A poignant reminder

I don’t remember when I put this photo album together. Bits and scraps of various thoughts flail in my head as I try to fix a date; so now I think of the fire and how the warmth of the soft, yellow light engulfs the room and glints off the chandeliers. It must have been over ten years ago, or even longer, when a previous version of myself assembled this volume. The woman who now sits on this leather sofa and resides in this estate is different from the one from that distant point in time. The joys of marriage and motherhood acted as a high-speed train that shortened a fifteen-year journey, collecting a young woman and dropping off a mature adult.

The album is as heavy as my dreary reflection. I wish I could hit a pleasant track of thought as I approach my 41st year of life. Half my life has passed, and as my twilight years emerge on the horizon, so does the approximate point of my disappearance. I wonder if the thought of my death is more painful than the actual act of dying will be. Beyond death, my physical form will just be an insubstantial image in the memories of those whom I have loved, with no enduring effect on this world, while my spiritual form may linger elsewhere in a place unknown to them.

While I still have life left in me to wonder about such things, I ask myself what time it could be. Seconds later, the grandfather clock in the corner of the living room chimes for midnight; a common sighting in these past several months as new sensations gave way to misery. Simultaneously withdrawing from companionship while trying to hide it, I frequently retreat to avoid social interaction. When with my husband and children, I strive to conceal my grief, uncertain of my success in preventing any alienation from our shared society. Motivated by the lateness of the hour, I insert my fingers into some arbitrary page near the beginning of the album and unfurl them like the wings of a majestic bird.

The soft yellow glow fills the places which were once dark and forgotten, and I wonder why wedding photos lay juxtapose family outings in no chronological order. Perhaps some domineering relatives deemed them unworthy of a higher placement. I observe no labelling or order and it was as if the past had been tossed into the air and assembled where fallen. Peculiar and out of character for me since I can recall myself beyond the point of my marriage.

Inspecting the oddity, I collect it in my palm and find a man and woman standing close, holding hands. My brow furrows as my spirit strains to recall any semblance of recognition and something extraordinary happens. From the deep recesses of my mind echos a faint, buzzing noise which multiples upon itself as if a swarm of flies is emerging from a cave. My swats only increase the orbit of their darting and weaving, as they land only for a moment before taking off again, refusing to settle. Disoriented by such cacophony, my palms line themselves with a thin coating of sweat, and I close my eyes; only finding tranquillity after shoving the old capture from whence it came.

I make my way towards the staircase but not before restoring the volume back to its original position on the golden oak bookshelves on the wall opposite the ceiling-high windows. Before I finally ascend the stairs, I pause to admire the cool, silver moonlight illuminating the antiques darted around the room; none of which I would have ever had if it were not for my marriage to Vilhelm.

Long insentient of my locality, I begin to dream. Following his final thrust, Tristan unmounts me, and I lay beside him, breathless from all the entrances and exits he has made. Turning towards him, I place my hand on his chest and trail my fingers down to his bellybutton, tracing gentle circles in that area. I giggle, and our eyes lock in a sultry exchange.

“I hope your sister isn’t home.” I say suggestively. “Wouldn’t have wanted her to hear all of that.”

Tristan places a gentle kiss on my cheek and embarks on his investigation. Returning, he leans his bare, full form into the doorway.

“She’s not home.”

He grins as he stalks towards me, his member sways gently as he moves.

Gasping for breath, I wake up, my face coated in perspiration.

“Thank God that was just a dream.” I say in the darkness, drawing in deep breaths. A sinking disgust fills my stomach as if I had committed adultery with my mind alone. Feeling broken, I rest my elbows on my knees and lean my head on my hands.

“But why am I reviewing this now?” I whisper. “I renounce it! The wicked dream!”

Careful not to wake Vilhelm, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed with an otherworldly grace and make my way down the corridor. Shrouded in the thick velvet of night, the contours of the dark corridor are barely visible under the faint touch of moonlight seeping through the wall-high windows. Struggling to pierce through the dense darkness, I extend my hands in front of me with splayed fingers. My hands are my eyes now, guided by the cool surface of the wall as I slowly inch toward my destination.

Grasping the door handle, I twist it and the door opens before me like a sentinel allowing me to enter. Shrouded in an even deeper darkness, I cannot make out even he outlines of the furniture, and I rely solely on my outstretched hands once again. The only witness to my muted agony is the night, as my toe collides with the desk. After the pain eases enough for me to regain functionality, I feel around for the PC’s power button and gently press it.

