My Apologies

When you opened your eyes to see the damage that I have done, I knew it was too late. Your eyes flickered for a moment, fading, draining, and when you settled on the dagger I had plunged into your stomach, I saw the way the light vanished from your eyes. It was a sudden gasp and an exhale, breath escaping and dissipating.

You died but you still breathed.

I felt the weight of the universe thunder onto my shoulder and every star, every planet tumbled madly down from the heavens. It was a shower of the cosmos, the breaking of all things ordered and I knew it was my punishment for the sin I had committed; the stoning of this mortal body. I was paralyzed. I could do nothing but stare into your lifeless eyes that retreated further away the more I looked. You were so confused, so lost in the anomaly of my actions and I could offer no explanation.

I'm sorry, I wanted to say, but of what use were apologies when you have drawn blood from the one you love? You had shut your eyes in quiet confidence that I would do you no harm, trusting me with your wordless nods and smiles, letting me know that when your vision departed, I would be your sanctuary boundless in safety. You trusted in our love, like orchards and vineyards, like oil wells and volcanoes.

And yet, when you had shut those bright eyes, I let everything slip, a silk blanket caught in thorns. The dagger tore through and I plunged it straight into your stomach and you spilled and you spilled and you spilled. You spilled red and crimson, gushing rivers, pools and torrents, scarlet. You spilled onto my hands and I felt the warmth of your blood sifting through my fingers, still confident, still trusting. You spilled onto the soles of my feet, swimming separate from your body into the murks of depth. You spilled onto me, a fatal explosion of unsuspecting anguish.

You still smiled, and then you opened your eyes.

***

An account of what it feels like to let someone you love down. Perhaps, again, too macabre, but I reckon this account is accurate in its torment -- or, at least, my torment.

MAY X.
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© THE MAYDEN.