A Pale Light

A PALE LIGHT

Orange light.

Pale light.

Those are the two hues always in her window. Not at once, but they are for me.

Pale light is welcoming. It guides me to her awaiting embrace. As a lighthouse draws a sailor to its shores.

It is a promising light. A promise of her warmth that I know will encase me.

A kiss I know will fill my heart with bliss. Shared, closed, inflamed, and ours.

Only ours captured in a moment of passion and woven in a web of secrets.

So many secrets.

So much turmoil.

I wonder if ever she will know the truth that I am hers, and she is mine.

Coming to her puts our delicately crafted love and affair at risk.

They would know me to be a thief, stealing her love.

Envious, jealous.

Sour and bitter with every touch and stench.

Such a traitorous feeling.

I will go to her. And like a scorn sinner I will grovel for her love.

And like a beast I will have her heart.



SCENE I

The pale light was on when I drove by that night. A simple light on the porch that any house would have, yet there is something special about this home. I felt it some time ago when I was driving by one night late after work. Exhaustion had worn my frame that day, so I took my time waiting at the stop sign. Maybe that’s why I noticed, because I’m sure I never noticed it before. Thinking how simple of a thing that captivated me.

In the rounded windows of her living room. The three panels of glass act like a theater with her inside as the main attraction. She was smiling, hair up in a towel, gliding through her home with a pink, flowery robe rippling like water with every pacing stride while she talked on the phone. Her world.

I wanted to be a part of it.



Once more, I found myself slowing, pressing my foot to the brake with a sensation akin to child-like excitement. She was there. Alone, finally. In her pink robe. The warmth of her room illuminating her spring pink robe that clung to her curves, and delicacy. My breath shuddered freezing in my lungs. Just as quickly as she came, she passed disappearing from view as she walked into another room.

I always felt a draw and longing unnamed with every passing of my tongue over parted lips. Animalistic, raw and desirable.

Eyes locked onto the glass I looked into a world unknown, yet known completely to me. Only to me.

Did any know her the way I did? Like all of us, she presented two elements of herself, and I had been attentive and diligent to know her. How could I not? The world saw her as charmingly shy, body confident, social with friends, art-loving and studious, almost a workaholic if I am to be honest. All of it encapsulated by posts showcasing studying, coffee shops, meetings and staying on-top of everything. Put together. Proving our cruel world that, yes, a woman can do this, and can climb her way to the top.

But that is exhausting for her isn’t it?

I’ve seen her fret over work, shout on calls, cover her eyes to hide the tears threatening to spring. I’ve seen her simply lay on the couch eating ice cream to enjoy the day. I’ve seen her observe her own body with an anxious bite of her lip. Yes, being an actress, so talented, is hard.

I understand. I know better than most. That’s one of the first places we connected. Two-sided coins flipping through the scenes of life.

I’ve also seen so many pass through those doors. Friends to lovers, but none quite grasped her. Some made her smile, others indulged in her attention and affections but failed to fulfill her own, others filled the space like lard fitting into a sock. A series of players, all actors on the stage she generously set, but none shone as brightly as her.

Did anyone else have the unique, fragile bond we did?

I suspect not.

Time seemed to be forgotten around me, melting away, leaving me suspended in the dark damp street.

My heart fluttered in my chest and constricted with a flash of anxious longing. I was always the phantom to her opera, never allowed on the stage with her, denied the very thing I wanted again and again.



SCENE II

I lingered in that road for a moment. My car’s engine hummed idly in the silent street. I look ahead, following along the street lights sweeping down the road. I wrestled with the emotions welling up again. They have been for some time. A tension balling up in my chest sending energy prickling through my arms. For weeks, now I’ve wanted to approach her but always stumble to a halt, froze in place by anticipation. Thoughts rush through my mind, all fixated on what could go wrong.

Yes, we are in 2019 but our kind isn’t always accepted.

“Our kind,” as if I am a different species, a freak of nature to be driven out of today. As if being born the way I was a sin all its own.

Would she be revolted by me? Or accept me? We shared a table at one of her frequent coffee shops. I remember my heart fluttering with giddiness. I wondered if this is what it felt like to have a crush, to fall in love. This was the closest I had come to her. Then she asked a question startling me out of my admiration.



“Excuse me, can I borrow a pen?” she asked with a polite, sheepish smile.

Of course, I already knew she would need one. There was one missing from when she took out her items during her pre-work ritual.

“Oh, yeah, of course, give me one second,” I rushed to say, fumbling with my purse to produce the pen.

