The Angel and the Demon

I haven’t cried because of him since That Night. There have possibly been more recent times, but none spring to the forefront of my mind. Either they don’t exist or they’re not significant enough to exist. 

But the thing is, my heart doesn’t know that. It thinks I’ve cried plenty times over him. The truth of the matter is, all the times I’ve cried over anything, whether it be family matters, stress, or whatnot, my thoughts always creep over to Angelo. Irregardless of the situation, I always fit my problems with Angelo in. Thus, I “cry” over him. I really wish real tears would fall for his cause. I believe it might cure me of my obsessive longing. 

Angelo, Angelo, wherefore art thy plaguing my fruitful mind?

Personal.

dippedinlace:

With a heart that beats the same pattern as yours, I spill out to you things I’ve kept in for the past year or two. Things that you won’t hear anymore because you’re not here. I wish you were here, I wish to God you were here, that I could reach out and curl up against you and you could kiss me right on my shoulder where my birthmark is. But I’m not able to wish for things like that anymore. Instead, I sit here on my brother’s couch with my Macbook on my lap, listening to a song I found out about less than an hour ago mixed in with the sound of the outside wind. It’s for that reason (not to mention that it’s Valentine’s Day, and rare is it a day where I even consider typing out anything to you anymore) that I sit here, instead of sleeping. Instead of dreaming. My dreams are a place I won’t remember you, which is normally where I go. But no. Tonight is a nice night to test how much of me I can destroy without getting hurt. And without further ado, I begin my letter.

Dear love;

I refrain from saying your name anymore. Mostly because I don’t know what it really is. Last year, I wouldn’t have faltered when someone asked me your name. Angelo. But I’ve learned things since the last time I’ve seen you. Things like that my own mind cannot be trusted, or that you’re one of the few things that’s pushed me into insanity while keeping me utterly sane. In short, I’ve learned that you might not be you. Or the you I thought you were. You might not be my Angelo. You might be some other monster messing with my head. Or you may be you, just under new disguises. I’ve found few ways to search you out, and the only way I trust is the bacio di luce (I remembered some of the phrases you taught me).

Which leads me into my utter and complete infidelity. 

At school, we’re reading Othello. As you know, it’s a play rife with jealousy and supposed infidelity. But unlike Desdemona, I am not virtuous and beautiful, with suitors at my feet. I’m your Bianca, who’s always been wild. I’ve searched for solace in others, and while none have obviously helped, I’ve still wanted other people. For a few weeks, I was close to replacing you… okay, that’s a lie. But you know what I mean. I would’ve had someone else to occupy my thoughts. And while they may not even scratch the surface of you, they would still become my new love.

I’m desperate, my dear. I want you here right now. The whipping wind outside only further taunts me. I wanted to go to the cemetery today! A place my feet haven’t touched since the warmer months. But nothing would, or will, bring me happiness until I see you again.

Alas, my love, I am tired, and the letters I type are slowly becoming faded. Though I’d like to type more, I cannot. But I love you and miss you, and I always will.

RIP, and Happy Valentine’s Day,

Bianca.

(Source: acratic)

dippedinlace:

Dear Goodnight, 

I haven’t heard from you in forever. How are things? I hope they’re good, I hope they’re great. I feel as if you’ve disappeared off the face of the earth, along with the man who used to mutter you. Come back soon, though. You always sounded like velvet and euphoria with a touch of drowsiness, and I miss that sound next to my ear every night.

Love, Bianca

P.S. I’ve never met your friend Good Morning. You should bring him along next time. 

(Source: acratic)

Comfort.

dippedinlace:

