Robert (iamadvil) wrote in broken_phrases,

  • Music:

The day I learn to fly I'm never comin down

she lay prone in the corner, her hands clasped sending up a prayer that his heart would fail, that his blood would coagulate, that he'd asphyxiate on his life flow. Her prayers were to no avail, as he approached her with murder in his eyes. She couldn't remember the last time he was so passionate about anything. It seemed the one thing she had loved about him would be her downfall. She had always heard about battered women feeling attatched to their abusers, but at that moment she wanted nothing more than to escape his hateful glare. As she cowered everything seemed to flash by her, and how quick it did flash. She was in a swing, the sun was on her face, and his hands were gently caressing her back as she swayed gently against the warm summer breeze. She was flying, there was music, she was at a fair, on a ferris wheel the moon kissed her cheek, as he rambled on about some obscure composer from the late eighteenth century, but she didn't care, she just liked the sound of his voice, whether it was Wagner, or Sleeper. His voice cracked, it was a sign of weakness that only came about when he was feeling passionate. Music seemed to do that to him. At once she was in the corner again, and he was humming, the anger faded from his eyes, and the melody took over, and his face became human again. She felt drawn to him, the melody was the first song he had ever sung to her. He had strummed her heart along with the guitar, but every time her mind saw him strumming, her conscience saw him stabbing, and though she was drawn to him she knew she had to elave. So she got up and ran, she ran from his eyes, from his embrace, from his fists, she ran and ran and ran. She ran until her feet hurt, and hr lungs were aflame with the cold night wind. She ran home, and ran to her room, amidst stares from her concerned parents. She ran into her room and she slept.

He was on the cover of the newspsper the next morning, he was covered in blood, she worried he had been beaten, but she read, and saw that he slit his wrist, and that over come with the pain he fainted, and his arm dragged across his face, giving him that harrowed look of death she saw in the paper. She didn't want to know more, but she kept reading the way bystanders stare at a car crash, she read, and she read that his suicide note said something about being alone, and the music was gone, and there was no reason to live anymore. She wept, and she wept, she had killed a man. Or so she thought, she had only saved her own life.
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