She - A Short Story
Updated: May 30, 2020
These people, who knock me back as I stalk through the rain that falls like silver against the shop windows blinding, luminescent lights; They sense I am different from them. That is why they are watching me, sneering, allowing the interrogative beams of the storefronts to guide their mindless gaze to me. I can feel their eyes all over my being, scrutinizing everything I am.
Beneath me, that is what they are even as they attempt, with contempt, to leer down their noses at me; metaphysically incapable of reaching a status as captivating and divine as mine.
With a beast of the deepest jade clinging to their unfortunate vessels, these people shove passed me, onwards with their insignificant lives, never knowing what it is to feel. Day after day I am forced to witness, with a painful monotony, these people believing in their own importance, thinking themselves to be a substantial part of the universe, of time and space, of each other’s lives.
When you are just a person, you are just… here.
I watch their bleak expressions, false smiles, their confused movements as they stumble and struggle across the plains of existence, a vast land of little promise. They can’t embrace life as I do. They cannot revel in the unparalleled actuality that I shall be eternally in, for they cannot experience my personal enlightenment. This state I speak of, that seldom have known, has been found through one thing: passion. It is inevitable.
I am a strong believer of passion, of the special few who can channel their own to communicate with others who, heaving a sigh of relief, consume it, indulge in it.
The passionate are underrated. I should know. To understand something that is far from simple confuses and frightens the ordinary, they draw back and refuse to admire the splendour of such a complex phenomenon of the human mind. Yet, as I have said this, I must point out that my own discovery was delayed. Always sensing that this essence (for passion is a beautiful, fragile essence of the soul, often locked away) brewed deep inside of me, it finally erupted with everlasting thanks to one thing.
An entity that haunts, both my dreams and my heart.
Just the thought of her existence makes me tremble.
She… with the hair of golden satin; her eyes refreshing as a lush spring meadow, glimmering green as though the sun shines before them, always. Upon an enchanting face is a firm mouth, with pink lips voluptuous and inviting against the smooth skin so creamy, plump, delicate that it is easy to forget the small beauty mark, on her round cheek.
Charming and appealing is this face, but it resembles a closed book to those about her, impossible to read. Yet I can. I have the key, the power to open this book and, like a language only we know, understand the words written on the page.
She understands me too. I can see it like a rising tide in her eyes as she gazes off, consumed in the labyrinthine riddle of her own mind. One of my fears is not that she shall hide her mind away from me for if I ever should choose to ask, I know, she would let me in, guide me ardently, as the princess did for Theseus. We are one and the same, destined for passion, able to lead one another through the darkness of mortal earth towards our celestial haven where few can tread.
These people I struggle to emerge from as they flock about me, scurrying across my path as I swiftly ease my way out of their swarm to turn down the little side street approaching the home of my blissful bane, could never know another human being as I know her. Amongst them are those who claim to be her companions: impossible, the deceitful can only desire what they do not comprehend.
She and I are one and the same; in a realm of our own, sacred, beautiful, untainted by the passionless creatures of this earth. Not a soul can intrude on the Eden we have created for ourselves.
I watch her, lost in our world, admiring her smile, her heart, her being. I long for the moment I can touch her skin, as desirable as velvet grazing the finger tips. My patience wears thin as I count the minutes before I can hear her heart-warming voice, caressing my ears. Never has a noise – no, sound – no, song (for a voice like hers is a sweet, intoxicating melody) been so mystifying.
Now, at last, I reach my desired destination. Resting upon a familiar, rough, concrete wall, still damp from the rain that shed its final drop less than five minutes before, I stare up at the first story window of the mid terraced town house, indulging in the spell of my yearning, unceasingly aware that my very soul wanders the rooms of that flat. Through brick, cement and plaster, I can still feel the sturdy tug of the string Edward Rochester described as the very thing that fastened him to his beloved. However I have no fear of it snapping, for I shall never allow our parting, to create such a distance that could break our bonds, to suffer a terminal sickness following our unfulfilled fates and lost hearts.
A clear night, the moon beaming its Cheshire smile, I stroll towards the garden gate, sensing that enough time has gone by, never removing my gaze from the single pane window, catching glimpses of her shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling as she goes about her evening routine. My fingers trip over the iron, absorbing the imprints of her upon the metal, before pushing it open gently, silently as her attentive landlord has oiled the hinges once a week just to reassure himself of the elegance of his home.
As I step softly up the garden path, through the single pane glass, I hear that voice I long to lose myself in everlastingly sing the song she loves most, the lyrics etched on her heart she knows them so well.
Smirking at her absent rendition, I ascend the steps up to the front door, unlocked until half past nine in the evening, anticipating the moment that there is no wall between us. Right at this very moment she would be getting ready to relax for the evening. I know her routines so very well. I know her so very well, every look, gesture, word. Utterly, entirely, completely. I know her.
So near now, I shudder as I reach for the handle of the door, overwhelmed to know that she is not far from my side, that our selves, with nothing to bar us, can unite our souls. All is perfect as I close the front door soundlessly and make for the polished wooden stairs before me.
Except for one minor detail. She does not know me…
But she will.
(Originally composed in 2013, a psychological fiction I also posted regrettably on Inkitt)