The Writers Voice
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Reflections
by
Theresa Cecilia Garcia
Sometimes we have to travel to the depths of our own unconscious inner world,
face the fear that lies within, transform it and release it.
"Watch the moon with me," he said. And so she did, biding her time ,fearing his
terrifying touch as he pulled her closer.
A single match ignites illuminating the darkness.
"I’ll never hurt you again." His words, His voice. An icy sweat trickled down
her spine. She trembled slightly all over.
The flame flickers before it comes to rest on the cigarette tip.
"Stop stirring!" Words. Her body does not respond to him. He's threatened.
The cigarette hangs in the corner of the bruised mouth that takes two quick
puffs before the shaking dimly lit hand puts the flame to rest. The long, dark,
raven hair pushed back away from the battered face, wet from sweat, giving it a
spiky, unkempt appearence.
"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." Thing, Words.
Amidst the smoke I looked at the beveled glass doors and saw her reflection.
He holds her down and it begins. I don't love you ,she thinks ,but doesn't
voice. He picks up on it and demands a response.
I examined the large gash across the forehead and stared right into her eyes.
You don't have me ,she thinks, and escapes staring at the moon. "Tell me what
you want. "His hands stoking her breasts. His body pressed hard against her
thighs. I want to climb the highest mountain. I want to feel the cool breeze
against my cheeks. I want to feel the snow caress my face, land and melt on my
nose as I look up to the sky. I want to jump into mighty waters and reach
incredible depths. It doesn't matter what I want.
Head leaning slightly forward , the eyes looking back at me reflecting a
profoundly knowing yet evasive glance. Unemotional, stoic.
It's over.
He looks back at her with perverse smile. Through the beveled glass door, images
of passing car lights keep time with the glowing cigarette ember.
She was the hippie girl kissing an Indian wrapped in a blanket. Who sang and
whistled out of tune. Who cried to opera and let loose to rock and roll, feeling
safe, dancing and twirling around and around under the thunder and lightning of
a spectacular downfall. Feeling warmth in the cold rain. Laughing and giggling.
Catching raindrops with her tongue. She was the hippie girl with faded jeans and
a tear near the hem, who wore the tight fitting long sleeve blouse trimmed in
beaded fringe.
He was the one who ran barefoot with her through the fields at night, catching
lightning bugs, making wishes before returning them to flight. He was the one
who kissed her and cuddled with her tight, in the hammock rocking gently back
and forth exploring the night. He is the one she still thinks of when she smiles
in delight. He is still the one she looks for when she craves a compliment or
wants a hug. He is still the one she needs when she falls short of her ideals.
Yet he's the one she wishes she had never met and despite all this, it's because
of him that she walks with her head hung low and submits to everything.
Broken mirror to broken reflection.
She falls to her knees rocking back and forth, singing a lullaby.
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