Love Loved Loves

Love, Loved, Loves

You remember the soft touch of her hand. You reach for it. There is nothing, no warmth, just a haunting cold, which curls its dead fingers around your heart.

You sigh; the pain loosens but only slightly. The bed which once held you both like a podium now only holds you. You can’t win a competition if you’re the only one playing.

The ceiling fan ticks round and round. You count the spins, yet they are just a blur in front of you. You hear her voice from the fan asking you if she was a worm would you still love her. Always. You hear her giggle as an echo in the room a ghost, of the purest form. The least dangerous, but the most painful.

You sigh again, rolling onto your side, hand placed flat down on the soft linen underneath you.

The mattress hardens and soft linen becomes rough wool. Coarse and unforgiving. You wake up with her again. Not naturally. A loud bang at the planked wooden door. You drag yourself out of bed, marching to the door. It’s your call. You won’t wake up with her again.

Within a month you are sat by an arrow slit in god knows what part of England. A longbow leans against the wall as well as a quiver of arrows. Dawn presses a dim light through the narrow slit in the wall. She will be waking up now. A leather brace is on your hand, strapped to you, tight enough that you feel her hand wrapped around your arm, one more time.

There are rules here though. You have followed them since birth. And follow them to death. Each breath is another step further away from her.

Scared men, taken from their families to fight for a noble who only ever took their money and food. The bell rings. A faint noise in the back of your rampaging mind, full to the brim of an ocean of memory.

You look out to see the army, charging up the hill. More scared men disguised by rusted iron armour, swords and spears. You think back to her. She would be waking up now.

You blink.

The bell becomes a phone alarm. Obnoxious and loud. You roll over. Snooze for the third time.

You briefly read the notifications on your phone. Not her. You find silence is easier. Easier when it’s just you.

You finally rise hours later in the early hours of the afternoon. You stand in the kitchen, next to the counter making your coffee. You remember standing here behind her, your hands around her waist while she made her coffee.

You see the mug she left behind. The mug you bought her. The mug with the handle chipped off. A symbol of your chipped relationship, falling apart. Fragile. Brittle. You sip the coffee, it’s sour.

The kitchen dissolves.

Sour. The air is sour. The room is white and seamless. Sterile. You see her in the glass cylinder. Perfect. So perfect.

The difference feels like cruelty, yet so does the similarity. Her face contains the face you remember best. A smile. Not excessive, but a smile. That had cost extra.

“Session time remaining: eight minutes,” the system says. It uses her voice; you told it too.

You reach towards the glass. An image of alarms, consequences, yourself being restrained. A world of policy and liability.

“You signed,” she says. “You know the terms.” Her voice endearing, if it wasn’t for the robotic threat. Policy.

You remember scribbling on the dotted line. Signing for closure or so you hoped.

Your hand drops to by your side. You whisper to her about what she missed. She chose to miss it. “Do you remember?” you ask.

“Of course.”

She has no idea. No memory at all.

You close your eyes.

When you open them, you are back on the battlefield.

The soft hum of electricity from the room becomes shouts. Screams. The dead litter the floor. Torn families. You breathe heavily. Exhausted. Scared. You think of her. Back when nothing was important but your love.

You see a man in front of you in different colours. He swings a sword towards you. You block it with your red shield. Briefly your eyes meet. You see a reflection of yourself. Not just in the eyes of the man but in his thoughts as well. You’d kill for her.

You stab back with a spear from behind your crimson shield. You feel slight resistance as it plunged through his abdomen. He stops swinging. Stops moving. You never forget your first.

You let go of the spear. The man falls back, impaled. You are left with nothing left but a shield. You stumble back. Fear mistaken for defencelessness. Your family is torn apart, and so now is his. The man who looked like you.

The dead are littered around you. Friends. Foes. Arrows, swords, spears, shields, helmets. Another volley comes through the air. One arrow finds you. Plunges through you. Everything turns to slow motion. You fall to your knees.

You’d die for her.

As your eyes close you think of her. One last time.

They open again.

You jump again. The coffee is sour. The floor in the kitchen creaks. The chipped mug gives off steam into the air, diffusing like your perfume once did. It’s all you can smell. Not just the perfume, but it mixed with your natural scent. You hurt.

She left you. Left you like this. Every time you message she ignored you. Last night you dreamt of a ceremony. Where you sit in the back row instead of standing under the flowery arch. She doesn’t look at you, but you know she knows you’re there. Looking would undo too much of what is done. A stranger to you stands where you should be.

The droning of the wedding official hurts. Cold fingers grasped around your heart. It aches. You wish you could say congratulations, but you would see this relationship crumble and burn before the words could even come out of your mouth.

It’s not just her that ignores you, but her family, her friends. At the reception you sit at a table of twelve. Twelve people you do not know. The conversation is small and private between pairs.

You sit drinking quietly. You go until you fall asleep.

As your eyes close you drift into the sterile room.

The air is still sour. Clean. But clean in a way that it feels lonely. The white walls curve without corners. There are no shadows, deep enough to hide in.

She is there this time. Not standing this time but sitting on the other side of the glass. The pose is familiar. She sits sideways on her knees like she used to on the sofa as she snuggled herself into the crevasse between your arm and torso. The room was silent, yet you still hear when she used to breathe in your ear.

“Session time remaining: five minutes,” she gently whispers, the voice of the system echoing in the empty room. You stare at her, smiling but in pain. She smiles back, but you know she feels nothing.

She listens to your stories. Her head tilted with fascination, yet you know there is nothing going on behind the eyes.

“Wow. That sounds fun,” she says robotically. Your smile fades.

“Yeah,” you reply bluntly.

It notices. “Is there a better response?” the system asks you.

“No,” you reply, “That is all for today I think. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” she replies.

“I love you,” you whisper as you leave the room, not forcing a machine to say it back. As you swing the door open and walk through. The room behind you dissolves and you are back in the kitchen.

The sour taste of coffee now lingers in your mouth.

You stand alone in your kitchen. The coffee is cold. The mug is still chipped, and you are still alone.

You breathe in through your nose heavily, searching for her scent which is no longer there.

You listen, searching for a laugh which is no longer there.

You loved her.

You love her.

Love is not living.

You set the mug down on the kitchen counter, and you let go.