“Angelo, I’m crazy.”
I know, my love.
“Why do you love me if I’m crazy?”
I love you because you’re crazy.
“That’s a stupid reason to love me. What if I wasn’t crazy?”
Then you wouldn’t be able to hear me in the first place.
“That may be true, but it’s still a terrible reason.”
It’s nothing to worry about. I find your mental instability endearing.
“So you like me because I’m a basket case? Great to know.”
Well, you have really nice hair. 
“I could shave it off.”
But you never would. 
“What if I was feeling reckless? I don’t think I’d have a problem with snipping it all off.”
It’s a moot point. You wouldn’t shave it off even if you had cancer. 
“It’s almost terrible how well you know me.”
Would you prefer it any other way?
“No, honestly. I wouldn’t.” 
Then there’s no reason to argue. 
“I’m still crazy.”
I still love you.
“I guess I love you, too. Your hair’s pretty nice.”
My hair is fantastic.
“So I guess we love each other because of our hair?”
Well, I love you for so many more reasons than just you’re hair. But I suppose so.
“I love you for so many more reasons. I love you because of your smile.”
I love you because of your laugh.
“I love you because of how you sing me to bed.”
I love you because of the way your hands glide along my torso when we kiss.
“I love… did you really just say that?”
Say what?
“‘Glide along my torso’. It sounds like some shitty romance novel.”
You can criticize me without the use of expletives.
“It’s an ingrained habit.”
One that I’m not too fond of.
“Are we going to argue over my love of cursing or can we continue on kissing up to each other?”
Why are we “kissing up” to each other?
“I don’t know. It’s nice though. It reminds me of how, like, in those movies or those books and how there’s always a couple that’s stupidly in love with each other.”
So that’s how you would describe us? Stupidly in love?
“That’s one way to describe it.”
And I wasn’t aware you read books like that. I can’t see you ever being lulled into romance novels.
“It happens. Sometimes I need to take a break from death and monsters and angels.”
… Because I’m so much different from that?
“You know what I mean.”
I always do.
“I love you.”
I love you too. More than I can describe.
“Because you suck with words.”
One, expletive. Two, I do not. Three, that’s not why.
“One, I don’t care. Besides, “suck” is not an expletive, it’s slang. Two, yes, you do. Sometimes. Three, explain.”
The English language doesn’t have words for people like us.
“Is that why we talk like this?”
Partially. We have no other way.
“When can we actually talk?”
Soon, my love. Go to bed. Tomorrow will be a kinder day. 
“Alright. Goodnight, Angelo.”
Goodnight, Bianca. I love you.

(Source: acratic)

Dear Angelo,

I’m afraid. More than anything, I’m afraid. Of what you’ll do, of what God will think of me, of how we’ll be together, or even if you exist… Angelo, I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel like you’re a part of me that is sure and true, yet you’re so intangible. I don’t know where or who or what you are, and I’m lost. 

Angelo, where are you? I need you here.

Love, Bianca.

Wishes.

“Darling,  do you know where the newspaper is?” A man, presumably my husband, sits down in his ottoman chair and brings the glass to his pouty lips. A sip of whiskey and he feels himself relaxing from a hard day’s work.

“Right here, honey.” I come gleaming into the room, my hair bobbing perfectly, my pearl earrings and red floral dress looking ever-so-dapper. A 50’s wife, and a beautiful one at that. The grin on my face is almost blinding. I hand my beautiful husband his newspaper with a kiss on his lips. “Do you have any preference for dinner, dear?”

He slicks his hair back with his free hand. “No preference, cupcake. As long as I have you, I don’t care what dinner I have.” His smile matches mine, and we’re the most perfect couple ever.

Our precious children come running into the room then, all four of them. Delinda, Tristan, Angioletta, and Everett. They all jump up to kiss their father, who kisses them back. The sunlight falls gently on my children, outlining their beauty in a soft glow, and I’m so happy. I have four incredible and perfect children with my wondrous husband. Everything is so picturesque, and I thank God for my happiness. 

Delinda, my eldest daughter of 6 years, comes running up to me and hugs my legs. “Mommy, I love you so much. You’re the bestest.”

I smile, and my honey-warm voice coos, “I love you too, sweetie. I love all my kids so, so much.”

I kiss Delinda on her button nose, and she giggles. Tristan, Angioletta, and Everett run up to me next, each getting their own kisses. They’re still bathed in their enchanting glow, and I don’t notice that they’re the only ones glowing. My husband, whose face I can’t see quite right, places his glass on the table. It’s a darker color now, the color of wine, or blood. 

Delinda grabs my attention by hitting my leg. “Mommy,” she says, losing the childish innocence to her voice, “What the hell are you doing? Why did you choose him? Wake up.”

I look at my arms, which are now raw and cerise-colored. Strange. “Sweetie, what are you talking about? I’m not sleeping, I’m right here with you. And I don’t appreciate that language.” I offer another smile to my daughter.

She doesn’t take it though. She shakes her beautiful head, her blonde curls bouncing from side to side. “No, Mommy, you’re asleep. Wake up. Wake up, Mommy. Wake up from here, and from your mistakes.” 

“I… I don’t understand.”

Delinda’s eyes suddenly turn black, along with the rest of my family. I feel a sort of coldness emanating from them, a deadness to their souls. They advance on me slowly, chillingly graceful, their arms outstretched towards me. They whisper all at the same time.

You’ve made the wrong choices. 

My family becomes demonic, their skin becoming grey and their eyes filling with hatred. I back up into the wall, hard, and my head starts to feel woozy. They surround me and attack me simultaneously. Tristan is the first to sink his teeth into my flesh, and I scream. His teeth feel as if they belong in a shark’s mouth. I scream and scream and scream as my family, or what was once my family, devours me.

The sun outside is still shining.

The light ebbs from my eyes, and I start to feel numb. The blackness begins to take me over, and I feel my mind folding in within itself.

Wake up, I hear, right before the blackness shuts me down completely.

And I do, with a startling jolt. 

