chasing springtime

You had taken me ice skating on that frozen pond one day in January, and there had been so much laughter. I was terrified of the ice, of the skates, of the speed that you were afforded by your skill. My skin burned with fierce shame, and even with the cold so biting, it still brought the hot prickling of tears to my eyes. I had never found grace in my physical endeavours; I had never felt free when my body was challenged. You tried to teach me something, that day, but the most significant truth was, simply, you spent the day, with a frozen heart, wishing I was her.

Later that year, I met her, this previous incarnation of myself, and it did not ever seem strange or awkward that we became such close friends. We had so much in common, it was much like meeting myself, only in an infinitely more palatable way. I did not have to ask, but I was certain she could skate; I had the feeling that when you took her to the pond during a previous frozen winter, she had not been afraid. She was not a woman who was filled with fear, like me. She had a strength that drew everyone to her, an intelligence that was obvious but without condescension; she was my predecessor, but I was never to be her equal – not in my own eyes, and certainly not in yours.

I often wondered if you considered our friendship acceptable as it meant you could see her again, you could see her more often than your parted ways would ordinarily allow. I often wondered if I was friends with her because I wanted to learn what it was that could make you look at me like that, how I might be able to catch your eyes resting softly, inspired, within my gaze.

You had told me about the day she left you, with tears that still glistened, welling, behind a wistful smile. I felt a shameful weakness in my own expression, not even able to turn the saddened corners of my mouth in the right direction. Instead, I rested my head upon your chest and swallowed down the nausea that seemed to want to burst my ribcage outwards, sending the splintered fragments of my heart and bones spiralling in shards with an eternal velocity. I struggled to decipher whether this was the purest kind of hatred I was feeling, maybe just the bitterness of resentment, or whether it was simply my own inability to be kind to you in those moments that gnawed rabidly at my insides. Perhaps, it was your hand inside my chest that I was feeling: maybe you were trying deliberately to destroy me. Was it possible my heart only beat when you allowed it to do so?

I had known you twice as long as her, but she knew me better than you had ever cared to. The time I spent with her brought a longing that, at first, was undecipherable; lately, it has become as clear as the still water that lay beneath the sheet of ice we had all once skated upon.

She brought the softest whispers at the back of my mind to the forefront of my consciousness; with her, I came to know the very essence of the truth in my soul. You diminished my path, while she led me by the hand through its very darkest turns. With her, I became me, and your hold over me began, slowly, to dissolve, and it started to feel like spring would come.

I told you I was leaving, and you told me I was not. I told you I no longer loved you, and you told me, I did. I asked you to step back, and instead you moved forwards. I begged you to stop, and you were unrelenting.

You were unable to express yourself fully without aggression, usually either in your voice, or your actions; rarely both at once, as if you made a choice in your violence, consciously selecting your option from a sickening menu of abuse. Always so careful, though, not to let the world see your rage, even as it oozed from your pores, through clenched teeth, or a forced whisper, your hot breath, seething, on my neck. I would not look at you when you were angry, but neither would I run. She would stare at you, coldly, until it was over.

You had thought we were opposites, until you had seen how we both held our knives in the same way. The differences in our appearance were superficial, fleeting, and inconsequential: she and I shared thoughts, understanding – and experience. You had assumed we were weak, because we had not argued with you. You believed you were stronger than us, more intelligent than us, that you were revered by us. I hope you realised your error when you felt the tips of our two separate blades puncture your skin simultaneously.

We had not intended killing you, and yet, here we stand, watching you gargling pathetically with your own internal bleeding. Oceans of crimson surround you as a sticky, dirty mess of a rotten death halo, and still, you insist on clinging to these final moments. Previously, I could not have imagined just how little compassion I would have for you as I patiently wait for your body to give up its fight for survival. Half of me wants you to hurry up and die, but the other half could watch you perish in agony forever. The closer to death you get, the freer I feel. It is like being born again, brightly flooded with a new life force, as yours dribbles feebly out of you, leaving just a sticky red dying slug on an otherwise empty garage floor.

She kisses me, and I don’t even notice your final breath.

///thank you for reading this tiny little story! Please read another if you have the time <3