With awkward flourish I presented the utensil like a knight presenting a rose to a lady of the court. Her smile grew a fraction with a tilt of her head, indicating her gratitude to my simple gesture.

“Thank you so much. I normally have one, but I forgot it this morning, evidently. That’s what I get for rushing,” she said with a laugh.

I chuckled in agreement, nodding.

“I feel you on that. I often forget things myself. Just lucky that I didn’t today and was able to help you.”



That I was able to finally talk to her. My introduction into her play is simple, but perfect. Now, I am established, and my role becomes recurring.



I steeled myself with a breath, putting the car into motion once more to turn into her driveway. I felt the thrill of crossing into the new world. I was an explorer seeking the riches I so carefully craved and watched.

Turning off my car, my eyes wandered once more to her window.

I’ve never come this far. I’ve never been in this part of the play.

I was here. I was resolved. I was thrilled, nervous, and determined all the same.

Pulling the keys, out I opened the door, stepped out, and began my walk to her door. Reaching her porch, I glanced up to the light, where a collection of webs and moths swirled about it. I empathize with the moths for the moment, feeling I was them with fragile, dusty wings flapping about, hoping that if I got close enough I could have the light, the warmth, only to find that the moment I held it I would have no idea what to do with it.

My knuckles rasped against the painted-chipped wood.

The door opened.

Her eyes widened for a brief second with surprise

A pleasant simple smile to match.



SCENE III

I walked through her home with an innocent sense of curiosity. The air felt warm inside compared to the damp, cold weather outside. It almost felt sticky in my lungs, going from one room to the other. Taking a deep breath, I tilted my head back. There is even a sweet scent of coffee from the candle she left burning. Paris Cafe. How fitting. She loves coffee shops.



“I noticed you come here pretty frequently,” I pointed out one time when we stood in line.

She offered me a bashful smile, looking up from her phone. I glanced at the screen discreetly, glimpsing the images of far-away places and restaurants promoting their goods with artful flare.

She longs for more, so do I.

“Got me. This is one of my favorite spots, but I like coffee shops overall. They have such a nice ambience to them. The smell of mocha, and pastries,” she explained wistfully before casting me a smirk that has my heart dancing and cheeks warming.

“But, for you to notice, means you come here a lot, too, right? Takes one to know one.”



Yes. I do know her.

Everything seemed to have its place. Each seemed to rest perfectly. Orderly. Ordinary. My fingertips ghosted along the smooth counter, feeling the surfaces slide under my touch. Eyes tracked along the spines of the books she has collected over the years. Titles from To Kill a Mockingbird, Macbeth, Pride and Prejudice, How to Write a Novel, Food of the World. She is well read or at least has a wide taste of topics. A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I read over each one with delicate care. Some are old, others barely touched, and some marked with stickies like pikes on a castle wall. Moving along, I read along the walls.

Some of the works are from her college years, giving this grown-up space a touch of dysfunctional youth. It’s cute.

The floors creak under my weight moving down the hall. Memories posted along the walls. Family, friends, smiles of laughter, full of warmth and trust. Scenes of the world she’d love to see. A realm beyond her humble theatre stage.

A place too far for me.

I slowly ambled down this gallery of prized memories, but knew they were only pieces, only vignettes of precious moments.

Glimpses into her. I study each piece with care. I want more and more. I want her to be complete in my head.

Reaching her room, I continued to map out the new world I had set out in. The ground is covered with a simple blue rug that compliments her floral quilt.

Feminine, yet complex. Her room is hers, unlike any other space.

I am no longer on the stage. I am within her.

I saw the necklace she wore last week at the coffee shop. I see the shoes she wore one morning, while tripping out of her car on the curb. I remember the nervous laugh that escaped her when she looked around, paranoid someone had seen. None but me. I felt the fabric of her dresses between my fingers, pressing them to my face to take in her scent. To have her fill all my senses.

I want her to be complete.



SCENE IV

My fingertips ghost over her cheeks under those waking eyes. Surprise had lingered in those glassy orbs, but no pain. No sorrow. A doll staring up at me. Already I missed the warmth of her gaze, but I had made it painless. Slowly, I lowered myself from the bend of my waist, elbows carefully bowing out so I could kiss her cheek.

It was gentle and chaste upon her cheek, like how a worshipper would kiss God.

My eyes swept over her body with my hands leading the path. Watching her skin flexing under my own I notice the imperfections. Where her body carries less weight creating shallow, hungry points or where it holds more feeling more solid and delicious to indulge.

I don’t remove the robe. I want it there. It’s part of her and protects her. I am humbled by it. I almost weep brushing her hair back, letting the sticky strands slide between my fingers. Her raven dark hair leaves smudged lines of red against my skin.

