The Interview.

“Right,” He said, eyes roving over her with interest, “What can you bring to the marriage?”

She looked at him as if he were the only man in the room; to her, he was the very oxygen she needed in order to survive, “I will love you with every fibre of my being. Until I die, everything that I am will be yours.”

He nodded slowly, “Right… erm, but can you iron a straight pleat in formal trousers? It’s really an essential skill in a woman, you know?”

Escape.

Every night, she read the same book.

It became her nightly escape; dancing into the world that she encountered on the crisp pages.

Until tragedy struck one stormy night.

Her dingy bedsit caught fire.

Everything was destroyed, except for a book of fairy tales that lay on the charred remains of the bed.

Pages scorched; it lay open as if it had just been read.

Except that, no body was ever found.

Chasing the perfection of beauty.

What happens to a woman

between being born as

perfection,

and spending the rest of her life

peeling away the layers of her body,

and eviscerating her soul

in order to be considered

enough?

 

 

My love.

I looked across the room and there you were. Even then I saw that you were broken in the same places that I was.

For a brief moment it gave me hope that I was not alone.

Our scars linked hands that day.

How beautiful it has been with you at my side.

When in Dreams.

Her legs, muscles atrophied, were useless by day, but when she stepped over the threshold of sleep; pushing the veil between worlds aside, she ran through the meadow of sweet grass until the moon bade farewell.

Her withered legs wet with dew in the morning.

The one left behind.

Darkness was falling.

The shadows alive with evil.

Her strength failing, she had been struggling to free herself for hours.

Abandoned by the others, she had given up too. But then scarred hands found her, the lost one, and carried her home.

Luke 15:3-7