Her head throbbed with violent pulsations. Her peripheral version dimmed, so she felt she was looking at the world through a funnel, the distant points framed within a tiny circle. She tried to lift her head off the pillow, but the pulsations turned into knives stabbing into her brain. Gently settling her head on the pillow again, she remembered her dream. A dream she had often. Back in the meadow, the green, clean smell of vegetation, the texture of the blanket, the taste of his lips. The perfect afternoon on the perfect day. His eyes were sparks. Not filled with hatred yet. Caressed by whispering words of love. Not the vicious, vindictive snarl. His supple body next to hers. Not a rigid back. Arms held open. Not pushing away.
After, she started a million letters to him. Sharing secrets once held so tight. Giving him more of herself in words than she had allowed him in life. Letters written only in her mind. She wanted absolution. She wanted forgiveness. She wondered which would be worse. Seeing the hatred still burning in his eyes. Or, him moving so far forward, her memory was merely a shadow, a ghost and the hatred long forgotten.
She designed potential futures for him. That he became like her moving from arms to arms, kiss to kiss, place to place, space to space. Or alone: a professor in his office surrounded by books; an author in his writing room; an artist in his loft. Or with a woman whose blond hair hung long and loose down her back. She grew herbs and flowers for her naturopathic practice. Her office was in the old farmhouse he lovingly restored. Three bare-footed children giggled and shrieked as he chased them around the front yard, sown with wildflower rather than grass seeds.
The memories hurt. They throbbed, pulsated, stabbed. Memories of the loose relationship that only tangentially bound them together. The casualness that suited her, but so hurt him. Commitment to a relationship felt like being committed to the asylum. Others controlled your life. Others made the decisions. Decisions that took your soul, your spirit away. No one was ever going to hold that kind of power over her. No one. Not even him. Not even after the perfect afternoon.
If the pain would stop. If her vision cleared. She would do what she had avoided. Google his name. Search for him on Facebook and twitter. Seek him out on the internet. Would his eyes be sparks of welcoming recognition or refractions of hatred? To tell him . . . To ask him . . . To . . .
@ phylor 2014 mindlovemisery prompt 46: bitter loathing