‘The murder of conscience is a difficult thing’, he explained as he drew the blade down his arm, ‘it requires a great deal of suffering on the part of others’. The blood flowed freely, in weeping tears from the torn flesh. The brambles had dug their way inside and now hurt her, which ever way she turned.
Loyalty and desire fought ten rounds. It was a dirty fight, with neither listening to justice, or reason. They pummelled and smashed at each other, secretly gaining enjoyment from the pain the other caused.
The signs were there, they had been there from the beginning, he just didn’t notice. He was too busy following the dark flame that he knew shouldn’t be allowed to be his guide. But its call was irresistible, with thoughts of ‘what if’ and ‘maybe’ it provoked him to pursue.
They should have known better.
They did, but they just didn’t listen.
The little men sat on their shoulders, high as kites. They had rolled a joint and laced it with his reason. They had cut up a line of her self-control.
And they just couldn’t stop looking. The intensity of their gazes disturbed some. They found it vulgar, in a way. It brought back memories of sensation and seduction, secrets and sin, things they didn’t want to consider under the neon lighting of everyday life. That night, however, they satisfied themselves with memories of those charged stolen glances.
It was intoxicating, it was ephemeral and it is no more.
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