You Have To Go

“You have to go.”

“Why?”

“You’ll be killed.”

There's no fear in her voice. Because fear does not belong in her voice. The words are said rather matter-of-fact. She can feel the roll of hatred, has been feeling it all night issuing across the space between them and although it's meters in reality, it's mere cells apart in their minds and bodies and she feels the anger like it's her own. In fact her own may be contributing. A positive feedback loop building up on each other.

She herself is tired, aching, sore beyond belief. She is annoyed because he's here. He stayed here when he was quite uninvited and his mere presence has forced the other to vacate the entire property. So uncomfortable does he make others.

It's an unusual phenomenon and she has borne witness to it again and again, turning the question in to herself and yet finding no answer or reprieve.

But now is not the time to ponder such thoughts. She brings her mind back to the present moment, where he is just staring dumbly at her like a big dumb animal and she feels the twitch in her hand as she fights the urge to slap him - doing so will not impart any further sense into him.

“What are you staring at?”

She is angry, whether her anger or another's it does not matter. He blinks at her, like he's trying to bring her back into focus, like he was just staring off into space, and he wears that dumb smile that tells her he wasn't really here at all.

“You're so pretty.”

She gags internally. That stupidity, that dumb fallback position, blaming her for his own lack of presence of mind.

“You need to leave.”

She presses him again. He's just standing there like a dumb sack of shit and she wants to slap him, push him, move him somehow.

She can feel her soulmate moving. Her true soulmate. The one her own soul resonates with, vibrates on a level she has never known before. The one who can beckon her, without causing her to question, only to concede.

That soulmate, that twinflame, that one who is made out of the same stuff she is, is moving closer, and fueled by a rage that is much unlike what she has felt from this one before. It is murderous and seething, frothing with spitting acidic rage and he needs to leave because he is still standing there. He may as well be holding his dick in his hand and watching tv dumbly for all the good he's doing, although his eyes are focused more on her now, a mixed blessing. For he is still staring at her like her beauty beholds him and now is not the time for him to use such an excuse.

“You must leave. You will be late for work.”

Her mind reels as it scrambles for a reason that will resonate with him. Obviously the threat of death hadn't moved him at all and so maybe the thought of work would cajole him. He concedes.

“Yeah. You're right.”

He shrugs, but he's moving at least, like he's not hastened by the fact and rather resigned to the fact he will be late.

“I'll blame you, haha”

He laughs, winks (but it's far from sexy, it causes her stomach to roil) and he's picking up his wallet and keys.

“Will I see you tonight?”

“No.”

She is quick to dampen that thought. He should not come up here tonight. Should not be around. She can feel the presence moving closer still and she knows there's not much time. She can't tell if it's in her mind or in reality but she knows the key is being sourced and the lock being worked. She counts blessings as she knows the mechanism takes a little work to get the door open.

“Have a good day at work.”

She waves goodbye to him as he walks out the door. He pauses like he wants a hug goodbye (no kiss, he only wants that when he's being watched and right now he has nothing to prove, no posturing to be done, because they are alone and he is not interested in her when there is noone else around to show off to).

He is baffled, curious that he does not receive a hug, and probably part of him is hurt by it, because he has not felt her soft gentle touch volunteered to him for quite some time.

She doesn't care.

She can feel the presence of her soulmate coming into the house and so she must dismiss this other one swiftly before blood is on her hands.

She closes the door as the other presence comes into the living area and she swears she can see smoke blowing from nostrils, eyes murderous and hands flexing as if wanting to strangle.

“He's just left.”

She says as the gate latches closed, signalling his departure from the household. Lucky, she thinks, breathing a sigh of relief.

Her soulmate raises a hand, shows the shaking that overwhelms an angry body that cannot stand the presence of another. She steps forward, reaching for that hand and right now she would do anything in the world to press kisses to it, hold it to her chest, cup her cheek with it, close her eyes against it. Instead all she can do is stroke the pad of her thumb over it and smile gently, reassuringly. He's gone and she will protect her soulmate from his influence. His dark negative suction of energy.

Here, she doesn't have to say the word, merely offers the suggestion of a thought and her energy pours forth instead to her twin flame, her soul lover, and light green reaches out to the brilliance of white. Their souls collide and clash, spiraling together and instead of becoming a muted form of each other's colours they explode together into the vibrancy that is somewhat equivalent of a peacock's glamour. Glittering and glistening, a splendid array.

