frost

heal [v. nikiforov]

pain. it had always been such a great feeling. no matter if it was mental, or physical, pain was to be experienced, or it was to be what you would be remembered as: the person who died from pain. it affected us in many ways, broken, twisted, snapped, pain could just almost be as famous as another four lettered word — love. that word was presumably most stupid, overrated, and only a mere definition of a delusional fantasy garnered in scenarios and "facts" only deprived from a fountain of riddles, rumors, and lies. if you could say it, she thought love was stupid. pain was just nearly as stupid, but she could like the meaning and feeling of the word a minuscule percent better, she supposed. then again, pain and love are the effects of postmortem heartbreak disease. love leads to pain and so the opposite arouses. hate however, was very different as it harbored a more definitive meaning of extreme dislike and "get out of my face". exactly, if she were to presume the word "hate, love, and pain" into one meaning, it would simply be two simple words— viktor nikiforov.

and how ironic, since her wrist had been written with the exact different two words, etched neatly in cursive and black ink, as smooth flowing as a silkened ocean of black, just as beautiful and ominous as a black pearl— on her wrist just had to be a name of unknown and tearful smiles of goodbye. if just his name had been carved neatly on her wrist— how everything would've been so different— ah, how fate decides these she wouldn't ever know. and so, in an 819 word story, it's quite simple really— in those words, all she would have ever known was that he would never allure to her as none other than a stranger of unknown and wistful smiles, along with restless nights of warmth and cool in the dual feeling of the contradictory temperatures and holding in one another with lonely hands. all he'd ever know were the electric nights of a passion deprived of a passion of none other than defying the rules. if everything had been a fairytale, then maybe it wouldn't have been such a nightmare, they'd think.

being already given to the ones they disliked, to one soul they particularly never liked, and to sneak out at midnight with the fireworks in the sky, the moon illuminating their eyes. it should've been simple— your name etched on my wrist, providing a simple meaningless "I love you" in the start of a second, a married future with a tea set of kids they would've never liked, pepper gray hair and hands held together until we die. their faces etched with fake ecstasy, with a bright smile they say "we're happy," but they all know the bed's empty at nine as true happiness is found as the rebellion of the stupidity of love. hushed whispers decorate the resonating silence, as truthful "I love you"s are said in passionate embraces as butterflies of a petal flow down on their necks and lips. that was why she hated him— he was somebody she couldn't have.

the pain of knowing you love someone who doesn't belong to you— and yet when that someone loves you back, the satisfaction you desperately hoped to receive flutters away. because in the end, every kiss, every touch, every mutter of those three words would be said either with or without— that could've already been the very basis of why she had always felt so much throbbing at her heart whenever he or a speck of light hope came and flew out of the view.

but still, having the band aids to heal each other's pain of this tyranny of rules and justice, they were more than happy to be the rebels and take out the glass shards out of their arms and legs one by one— slowly, slowly, painfully— until all shards stained with crimson pain and love was gone, then the healing began in a state of illusion, hypocrisy, numbness, and the simple gradual feeling of being healed by the ones who truly are what they could call theirs.

"hey, I love you, did you know that?" he murmured, the flowing scent of wax wafted throughout the room, the small speck of flame providing the only light. he planted a delicate flower at the garden of her neck, and she received it well, taking her lover inside gently through her arms. he didn't wriggle, as then, he never did. his soft gray hair tickled at her neck, and some stung into the skin, a reminder of how as happiness was to come, so would the pain.

"yeah, I know," she replied without hesitating, as other pairings not belonging to their own at night uttered the same words, their healing there and gone the next, fleeting, wafting, slowly, drifting.