By Glen Bawan
This bed sheet was clean until the night she knocked on my door. It was a silent night, the streets were empty and all my neighbors were asleep. She said she wants to talk, so I let her in. She took a seat beside me on my dilapidated couch and crossed her legs as she lit her cigarette. Her stern eyes gazed upon me, and I already got what she wanted to say. The gaze was directed to my soul, and she already had a grip on it. It kept me still, kept me unable to move a single muscle.
She startled me; I trembled as she went closer to me. She put her half burned cigarette into the ashtray on my table, and then she stared at the torn wallpaper of my apartment for a minute.
“It’s been years since our relationship ended,” she said.
I replied nothing, but all our memories came back in my head like flash backs in movies. I saw in my head all the mess in my apartment went in order and all the broken things were fixed: my dilapidated couch, the torn wallpaper—everything. But not my broken self.
Yes, it has been years but it was still the same. I don’t love her anymore, but she still loves me. I know her that much that I know what she can do to herself for she tried it many times before. And now, I know that she will try it again. Her eyes said it.
She stood and walked slowly to my bed as she watched her steps to avoid stepping on the mess on the floor. On my bed she lay and stared at the ceiling covered with cobwebs. I followed her, sat beside her, and looked at her face.
“Our relationship ended,” she said, “but not my love for you.”
She stood up and grabbed an empty wine bottle on the floor, broke it, and picked a broken glass. And then she lay again on my bed, gave me a glimpse and stared again at the ceiling. She cut her left wrist and lay her arms on the bed.
“I will end my life,” she said, “but not my love for you.”
“Never-ending” © 2014 Glen Bawan
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