The Fight


Lights off.


She closes her eyes, savouring the inky blackness, feeling it wash over her skin. Cool. Slinky. Soft.


She doesn’t recall where the light switch is, but she doesn’t care… She can’t see anything but the black and it’s a total mind fuck. Standing still, she could be in a tiny box, just big enough for her frame, or in an endless expanse of nothing. Standing still she’d never know.


She closes her eyes and waits for him. His warmth against her cool skin. His stubble against her smooth cheek. His larger frame, enveloping her small one.


One disappearing into the other. Both disappearing in the darkness.


If the real thing is anywhere near as good as she remembers… “Mmm” she murmurs to herself, waiting, aching, wanting.


The touch comes.


Her eyes fly open.


Something’s wrong.


A hand on her hip, dead and cold.


She stands stock still. Her once silky skin prickles with apprehension.


She can feel her own mouth widening into a scream but another dead hand covers her mouth. The scream dies in her throat, unheard. The fingers are clammy on her mouth and she feels the urge to vomit against the damp, lifeless skin.


She feels no body against her, no body attached to the terrible hands. Her own tear wildly at those touching her but they are relentless, oblivious to her nails raking into them.


The other hand leaves her hip and moves constantly while she tries unsuccessfully to fight free. It crawls slimily against her stomach one minute and is buried in her hair the next. She usually loves her hair being played with but this is so horrific that she almost faints with disgust.


Now it is creeping up her back – another caress that used to drive her crazy. Her stomach clenches violently as she retches.


Suddenly the hands let her go. She spins with a scream, hitting out in all directions but her hands catch only the dark air. Sobbing, she searches blind and disoriented for the light switch but cannot find it.


Panic claws at her throat, forcing breath out of her in ragged, tearing gasps that hurt her lungs. She knows her eyes are opened wide, searching for some sense in the mad blackness but she finds none.


She hears things but she doesn’t know where she is anymore or if what she’s hearing is real. She cowers at each imaginary sound, every involuntary little cry doubling and tripling her fear of being accosted by those hands again.


Where is he? Where is the man who was supposed to protect her? Why isn’t he here? Whose are those dead hands? Are they his? Are they her imagination? Was that all there was to begin with? Dead hands, touching, crawling, creeping? With no body, no emotion, no foundation behind them?  What about her memories? Were they real? How to know? How to know anything in this mad blackness?


She’s staring, trying so hard to see but there’s nothing there. She fights the air, her memory, all the ghosts of her imagination. She battles in the dark against enemies who aren’t there.


* * *


Let’s leave her there, in her black room, fighting to win her freedom against the pressing darkness that won’t go away, against the dead hands that haunt her with memories that threaten to be false.


Let’s leave her there alone, and walk away hoping that she doesn’t fight forever.      

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The real truth is, I probably don't want to be too happy or content. Because, then what? I actually like the quest, the search. That's the fun. The more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to. What do you know? I'm having a great time and I don't even know it. - Ally McBeal

6 thoughts on “The Fight”

  1. interesting….! guess we all got our ghosts, and we only realise it when we step away from the light…

    aargh, im obviously not meant to write anythin psychological, so i shall stop here… :D

    ….. ur writing style is very… ‘familiar’…. ;)

  2. No no, Gehan, it was very profound!! Haha.

    Thank you, the post came from a very strange place…

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