A menacing green glow cuts through the gloom like the unblinking eye of a lurking serpent. Suddenly, the monitor flickers to life flooding the room with a bright artificial light. As my eyes struggle to adjust to the glaring light, I sit in the plush leather chair before it. The familiar icons and colours of the desktop screen come into view as my vision slowly adapts. The ordinary, the mundane, now eclipses the illusion of a watchful snake eye in my mind as I note the time as being 4:05 AM.

Then, in a rare occurrence limited to once annually, I open a browser and log into my social media account. Motherhood had melted away any frivolous preoccupations with vanity. Now, I find it odious to have my time fettered by trivial disputes with strangers on the Internet. Poor is the man whose mind is filled by the trifles of the masses. Long unfamiliar with the since-changed screens, I bumble around, looking for the blocked users page.

I remember that Facebook does not notify a person when you block, unblock, or view a user’s profile page. I hope they haven’t changed that since the last time I used it. I don’t want him to ever know that I have looked for him since we split up. I unblock him and land on Tristan’s page in astonishment. He hasn’t posted on Facebook since 2008, a short while after he spied on my LinkedIn profile and discovered that I had married Vilhelm. No posts, no likes, no signs of a new, meaningful relationship at all. Ha! I certainly won that breakup! What a LOSER!

Seeing little of interest, I block him again so he will forever know nothing of me, and I turn my attention to LinkedIn. A failure in the personal realm, but how is his professional life? Before I hit the enter key, I stop and recall that he will know I have searched for him. He cannot know that I have ever thought of him again so now what?

In a sea of faces, I forge my own anonymity; a false portrait of a woman named Amy Chung who graduated from a different college the same year as he did. How inconspicuous, for someone of the same discipline reviewing similar profiles. As I review his plain, photo-less profile, I halt abruptly. There stated, Tristan is now the leader of an engineering team. My mental presence severs from the here and the now and I detach across a vast expanse of time unfelt and unlived. Lost in a surreal suspension until the fires of indignation ignite in the void, fiercely reconnecting me to the present moment. What! Who would promote that wastrel to a position of higher responsibility?

To dismiss the evidence of the atrocity, I firmly press the glowing, green power button, leaving behind a darkness blacker than before. Employing a steely stealth, I return to my rightful place on the bed next to Vilhelm, feigning sleep to ensure my misdeeds remain concealed from him.

Typically, an attentive and diligent pupil, my blunders and disharmony caught the concern of my cello instructor. As I crafted strained sounds, stumbling awkwardly over the strings, she remained alert and attuned to the nuances of my behaviour, trying to decipher what lay hidden beneath my pretences. So now I stand in the corridor before a large painting hanging on the wall beside the door to the music room. A lone ship endures a tempest at sea with its wind-torn sails. Towering waves, painted in hues of deep blue and grey, rise like mountains around it, each crest a menacing threat to the ship’s fragile existence. Tumultuous clods swirl in the raging sky above, their dark forms intermingled with streaks of white. The scene is illuminated with the stark flashes of lightning, which casts dramatic shadows that play across the ship’s straining timbers.

As the moments pass, an overwhelming sensation gains mastery over me; this is an immeasurable disconnection from everything around me. I look up and down the corridor, without remembering why and I derive no comfort from the dull colours of the objects around me. A terrible longing for some distraction prompts my departure from the scene.

Seeing Vilhelm approach me head-on, I plaster a falsely enchanting smile on my face and continue. When there is enough distance between us, I turn back for a moment and notice his entry into the computer room. Recalling that I did not clear my browser search history, a great anxiety deluges my mind, causing fears and thoughts to swirl around endlessly. What if he sees? What if he asks about Amy Chung or Tristan? What if he knows? Each question uncovers new vulnerabilities, increasing the threat of my exposure.

Turning into the upper library, I am slightly grounded by the aesthetic pleasure of seeing the celling-high bookcases adorned with books of assorted colours and textures. After scanning the room, I select a bookcase near the centre-left of the room and stand before the volumes that can be reached without a ladder. Promised a diversion some of my concerns are eclipsed by specks of joy; the weakening of my worries serves as my recompense. As I trace my fingertips across the book titles on the shelf at eye level, otherwise previously invisible dust particles come alive around me, floating in the faint, slanting beams of sunlight.

