Meghan: Ice

She pounds her fists against his face

“Answer me you bastard!” she weeps

Crying, she’s always crying. Isn’t that how it is?

But not even tears can melt this ice, this rock that stops her fist; blocks her rage

Her knuckles are broken and bleeding but she keeps on striking; maybe she can break it?

No, her blood just runs in crimson rivers to pool uselessly at her feet

She draws delicate fingers across the rocks face, smearing aside the gore to peer into the ice

Inside the lover sleeps

Does he dream?

Is he happy in an angel-graced place far from this hell she is locked in?

She splays her fingers on the dripping crystal that encases his body from head to food and leans toward him to examine his face

Long lashes fall against pale cheek, his mouth is quirked up at one side like the beginning of a smile

“What’s so funny?” she whispers, pressing her lips to the bloody rock

Tasting her own blood; remembering, remembering…

Screams, fire, pain,

Ice

“It’s your fault!” she screams, “How could you do this? How could you make me—“

She pounds her bloody fists against his face

Wretched, ephemeral race, children of chance and tribulation, why do you force me to tell you the very thing which it would be most profitable for you not to hear? The very best thing is utterly beyond your reach: not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. However, the second best thing for you is: to die soon.

Aristotle, Eudemos

-Meghan