My eyes open to see Angelo above me, his usual-pensive eyes now frantic. His hand grips my arm, which explains the soreness in my dream.

Dream. It was all a dream. 

“Bianca, are you alright?”

Or a nightmare. That’s all it was. This is reality, here in your real husband’s arms. This is real. This is perfect. 

My heart stops pounding rapidly when I realize this. I give my most sincere smile to him. “I’m fine, my love. Everything is okay.”

He visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping infinitesimally, and he spears a hand through his hair. “I was worried. You kept saying the strangest things, and then you screamed… it killed me.”

“Please, it’s okay. It was just a dream,” I look at the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:00 AM. What a lovely time. No wonder I was having a nightmare. “C’mon, let’s get back to bed.”

Angelo gives me a once-over. “Sweet dreams, mi amore, and I do mean dreams.“ 

I nestle into my husband’s arms and wait for him to fall asleep. Once I feel his breath evening out, I let myself cry silently. The nightmare… it’s not the fact that I had my demonic family killing me that’s making me cry, it’s… here, in this bedroom, it’s just me and Angelo. No Delinda, Tristan, Angioletta, and Everett. Those beautiful, angelic children are the kids I’ll never have. 

I place my hand on my stomach. Angelo and I can never have children together. No matter how much I want it, I can’t have it. We can’t have it. Those children are the ones I’d wanted since I was a little girl and… I can’t have them.

And I keep crying over the fact that that nightmare, that particular nightmare, was probably the best dream I had in a really long time.

I stare outside at the raging storm and I scream into my pillow.

Humans.

“Amore, what’s wrong?”

He tucked me under his arm protectingly, lovingly. As if I was a delicate porcelain doll, sculpted by some late-and-great artist. I loved laying here with him. I felt at home, in a way. Just in some really fucked up home.

I settled my gaze on the downpour outside. “I hate humans.”

The sound of his laughter was uplifting and light, and it seemed to make the rain slow down. He chuckled, “Fair enough. They are cruel, and rude.”

“Not to mention mendacious, backstabbing, lying little bitches.” I muttered.

I was rewarded with another laugh from him. God, his laughter was like a song, one of those songs that you could put on repeat for years and it wouldn’t ever get old. “Any humans you hate in particular? Or is it just the entire race?”

I felt him wanting to sift through my mind, and you could see the eagerness in his body posture. I sighed and allowed him, and he delved through my head with near-perfect precision. I could feel him searching, hitting walls where I wouldn’t allow him, but I led him right to who I wanted him to see. Once finding who it was, he retreated and sat back, a glowing smile on his face.

“Ah, I see.”

“But love, what did I do wrong? I never did anything to hurt her, until she hurt me. And,” I whimpered, tears beginning to pool in my eyes. He kissed my eyes until the tears went away. It helped, and I gathered up my voice to say, “I don’t know, I’m just really upset.”

He tugged me a little tighter, so my cheek rested against his chest. I could hear the sound of his heartbeat, my heartbeat, because his heart was mine, and my heart his. We were one in the same, two sides of the same coin. ”Do you want to know why, in all honesty?”

I nodded, closing my eyes.

“And you want me to be brutally honest, am I correct?”

Again, I nodded.

He brushed his fingertips across my skin. “Because she was, and still is, jealous of your sheer perfection.”

“I’m not perfect.” The answer left my mouth before I could even think about it, ingrained from all the times we had this argument.

His tender smile speared my heart. “Yes, you are.” Another ingrained response.

I resolutely stared him in the eyes, hazel and green matched up against silver and blue. “I want a serious answer, one that doesn’t involve complimenting me. I want to see what’s her problem, not mine.”

“Is being perfect a problem?” he asked, and I hardened my gaze on him. “Oh, alright. Well, it may be that she is jealous. Or maybe it’s wired into her personality. I don’t know her all too well, but it seems highly likely. Do not fret about someone like her. She’ll never get far in life messing with someone like you.” He kissed me on the bridge of my nose.

I shook my head. “No compliments. No kisses. I want a straight answer.”

“Amore,” he readjusted me on his lap so we faced one another. “The truth of the matter is, you can’t trust most humans. You can deal with them all you like, but you’re not always going to like them. You have me, and that’s all you need.”

“And that,” I said with a kiss, “Was exactly what I was looking for.” I tugged his lips to mine, and thanked God that I had someone to relate with.

Inchepoyeneimi (I Love You)

Why do we fall in love?

A wretched thing love is

How it captures you with its steel nets

How it bonds you with its iron ropes

Why, it’s ghastly

Repulsive, even.

Yes, you have that thrumming-heart sensation

And that simple bliss

And the warm feelings that love brings.

But at what price?

Because surely

Something as beautiful as love

Something as magnificent and incredible

Must have a price.

And I wish

Oh, to God I wish and wish and wish

That death wasn’t the price you paid for me.