Some titles I recognise while others foster a vacancy in my mind where I cannot reach beyond the receding horizon of my memory, as if someone else had placed them upon these shelves. Behold, Electra! The pages unturned for years losing favour to newer articles, while wonton literary notes remain preserved and untethered by the years. Reading them, I wonder how a youth lacking life experience could derive much interpretation from an expansive literary masterpiece. Electra, poor woman, tormented by grief and the consuming desire for revenge. I remember. I must have read that in my second year of university. As I continue to read the words a former version of myself wrote, my mind drifts into a reverie.

Nine months into our relationship, Tristan and I huddled together under his umbrella at the bus stop, as rain fell around us, waiting for the bus that would take me home. My left wrist was adorned with the diamond and pearl bracelet he had gifted me three weeks prior and my heart glittered with the promise of a proposal. Urged by blissful wonder, I look up at his handsome face and ask him about how he sees his future. My heart and ears opened like a doe stepping out of the darkness of the woods into a vibrant field of wildflowers, hopeful and eager.
Tristan shifted slightly and looked out at the wet streets of the city.

“Driving a red sports car, and I would have you in the back seat. Settle down? 25? No, 35. Keep pushing it back.”

Like the rain around me, falling into the gutters, my heart grasped onto my soul as it sank into a vortex, leaving a void on my consciousness. Betrayed by such a disheartening and unreasonable delay, I pull away from Tristan and blankly stare out into the rain. My mind, grappling with conflicting thoughts found solace in the timely arrival of the bus, a steel chariot whisking me away to the sanctuary of home. Before my laptop, I crafted and re-crafted a breakup email with a heart heavy with unspoken words yet I found myself lacking the courage to press the send button.

The tension radiating from my temples eases my heavy engrossment in the past betrayal, guiding my focus back to the present moment with a pressing, tangible sensation. Closing the book, I then place it on the large desk near the centre of the room and select another to read from that era of my life. The physical toll of such previously dejected thoughts manifests in a headache and a heavy tension in my stomach, spoiling my appetite for reading. Placing the second volume atop the first before a family portrait contained within a glass frame on the desk, I anticipate the arrival of more pleasant thoughts. I gently grasp the edges of the frame and lift, resting it upon my bosom.

Given to me by Vilhelm several years ago to commence my birthday outing to Nancy, the rows of crystals adorned with freshwater pearls glitter around the image of our happy family. Behind our children, a faint impression appears in the space between Vilhelm and me. My brow furrows and I look closer as the marking was new and was not there before. Thinking it is a smudge, I rub the spot and turn the frame around, inspecting the back, finding no changes. Where there is a marking in the capture, a vision of Tristan emerges. He stands between us, as if he had been there too. The tension which once eased again radiates through my mind from my temples with full force. Hoping to remove the vision from the frame, I begin to wipe and shake the frame interchangeably. Tristan is some fixed mark that I cannot remove! Violently, I shake the frame again. It frightens me, truly frightens me that I cannot remove him, so in a panic, I smash the frame down onto the desk, breaking the glass.

My eyes leap up and down again like a horse startled by the flick of a buggy whip’s string popper. While my heart hammers against my chest, my hands raise defensively and I stumble backwards erratically, desperately putting distance between myself and the scene that haunts me. As I pass through the doorway into the corridor, my steps falter and I nearly fall back. I freeze to steady myself on my feet and draw no comfort from the warm sunlight softly filtering through the windows. Noting an empty corridor draws no emotional response in the hollow and unfelt moments.

Passing by the computer room and observing Vilhelm's absence fills my vacancy with a superficial spark of joy and immediately I pivot, turning on my heel to change direction and scamper into the computer room. Sheer curtains cover the central bay windows, dulling the light of day. Uptaking the false persona of Amy Chung once more, I log-in and land on Tristan’s stagnant Facebook page. Seeing the same content again as Amy as I do under my own persona, I realise that there could be little content due to the lack of connection between the profiles, and he is hiding important matters from public view.

A horrid thought creeps into my mind and my eyes widen with my straightening spine. What if he is married with children and has a complete life? What if he came away from me unscathed while I was left to wallow in devastation? Mortified by the notion that he might blissfully depart from the chaos he had wrought, my pride surges forth, compelling me to confirm my suspicions. Amy Chung poses as a peer in the field of engineering and is to befriend Tristan on Facebook so I can spy more closely.

