The phone call came suddenly. It surprised him. He looked at the area code. It was hers. A call from the city square of some square city. Her number he had deleted but the area code... this he had remembered. How many times he had longed to hear, to receive, anything... anything. It was in the moments. The after. Belching orders in response to his hand held out in friendship. All was done so that he would hopefully not hear her collapsing house of cards.
For one so fearful, she seemed so brave. It was all a part of her disguise. You so boldly attack against the audacity of truth that the others walk back. Either that, or she will make you feel as if you are crazy. It's called gas lighting. A technique so powerful, that she has only lost one business doing this. But it was comfortable. It made her feel powerful. Even if it made her walk out in her robe and pyjamas in the middle of the street at 11 o' clock in the afternoon. She had to feel the victor, even if she stood in the valley of defeat, at least she could feel the victor.
Anyway, it was her phone number. She had many numbers. She had many names. She believed herself so clever. When he answered, silence greeted him. What could she say? He was the one who was the writer. It was his jobs to take the tendrils and weave them into a tapestry of truth even if the threads were all wrong.
In the silence he thought of how many times he had shone his light to save her from the darkness. In her perpetual slack hipped slithering retreat he noted that her darkness was always there to greet his light. Light that could never be consumed. True, it was stunted. True, it was never allowed to illuminate. But his light could never be extinguished. Her thought he could work to minimize, but the desire would always burn. A dangerous undertow that would beckon, it would delight, it would fill the mind, but as long as she remained hidden, it would remain stunted.
But her silence persisted. It was her only bulwark. She could safely hide in the shadows. She would atrophy. She would remain the wounded animal. But she would live. Her rule over a half light kingdom would remain.
He waited.
A minute passed.
She only had to say "hello."
But she didn't.
With a click, the signal died.
Fear had won, at least for the day.
For one so fearful, she seemed so brave. It was all a part of her disguise. You so boldly attack against the audacity of truth that the others walk back. Either that, or she will make you feel as if you are crazy. It's called gas lighting. A technique so powerful, that she has only lost one business doing this. But it was comfortable. It made her feel powerful. Even if it made her walk out in her robe and pyjamas in the middle of the street at 11 o' clock in the afternoon. She had to feel the victor, even if she stood in the valley of defeat, at least she could feel the victor.
Anyway, it was her phone number. She had many numbers. She had many names. She believed herself so clever. When he answered, silence greeted him. What could she say? He was the one who was the writer. It was his jobs to take the tendrils and weave them into a tapestry of truth even if the threads were all wrong.
In the silence he thought of how many times he had shone his light to save her from the darkness. In her perpetual slack hipped slithering retreat he noted that her darkness was always there to greet his light. Light that could never be consumed. True, it was stunted. True, it was never allowed to illuminate. But his light could never be extinguished. Her thought he could work to minimize, but the desire would always burn. A dangerous undertow that would beckon, it would delight, it would fill the mind, but as long as she remained hidden, it would remain stunted.
But her silence persisted. It was her only bulwark. She could safely hide in the shadows. She would atrophy. She would remain the wounded animal. But she would live. Her rule over a half light kingdom would remain.
He waited.
A minute passed.
She only had to say "hello."
But she didn't.
With a click, the signal died.
Fear had won, at least for the day.
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