you well through a fortnight of Sundays.


I bent down again to make sure it was indeed moving.


Yes, it was.


Scanned the room to see where it could have possibly come from.

Couldn't figure it out.

It was now nestled into my floor mat.


How cute.

*grimaces*

I gingerly lift the mat out to the hall.

Throw it down.


Go back into the room

Try to locate the creature's origins.


Failed.


I suppose I'm lucky I don't hold a career that involves investigations.... wait.



Peek out to the thing.


It's still in the bath mat.


I say 'in' because it does not seem to have any personal means of getting 'out'.


I grab the small brush.


Brush. Brush.


Brush brush brush


Get out!!!




brush brush brush


Brush brush




Brush brush brush


Brush brush




Brush brush





Finally, it now lays on the cement floor.



I bring my floor mat in.



I feel itchy.

More than just yourself

Those dreams are of having a face to look into before I go to sleep at night. Hold it between the palms of my hands, feel the warmth, breathe in the scent that could only belong to that one person.

Those dreams are of stormy nights and no longer patting myself back to sleep. No more singing sleep songs to myself so the empty room doesn't feel so big. No more laying out the blanket and pretending it's warmth was not my own.

Those dreams are of buying groceries, carrying the bags in and packing away stuff you are not even sure how you'll use. But it's more than just you now. It's not just you.

Those dreams are no longer of what your next meal will be, rather of how well that other person ate.






I wonder if I have been good enough to be graced with such dreams coming true. Maybe if I tried just a little bit harder,..

If only it were possible.

We all want the good things; but how many of us are willing to work for it? How can work and happiness possibly come hand in hand? If it is meant to be then it should be easy. Wrong. Relationships are hard work. If you sat back and expected the other person to please you, to have happiness come to you in the form of another person, then you are going to be greatly disappointed. Make that other person happy. Live your life in giving happiness to others, and perhaps someday He will grace you those who live to make you happy. Live to give, and not to receive. Find fulfilment in the pleasure of giving.

There might be a knock on the door.

 

 

There are days when you wish there was the clamour of pots and pans in the kitchen as you open your sleepy eyes. You hate the voices shrieking in the background, talking about how late you wake up. But those are the very voices you miss.

Have you ever woken up to silence? Trudge your way to a vacant bathroom you don’t have to fight over. Reach out for that one toothbrush on the sink. Then there were days when toothbrushes were housed in a mug and the number of toothbrushes superseded the number of people in the household. The icky ones you know no one was using nut for some reason you couldn’t throw away because it didn’t belong to you. Now all there is is that lone toothbrush on the sink. You sigh. Perhaps you could get a mug to house that lone toothbrush. Put it together with the toothpaste.

The toothpaste.

For a toothpaste tube to be able to strand in the mug, you had to keep the contents equally squeezed out. But not this tangled mess that is left, squeezed only at the tummy. Then there’s the ones that squeeze it out from the bottom, getting every bit pushed to the top –but those don’t stand in the mug. Eventually when only the head of the toothpaste is filled with toothpaste, it bends over the rim of the mug and the mug easily topples over unless…. Unless!! It is held by the weight of the multitude of unused toothbrushes in the mug. Mystery solved. I’m a genius.

Done brushing your teeth, you head to the shower. Soap is a necessity. You always know what is yours and what you can discard when it’s just you. Things are much trickier when it’s not. Whose bottle of shampoo is that? Can I throw it away? But what if someone wants to use it? There’s a chance someone might want to use it. You convince yourself of that. And thus, various bottles of shampoo, soap, conditioner, decorate the icky corners of the shower.

De-clutter your life; whether it is from the unused, unwanted shampoo bottles or from the empty people. But here’s the hard part: how do you de-clutter without making for yourself an entirely empty vessel?

 

 

Decisions, decisions...