As I linger near the befriend button my consciousness blurs the world around me into insignificance and time loses all meaning. While I sit on the chair and hear the birds chirping in the garden outside, I traverse the bounds of reality, and step into Tristan’s sitting room. As I gaze upon him the edges of the world soften into a gentle blur and my movements meld each shape into the next, creating a tapestry of half-formed objects. I still myself in the ethereal landscape of my mind’s own making to get a better view of Tristan. He is folded over a book and does not see me yet. A little older than I, his hair wore whispers of silver and his skin had lost some of its youthful radiance. Tritan suddenly looks up from his book, his movements half-blurring into his surroundings, and my stomach fills with disgust and my soul is defeated with pain. A solitary beam pierces through my vision's veil, and I hear my own voice in my mind.

“Do not do this. It is just like contacting him. He will only bring you confusion and pain.”

A brightness fills my entire mind, eclipsing my field of vision and as it gradually fades, I am back in the computer room, alone. Indifferent to my own perturbation, I shut down the computer and head out into the warm light of the corridor.

Groggy and enervated, I present a smooth smiling face behind my family's pleasantries at the breakfast table while my battered soul subjects to tumult. I find some solace in the warmth of the scrambled eggs as the tongues around me engage in cheerful confabulation. Finishing my meal, I excuse myself from the table under false pretences and their babbling dims as I head upstairs and make my way towards the library.

There, I find the books I selected the previous day still lying before the broken picture frame. Anticipating some relief and to be rewarded with a derision, I sit at the desk and select Medea for reading. Not remembering the precise point in the past where the volume had earned my attention and familiarity, I open it to some arbitrary page. Reading, I stumble upon some notes taken and revel in the unfamiliarity of the handwriting. Perhaps I had missed a lecture or mistakenly slipped the notes of another student’s into my book following a study group – a generous student whose name I can no longer recall and do not remember meeting. Exploring the deep past with my darting mind induces a daydream once more.

Just two weeks into our relationship Tristan confounded me with a concerning confession. We had gone out on just three dates with a few phone calls in between and he stood before me gazing into my eyes and uttered, “I love you”. Stunned, my eyes widened slightly as he drew me into an embrace. Cast into the tumultuous sea of dismay, my soul floundered, desperately seeking a lifeline to remain above the waves. As my sense of psychological well-being submerged beneath those troubled waters, so too did my respect for him. My mind wrestled within its physical bounds, torn between gratitude and the instinct to respond in kind as a means of escape.

Jolting back to my immediate surroundings from the depths of my musing, I feel the sense of someone’s presence looming behind me, unannounced yet palpably close. Thinking it was simply our maid, Claire, I ignore the sensation and resume reading. From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of what seems to be the outline of a barely perceptible face. With a pounding heart, I glace over my shoulder only to find nothing there. Not entirely relieved, I fixate my gaze back onto the pages of my book, fighting my inability to concentrate.

I turn back and there stands Tristan behind me with his face hovering over my shoulder. With a gasp of terror, I bolt, fleeing from the menace, my movements frantic and uncoordinated. As I emerge past the door to the library, my flailing arm crashes into a vase full of roses and it flies a short distance before shattering upon the floor. The sound of breaking porcelain reverberates through the corridor, startling me further. In a swift pivot I dart into the nearest room and press myself against the wall behind the door to catch my breath.

In those short seconds I stiffen, like death, as the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps bursts through my mind. Just metres away I discern that it’s Claire in her black Gianvito pumps. Realising that the maid is inspecting the carnage in the corridor, I pray that I can temper the tempest in my chest. As she departs, her footsteps maintain a much higher speed than her approach and the sound eventually recedes into the distance.

Exhaustion is now the punishment of my entrapment and just as I begin to plot my escape, a cacophony of the hollow clops of soles against marble fill the corridor and I plaster myself against the wall behind the door again.

“That vase held a cherished place in Mara’s heart!”

Listening long and intently to Vilhelm’s outcry does not leave off any thumping in my heart, on the contrary, it throbs more and more violently.

“It was the embodiment of our 10 years of life and love.”

“There is another casualty, Monsieur” the allure of Claire’s heavy French accent detracts from the earnestness of her report.
“No... please...no... not the frame! It alone possessed the distinction and grace to hold the joy of our family portrait.”

“There must be some vandal or burglar in this house!”

