“Behind every beautiful thing there’s been some kind of pain.” (Bob Dylan)
Good morning from the Towers. For reasons multiple, the pen is indeed mighty. One such reason is that it allows us to re-tool the past, create a better reality with our fiction until it is no longer fiction, but an alternative reality, an alternative history. Our dear friend and writer Monika Brinkman has shaped a painful occurrence into a manageable memory, and daringly shares it with us, converting pain into artistic expression. I give you
by Monika Brinkman
The first thing I recall was the sensation of floating, my body so light it seemed nonexistent. I took a large breath, held it for a few seconds and exhaled, noticing the coolness against my parted lips. My eyes fluttered from the glare of light and I peered between thin slits to take in my surroundings. Tears streamed from each corner as my baby blues grew accustomed to the brightness. I instinctively brushed the moisture away, squirmed in place, stretched my arms out and relaxed against the pillow of softness. So peaceful a morning, I sighed with contentment and wished I could hold this moment, this second, this instance for eternity. I glowed with the joy of being alive.
A voice interrupted my meditation, followed by a deep baritone chuckle. Memories of yesterday filled my brain. It was one of those rare occurrences when you recognized a smell, a thought or in this case, a voice and it flooded your entire soul with remembrance. You could taste it, feel it, relive each sensation until its brief appointment left you melancholy, wanting more.
“Michelle.” Wait, there it was again, calling my name, the voice drawing nearer. Why did it sound so familiar? “Michelle” rang out once more. So identifiable was the utterance, yet I could not match a character to the tone. I rose from my waist and scanned the perimeter. Wait. There in the distance was a movement. Though blurred I could see it progress, coming closer, calling out my name, “Michelle.” It echoed through the air and brought me tranquility of which I’ve never known. My body automatically fell back into a prone position and I stretched each limb, curled each toe. This was magnificence beyond belief and I adored the feeling. I did not wish it to cease and sobbed with happiness.
The sensation of a firm grip upon my shoulders startled me, yet I was not afraid. I turned to one side and fingertips played a sweet song of endearment on my arm and brushed the hair from my face. I snuggled, spooning against maleness without hesitation; it felt so perfect, so right. This was utter bliss as I’d never experienced and I was lost in pleasure.
Strong arms held me tight. “Michelle, I’ve waited for you.”
Pain, fear, horror rushed into my mind and body. I trembled against his grasp. No, make it go away, please, no, not this, not me. The visions came as flashbacks, one after the other, each more horrifying, all so terrifying. I cried out from the memory, still fresh in my mind. There lay my body on the cold pavement, once gray, now full of crimson blood.
I shuttered in his arms, tears flowing swiftly down my face, hitting his hands. Where am I?
He pulled me to face him. We kissed as we had done so many years ago, before the head-on collision. I held him tight and knew that my first love, Chet, was now my eternity.
Monika is creative in more ways than many! She is the host of Spreecast and It Matters Radio. Wanna be a guest? Check out her website: http://itmattersradio.wix.com/on-the-brink