WRITE 295September 25, 2007

Group A2 #1


By: Mikael Raheem

We hadn't been lying there for long when she got up, walked to the bathroom and shut the door behind her. I let out a sigh of relief, shifting my eyes to the bed sheet. I reached out and felt the pool of liquid under my fingers: still wet. I rubbed my forefinger and thumb together; much thicker than I had expected. The guilt I had felt before came over me again like a wave, drowning me in shame. I closed my eyes; the colour was too much for me.

She came out of the bathroom. Her robe, white, was draped around her now, the waist tied tight. As she sat down softly on the edge of the bed, I rose up to a sitting position and drew my knees in so that I could rest my head between them. I squeezed my eyes shut, sealing them against the sound, the feeling, the sight of pain I had found lying beside me, silently witnessing from the bed sheet.

I felt her hand on my shoulder, trying to coax me out of hiding. My body twisted and her hand no longer rested on me; I didn't want solace now, only to sink into sleep.

When I awoke she was still there, lying beside me innocently, robe still tied firmly around her waist. Seeing her now, in this state, I could feel something inside me shifting, stirring as I watched her chest rise and fall slowly, her shoulders gently following suite. Suddenly, scenes from the night before flashed in my mind, images jumping in and out of my mind: the sweat, the tears, the fluttering eyelids, arched backs, moans of delight, of pain. Instinctively I looked down to the sheets beneath me: still there.

After tiptoeing carefully to the bathroom, washing my face and trying to purge the image of a stained sheet from my mind, I slipped on my clothes. Returning, I glanced at the bed and saw the ghost of myself in the act, seconds before I had finally burst. As I watched, entranced, I could see myself look down, a look of recognition crossing my face. In growing terror I see my lips curve into a sinister smile and my eyes close, my hips thrusting even harder than before. I stood outside the bathroom door for an eternity, staring at nothing, tears beginning to form in the corners of my eyes, my conscious mind only now realizing what I had done. And she hadn't said a word, I thought to myself, that familiar feeling welling up in my throat, forcing my eyes to squeeze shut. The door called for me to leave her, to leave this haven for the misogynous, to get as far away as possible and never look back. Not a word.

As I was slipping out of the room, I turned back one last time, perhaps in hopes of finding something, some clue to my humanity. Inexorably, the only thing left was an angel, fallen from heaven, wings painted red.