Claire declares with a firm resolve, “I will inspect the permitter and the windows, Monsieur.”

“No... it couldn’t be, the children?”

Hearing Vilhelm's voice tinged with disappointment and disbelief followed by the harrowing echo of his footsteps strips me of any control over my mind. Pale and so faintly tethered by consciousness, it seems I might become one with the very air around me and dissolve into the atmosphere.

Submerged in the light of a new day, I find myself ensconced with the music chamber, my fingers tenderly caressing the strings of my cello. Sorrowfully, I serenade myself, each note a lament, each cord a prayer as the music intertwines with the light. However, I am not able to conduct a sanctuary. It is not that my hands are shaking, but I keep making mistakes; though I sense a note might not be the right one, I still try to strum it. Unsatisfied with my performance, a restlessness comes over me and I depart.

Silently, I wonder about the corridor, unsure of my destination until I see the mahogany of the table just outside the library. A longing fills me, and I approach it reverently until I can see the empty place where the vase used to sit. Forlornly, I extend my hand towards the naked table and tenderly touch that empty space finding a chill akin to a gravestone’s embrace. In the quietude of what remains, I am overtaken with the weight of a deep and boundless sorrow.

Abruptly, footsteps detonate through the silence like a gunfire in a cemetery, jolting me from my shroud of grief. Like a shadow fleeing the light, I find refuge behind a sofa close to the library’s entrance, my breath a tempest trapped within.

“What is the meaning of this!?”

Hearing Vilhelm’s booming and omnipresent voice strikes a chord of intense fear within me, sharpening my senses to an unbearable intensity.

“How could you? Your mother’s most prized mementos!”

“Papa! It wasn’t us! We were outside playing, we weren’t here!”

Indeed, the outcry of my eldest child lacks the vigour and volume it normally would, as if muted by the heavy cloak of shock that undeserved blame brings.

“You have 24 hours to confess or to provide information before I start doling out discipline.”

“But papa!”

The poignant pleading unfazes my state of mind.

“Enough!”

A cold wash of relief revives me as the depart and I remain an unseen guest, lurking in the shadows. What lunacy could I be accused of if discovered? To crumble permanently under the anguish of such embarrassment? An avenue of escape is open to me now. Vile! Vile!

Considering the circumstances, I am surprised Vilhelm still went ahead with the family movie night, and I wonder if he might be using he occasion to surface any sheepishness from the accused. My transgressions remain an unseen mark on my consciousness as I settle into the company of my family with an unnoticed unease. Gazing over at my children, I revel at their beautiful faces; their cheeks and chins adorned with a soft, silver glow. Amidst the laughter, they pass a bowl of popcorn to either side which I politely decline, my chuckles lacking the sincerity they normally would.

Seeking refuge from my own dissociation, I snuggle close to Vilhelm, my hand finding his amidst the excitement I am partly removed from. As he laughs softly once more, I cast him a glance but take no pleasure in his delight. Detached from myself, I lean in for a kiss and as our lips touch, a shock courses through me. Opening my eyes leaves me looking into the face of the forgotten man. As my instincts quickly take over, I leap from the sofa and I turn, gazing at my husband, my breath catching in my throat.

“Mara!?”

My racing thoughts crash and roll with purpose, rebounding with every surface as they vie for a productive position in my mind. Swallowing, I do not move but stare into his eyes with an unnatural obstinateness.

“There was a spider on my shoulder.”

As Vilhelm’s smile rises like the sun over the horizon of my lie, his exclaim dissolves like snow in the warmth. His arms open lovingly towards me, inviting me to sink back into them. Drained and desperate, I surrender. I tell my family that I am tired and intend to retire early. Departing, I grace each of my children’s foreheads with a stiff kiss.

Part of the way up the stairs, I stop to gaze forlornly at my family, unable to partake in their enjoyment of life. On the sofa next to Vilhelm sits Tristan. His arms casually drape over the sofa, and he leans back nonchalantly with crossed legs. He waves at me. My chest begins to feel heavy, and I blink as my head fills with tension, aching. Gripping the handrails tightly, I march up the steps unevenly.

In a silent slumber, I dream that I am standing in a room so dark my limbs are indiscernible from the shadows swallowing me. With a suddenness that startles me, a single beam of light from above slices through the darkness. Defensively, my arms raise as my eyes squint and flutter, struggling to adjust to the flood of brightness. For a few moments, I stand bathed in the stark illumination, exposed and vulnerable. In the distance, I hear a faint buzzing noise which multiplies upon itself as if approaches me.