They surge together and anger cools, rage is soothed and calmed and she does not seek to extinguish it, instead reaching out to acknowledge and adore it. For this one would not be as angry if she did not care. Such anger and violence is directly in correlation with how much one cares, and this one cares so deeply, so strongly. There is such love it is breath-taking, and her mind and heart and soul at times reels from the strength of it.

Eyes open after a time; they don't know when they were shut. There's a meeting of gazes and they read the galaxy in each other's eyes. There's no beginning to their story and this is hardly the end, and their souls slowly retract, tinged with the effects of the other. She can see the pinkish hue her soul lover's has taken on, no longer that brilliant blinding white, but tempered with adoration that glows from within. She wonders what her soul looks like now, as light green retracts and she thinks she sees an aura of white around it.

They are still holding hands, her hand now cradled in her soul lover's and the energy pulsates between their palms. She can feel the adoration, the love, the lust, pouring from her soul lover, a wave of emotion and desire cresting. She knows the mere touch of their palms against one another will have the other dampening, heartbeat quickening, breath running shallow. The body involuntarily priming itself for the lovemaking that both so keenly seek.

She fights against the urge to step forward, to press lips against those that are parting, plush, full, inviting. That beauty she would wish to call her own, despite never wanting to own a person before or ever. Such a thing would be foolish, for people are incapable of being owned, especially one as wondrous and independent as this one. And yet she desires still to do such a thing.

She remembers the kisses she had laid down upon soft skin - one upon the cheek, followed by one upon the shoulder, and the hug that followed, and the leap in her chest when she laid eyes upon her beloved. She remembers looking at her soul lover with such trust and adoration, wonderment. And wonders if she will be allowed to look upon her soul lover again in such a way.

The anger has subsided now, of course it has, for they have spiraled together and souls made love in just the few short moments they held hands and met gaze. There is but the soothing nature of each other's presence and the ache left in their chests as their hands fall away. Skin still hums warmly with the memory of touch burned into it, and it lasts for several minutes after. She feels it, that drag of magnetic attraction, like their bodies are drawn to one another.

“Come with me,” she says, inviting her soul lover into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for them, wishing instead she could invite her soul lover to run away with her, flee all this responsibility and stupidity. All the foolish games and manipulations that are played.

She feels her soul lover follow, feels the way eyes glide, both greedy and adoring, over her body, loving every curve and feature like she is a goddess worthy of such adoration. She sometimes doesn't feel like it, for she is a mere shell of the person she thought she would be by now. A husk in comparison to what she used to be - a once fulfilled, radiant and youthful woman, now feeling old and worn and disused. Perhaps this is why she has lost so many friends, she wonders, for perhaps they see how little she has to offer. Perhaps all she can offer to people is a way for them to feel good about themselves, for them to be able to manipulate a pawn in their own game of life. She provides such a thing for them.

Her own thoughts are dark, spiraling into depths she is vaguely worried tend toward depression. So when she feels such love and adoration crashing in waves around her from her soul lover, she wonders what this person could possibly see in her. How she could deserve anything like this from anyone, least of all from them. What could her soul lover possibly see that would make her worthy of such love? Such adoration? Such lust and desire and wanting to pour affection onto her?

She would if she could turn around and ask. Take both hands into her own, draw her soul lover close and whisper questions, what do you see in me, why, how, why me... Part of her wants a kiss as an answer, part of her wants a diatribe of reasons. Part of her wants the worship, part of her feels undeserving. Part of her is terrified. Because to allow such love and affection, adoration, desire, would mean confronting her own self and realising that perhaps yes, perhaps she does love someone in return, so deeply, that she may be ok with the concept of falling in love, and may even with someone of the same gender as herself. For in this lifetime their souls ripple together and their bodies are made of the same gender and society is a crude bitch who is still not entirely accepting of such love. But in this moment, she would throw such cautions to the wind if she was not so concerned about other aspects.

There's a million thoughts whirling in her head as she walks to the kitchen, asks what her soul lover wants to eat, smiles as she listens and then promptly proposes something else entirely. Of course her soul lover laughs, says that's okay and there's the cue for them to kiss and laugh into each other's mouths but instead they turn from one another and busy themselves with mundane tasks to ready the food. Their souls stretch out between them, reaching and straining, weaving strongly within one another, a cord of light green and white, stippled with iridescence that glimmers.