A Different Diagnosis

27 09 2008

The cardiologist came into the room with an exam in his hands.

He grinned, laughed in a comforting manner, and said it was normal. Said there was nothing wrong with my heart.

“Bitch Dependency” he called it:

A bleeding scar created after having that silk-smooth red carpet pulled from under your feet and hitting your face smack on the floor.

The biggest problem isn’t getting hurt, – the doctor went on – it’s being unprepared. Feeling the carpet shake a bit doesn’t give you enough time to foretell what’s to come. Not being able to do so leaves you in doubt and completely vulnerable.

Next thing you know you’re patching your forehead from the fall with one hand and trying to clutch your slippery pulsating heart with the other. Let me tell you: It pains. Making you wish it had never happened.

There isn’t really any cure for it and preventing it can be quite hard. Like a flu, it has to be transmitted by other people, usually those close to you, usually those that have the power to somehow affect your feelings and state of mind.

Women portrayed as “significant others” have commonly been identified as the cause of this pathology, but it has been reported to affect both sexes. When men are the cause though, the name remains unchanged. Be it because you’re dependent on a bitch or because you’re the bitch for being dependent.

There’s not much I can do except prescribe you this bottle of time. All you have to do is swallow it with a glass of truth and wait. It should taste like shit, but it works. What you do though, once you leave this office, is none of my business. I’ve seen patients drinking, some frantically searching for someone else to occupy the void, while others develop a tendency towards sharp razors and lofty skyscrapers.

Time is a treatment, not a cure. Be warned that side effects are involved and it helps to not poke the wound. Scars can’t form unless you leave them be and the more you play with them, the more they bleed and hurt. On the other hand, though, I know, touching the wound is not masochism, but rather a way to feel human.

It’s a process. In the beginning you were fearful of treading that imaginary red carpet of yours. Carefully, though, you stepped forward. Little by little you started walking down the path. Being surprised in such unexpected manner can stun anyone, but now you need to apply the reverse effect. Get up and start walking back. Some say, the quicker the better, but honestly, there’s no point in rushing it.

As for the side effects I mentioned, they vary. Thoughtful depression, extreme rage, and psychotic humor are just some I can think of. None of them feel as something you normally would, so you know it’s part of the treatment.

The problem is some people are affected by these side effects and end up hurting other people. It’s as if you were to become just as rotten as the person who made you come here in the first place. Heed my words, this isn’t healthy. Struggle to become someone better, not as rotten as whoever scarred you. The world definitely could use people who didn’t hold grudges and hatred in their torn hearts.

If you do choose to go against my advice, I won’t stop you. You won’t be the only one to do this and frankly, whoever you hurt becomes my next patient. Unethical to some extent, but it does pay the bills. Keeps the business running.

“The Scar Cycle” he called it.

Now please sign this waiver. Once you cross that door, what you do is none of my concern. Follow my instructions and you’ll do fine, otherwise, good luck.

The appointment was over.

“Next!” his voice echoed.

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Betrayal Gone Red

5 02 2008

Peace

We desired to be together. I did with my entirety, but she did only half. A part of her wanted to be with me and a part didn’t. Her words descended as cruel speech from a father upon his child. My inside ached, but I understood. I respected Decay and it would feel as a betrayal on my behalf.

As I treaded back to sulk into the darkness, my thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone. Nevertheless, I was rescued. The five steps that felt like kilometers were interrupted by the calling of my name. I turned and faced back. I couldn’t deny her voice.

It was unexpected, yet perfect.

Our lips touched.

Thoughts left my head and only a calm peaceful tide could be felt. Rejuvenating.

At the end, we knew words would not help at anything. We had already been careless for exposing ourselves in public, but it seemed worth it.

I smiled. She smiled back.

Then her eyes felt empty and her body fell.

Loss

Half of Decay’s sword had already pierced her from behind.

I drew my sword and as a reaction his lackeys arrived.

I used the opportunity to swing my blade. In a swift movement he retrieved his from her body and the blood escaped from the wound dragging her life with it.

The scene held my eyes in place almost long enough to join her. The high pitched swing of the blade woke me up and I evaded just in time. He held no grudge at attacking and drew a second sword from his belt. My avenging chances were slimming.

His men approached as well, but they were no match. As always, stupid enough to follow and stupid enough to fight. They lacked the intellect and the ability to truly assess the situation and confirmed the definition of disposable henchmen.

With one thrust I cut open three chests. Their leather armor was red and prevented much of the blood from being seen. An old technique to diminish the opponent’s moral. Luckily the falling of bodies and screams of agony easily substituted the strategy.

Decay seemed to laugh. I could not be sure. It was dark and he wanted me dead. I had no idea a kiss could change that much.

I wanted to swing, but my arm faltered. It hurt. It bled. Decay had somehow hit me.

My thoughts were in my way. They kept me out of focus. Where was her body?

Another musical attack headed my way. The sound metal cutting the air felt unpleasantly close.

I rapidly crouched and then tackled him with my shoulder. It worked.

Decay lost his balance. Holding two swords did not help regain the standing position. He tripped backwards, unfortunately on her body, and fell helpless.

One blade on the floor and the other held with both arms. He cowered. He acted as a child, upon the sight of a hungry bear, would.

But the bear had no words. The bear’s heart ached. The bear’s soul felt void. The bear wanted blood.

With one hit his sword flew far away. He held his clenched fists up and thought they would protect him. I took no chances. I cut them off.

I dropped tears from my eyes and the sword from my hand. I dropped my closed fist on his face. A successive session of blows and punches at first hit the flesh. Screams accompanied most of them and fueled my rage.

Some time later they stopped and I started to feel the hard and impenetrable tarmac. It seemed over.

I got up and searched for her. Tainted red and with a pale base she laid there on the floor. Back punctured and without a soul. I held her next to me. I hugged her hopping comfort would come out of it.

Decay knew everything, which meant he was a spy. A public enemy dressed in red armor portraying the eagle emblem. A traitor to the nation. And I, a traitor to a friendship.

It was all betrayal. Did the reason or consequences matter?

I would ensure they would both get a proper burial.

Would I deserve one too?








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