She was my goddess for so long.

I love her.



SCENE V

I feel betrayed, seeing what I had done. Finding nothing by cold judgement in her eyes where there had been warmth. She blames me. She curses me wordlessly with those eyes. I look to soiled hands gasping for air that would not come. My lungs are too tight, and desperate pain too raw.

Why had she let a beast into her home?

I leave her then with a cry of frustration. I will choke if I did not rid myself of the chaos within.

Grabbing the stained knife, I lifted it above my head, panting sobs as I stared down at her. The blood had become sluggish beneath her. The body would always follow its coding until it realizes it need not anymore. Until it realizes it has no more purpose to fulfill, nor a soul to serve. It would come to a stop and rest.

But death had little beauty after that. I had seen it a few times in my life.



When my father beat my mother to death. He had fled with shaking hands, while I stayed cradling her head. Much of her face was disformed, but I could still see her beauty. See her. Because I knew her. I watched as the emotions crossed her face so visibly, it left me breathless. My heart raced as if I had been running for miles and miles. I watched pain morph from fear to helplessness to sorrowful longing.

“Don’t be afraid,” my mother had choked out, her voice scattered like her bones. I watched life leave her with a high-pitch shudder.

I wasn’t afraid. Nor did I weep.



I dropped the knife with a broken sob curling over her body, weeping against her neck feeling the stickiness of the cooled wound cling to my face. I cry then. For now, she is divine. Free from mortal coils. From the costless acts we perform every day.

She is now a beautiful goddess who rivals that of Aphrodite. She was full of flaws and sins just like me, yet pure as a lamb. Now, I see her completely, raw.

Memories of her smile, voice and warmth. My heart buckles under the reality that I will never be able to enjoy such simple pleasantries again. Is this how Pyramus and Thisbe felt? When she mourned did Thisbe grasp this truth that she would never hold her lover again? Hear his voice or feel his touch? That they had failed in their attempt to be, and thus their love was cursed from the beginning. We consumed the mulberry fruits and, in their juice, became drunk with madness.

But I had done the deed. I had succeeded where Abraham failed. I killed that of which I loved.

I had earned what belonged only to me.



SCENE VI

Working carefully, I peeled back her skin with precision and care. There is tension that comes naturally when you try to move the flesh. I learned through my years in the medical field. A pressure that, once it gives, is sweet. I looked to the tools beside me, I gathered once I composed myself once more. This next act of devotion would take great care along with a steady hand.

Gingerly, my fingers wrapped around the hilt of the hammer. It was not a delicate tool, but I had no other option. Calmly, I look back at the white peering through the red fluids, taking a deep breath.



“We all know the heart is a vital and delicate organ,” the professor had explained, pointing to the diagram. “In much of mythology, the heart has been credited for wisdom, love, passion and power. Many of the stories and poems give us the modern day take of the heart being the most desirable object. It transcends the body, you could argue.”

Transcends the body. A simple organ. A muscle whose only job is to pump blood to the rest of the body becomes this prized possession. A keeper of secrets, or a cage for our souls.





I raised the hammer above my head. The bone cracked under the weight, but it does not yield. It retains its oath to shield the heart from prying eyes and greedy hands. While the ribs connected close crack, splitting into a finely spun thorny crown. I raised the hammer again, letting it fall with a brutal strike. Splinters run through its ivory surface. With a breath I raise the hammer once more. Finally, the bone cracks. I let my hands do the rest of the work. I do not wish to damage her heart. Not when I’ve come so far and love her so.

This piece is her final piece. The last piece of her that is left for me to know. I feel the rush of excitement as I carefully move the plates of bone to reach her hollow core. My touch dug into that damp heat, feeling the flesh move and squish under my fingers until I finally felt it. It carries some heat to it that causes me to gasp. There she is. With shaky hands, I grip it under to secure it in my grasp. My other hand reaches for the knife. Scooting up my knees bracket her sides, I lean closer. I cut her free.

I cup the organ between my hands, bringing it out into the light. With a shuddering breath, I feel the tears collect once more, but not out of guilt or anger.

Out of relief, and resolve.

I look at the organ with humility. This source of wisdom and memories. This vessel of thought and passion. This object of desire that hung on the tightrope between joy and despair.

I know her in entirety. Everything she was and would have been cradled between my soiled fingers.

For a moment, I can feel it again.

Bringing it to my lips I kiss her heart, forget its name.

Passion be your name, and shame your partner in the crime. Which is the master and which is the criminal?

So often valiant intentions turn to violent inflictions.