It is the curse of crimson that compelled me to visit the past again. To reopen wounds that haven't been healed. For this curse heightens my desires and my emotions, tormenting me in every colour my mood chooses to take shape in.
For a week, every single day, I pleased myself with carnal thoughts of another, allowed myself to be devoured by his deep and velvety voice, which so effectively fueled the filthy fantasies my mind so wickedly conjured.
Oh, how he satisfies me.
How my body aches for him.
But this monthly curse does not pass just by feeding on this infernal lust alone. No. It thrives in emotional decay. In internal agitation.
So, like a heavy mass of grey clouds darkening the sky, I did what felt instinctive. I played a song. Sorrowful. Plaintive. Instantly, the mournful cadence of the piano transports me to an empty hall. Cold. Quiet. Painfully nostalgic. A deafening silence hangs about the air, heavy with loss, loud with murmured wails. Yet, if I listen long enough, I can hear the muffled echoes of the joyous laughter that used to bounce around the corridors—our laughter. I almost waited for him to come around and say my name, or the pet name we called each other, like he always did back then..
"Remember all the things we wanted
Now all our memories, they're haunted.."
The first line stirs something alive beneath my blood. As if a ball of pain coated in calloused skin, it throbs. A dulled, malicious lump. Gnawing. Pulsing.
It's disorienting, becoming a stranger in the place that once felt like home. Tiptoeing across floors we carelessly danced on, lest I disturb him with my presence... Walking on eggshells in a place that once worshipped my every step. Keeping my mouth shut that used to declare how much I adored him at every cute aggression's attack.
So I say nothing. My affection I whisper to the ghost that lingers, for my "I love you’s" and "I miss you’s" belong to the dead.
The fireplace that once breathed life into the house has long been extinguished, making everything cold, grey, and frozen. Still, I went to the room we used to sleep in. Where we watched series, shared music... to find any vestige of warmth that used to shroud me and made me feel the safest. In the ache of familiarity, I cling to the shadow of our memories. Perhaps if I just stay long enough, he would come again.. Because a month ago, when I entered through the back door, he did. Briefly. A mere second of his presence, perceived by my ears before my eyes could see.
He knows I still linger. The floorboards creak beneath my feet; he hears it. But he doesn't seem to care. But if he doesn't care, then why is he still here? Why does this place still stand? Why hasn't he left? The love notes we used to write each other on the walls remain untouched. The picture of us, silly and ignorant, is still nailed on the door—unmoved, unchanged.
And so, I'm still here. Let me be here.
While my feelings are still alive, tethering me to this place.
The blankets that once wrapped me in comfort and security no longer give me warmth. But let me lie on the bed and borrow a sensation I used to feel... a beautiful sensation that used to swell my heart with passion and content happiness. Let me feel it again, even if in the borrowed warmth, my chest tightens. Even if in the content smile, is a face wet with tears. Let me drown. Let me feel him again. On the same mattress. Even if it's now his grave.
Does he hear the music?
"Remember all the things we wanted
Now all our memories, they're haunted..."
I promise... When the light finally burns out, I will erase every trace of myself from this place. Leave him no concrete memories of my love or myself. And when this hollow shell is emptied of my presence, I shall depart. Or I shall burn this whole place to the ground.