Beyond the boundary of my visibility, I note faint rustlings, hinting at movements lurking in the darkness. Shivers run down my spine and before I can react, a swarm of locusts engulfs me. Sensations of their tiny legs prickling against my skin intensifies my mounting sense of horror and I scream in a panicked gasp. Frantically, I swat my arms, but the temporary clear patches quickly fill in with insects. Desperation sways my movements into erraticism as they persistently try to invade my every orifice. My ears, eyes, and mouth become a battleground for the tiny creatures probing and prodding, seeking entrance. I pull and slap at them, but for each one I manage to dislodge, another takes its place.

Overwhelmed by the relentless onslaught, I crumple to the ground in a defensive posture with my hands covering my ears. Feeling the insects dart into my mouth, their wriggling bodies cause me to gag and choke, I clench my teeth tightly shut but it is too late; they are already inside.

With a sudden gasp, my eyes snap open and my chest heaves. Taking deep, shuddering breaths, I cling to the reassurance of reality as the remnants of the dream fade into the recesses of my mind.

Calmed slightly by the gentle beams of sunlight filtering through the window, I draw my knees in towards my chest and hug them tightly. Aware of Vilhelm’s absence on the bed beside me, I note the time as being 11:05AM and wonder if I should bother with any sort of breakfast and proceed to lunch. The swing of my legs over the edge of the bed lacked grace and I made my way towards the corridor.

Entirely visible emerging from the bedroom, the sound of voices and perceivable silhouettes causes my mind to swim, and I dart into the nearest room, my appendages firmly pressed against the open door and my eyes wide as I listen attentively.

“I think you know why you are here.”

“But... papa!” The pleading voice of my child, tinged with desperation pierces my heart. Remaining rooted in place, I suffocate with anguish and my limbs lose their position against the door.

“No buts.”

“I gave you plenty of time to explain yourselves.” Once heightened to a razor’s edge, my senses soften by the relentless waves of emotions. Now unaware of my distance from anything behind me, I am the only witness to my multiplying distress.

“Papa! We were not even here!” The word ‘papa’ crashes through my mind and in that instant, my consciousness thrusts back into the grotesque nightmare, where the vision of insects fighting their way into my mouth enacts. “We were outside!”

“You leave me no choice but to...” Mastered, I burst through the doorway and call out, “Wait! Spare them!”

“It was me.”

“Mara.”

Standing before us Vilhelm wears a face reflecting disbelief, as though struggling to reconcile my words.

“I was the one who smashed the vase and the frame.”

“But... why?”

“A fixation overcame me.”

“Mara, I think this calls for professional intervention.”

While a flush of colour suffuses my cheeks, I press my lips together tightly, suppressing any words that may exacerbate the situation. Slowly, I pivot on my heels intending to vanish down the corridor and out of their sight. Contained within the confines of my being, the magnitude of my embarrassment remains concealed from my family. Yet, its essence transcends mere repression, echoing like the resounding trumpets of an army of archangels, announcing my transgressions for the world to hear.

Having descended into the living room, I purposefully pile up logs, kindling, and bits of newspaper on the smouldering embers left by Vilhelm. An acute awareness of precious days squandered stirred a restlessness within me and I commenced my mission earlier than my usual solitary retreat, yet still long after my family had retired for the night. Unafraid of being caught, I deleted all my social media accounts with the lights on and the green glow of the power button seemed diminished in the brightness. Those who are a part of my life have the means to contact me.

After feeling the heat radiating from the roaring yellow flames, I extract the old photo of Tristan from the album. Anxious and trembling, my fingers close around the edges and with a determined precision, I begin to tear. Each millimetre torn sends a splitting echo through my mind. Finally, I hold the two halves in my hands, the divide between two individuals who are no longer connected, jagged and raw. Gathering the torn pieces in my hands, I begin to tear in the opposite direction, leaving two unconnected heads and anonymous torsos.

As I toss the jagged fragments into the fire, it roars, engulfing the new fuel. The flickering flames reflect in my eyes, awakening a sense of satisfaction as I watch the pyre burn. What freedom I have now from that spell, that Sorcercy, that obsession? While the flames eat at the disintegrating edges of the last fragment, the fire pops, and a single dying ember wreaks its ghost upon my floor.