They say that nothing good happens after 2 a.m.
I was very accustomed to this late-night situation; but familiarity doesn’t always make for adaptation. My eyes still drooped, with the weight of my far too heavy police uniform.
I peeked into the site where it all went down, entering warily; and almost stopped in disbelief.
There’s a sinking feeling; a void in your stomach, that only gets deeper with the combined sirens of both ambulance and patrol car. It’s a feeling barely capable of being put into words; but as her pale, slender figure lay amidst it all, it was almost as if she couldn’t sink any further.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away; Amore stood in a dark and desolate alleyway. For a magical land so huge, Paris sure had nooks and corners so little that they hardly seemed part of a whole. She stood there, gazing at her only shortcoming; her only inadequacy. Love.
Her long, blonde hair hid within it whispers and stories that she yearned to share. She often sat, staring at her fingers, longing for the ones they would be intertwined with. Amore wanted her own tiny, epic love story; her own little grand romance.
Have you ever had an itch that just cannot be scratched? That constant pain; that perpetual frustration; was all that Amore felt.
So she scratched; she really did. Back and forth, up and down. She scratched where it hurt, and where it didn’t. When her fingernails weren’t enough, she moved to scissors; and knives; and razors. And right then, if you were to ask her where it was that the itching all began, she wouldn’t know where to point.
One starry night, an all too common slash on her back left her bewildered. Her itch seemed to disappear and if only for a moment, she felt normal; like she could be anyone, and she could feel anything. She stroked the swelling that her skin had shed to reveal; and in a flash, found herself clutching and tugging at the lump. Desperately, frantically.
And on that starry night, was born something more. Feathers adorned her scarred back, wings with a span wider than an eagle’s.
A kaleidoscope of colours swirled around on a palette. Dividing and uniting; colours rearranging themselves, in a most beautiful manner, as she morphed into something nothing short of a masterpiece. Her white wings were glorious.
And on that starry night, was born something more.
Not out of love, like most births, but irrevocably for love.
Amore clutches her folded forearms at the coffee-shop around the corner, almost reminding herself that this itch was her reality.
But for all her pain, it all makes sense to her; she sees her calling.
She knows that her knives and arrows and scratches can now be everyone else’s rescue.
She realizes that despite her own itch that can never quite be scratched, she can now help others with theirs’.
She understands, all too well, that irrespective of her own hurt and pain, she must now inflict some.
She works tirelessly on her arrowheads; and her aim. She stabs; and pierces; and impales the ones she crosses. But through it all, she watches the lives she touches light up.
She watches as casual walkways turn into romantic bridges; coffee into wine; caterpillars into butterflies; and despair into love.
But night, always into night. Her only forevermore.
She builds the world anew for us. She sits atop the tallest skyscraper; finally knowing what it is to look at happiness itself. Amore’s creation is beneath her dangling legs, but her hands clench the granite beneath them, because even though she knows and realizes and understands a lot of things, she believes that love can never be one of them.
Love me, she seems to repeat, over and over and over. Half chant, half desperation. Visuals of love float in front of her dazed eyes as she herself floats, arms out, feeling the wind in her wings.
She wonders if lips really did taste like strawberries. She imagines; what it is to be struck by her own arrows, and to have someone; to be totally vulnerable; and truly happy. To be someone’s angel, not everyone’s.
She floats; and floats.
The arrowhead inches alarmingly close to her slender neck. Finding love; those smiles and caresses and lips; it’s all a dream her loneliness desires so desperately.
She knows the outcome of most stories; of most victims of her unapologetic aim; but this one time, she is unsure.
Stab. Pierce. Impale.
Sheeran really is a Ginger Jesus. I can’t even tell you how many times he’s changed my life: from the time he blessed my ears live in concert to realizing this incredible music-video.
This post is already way past its set word limit, and I’m already way past my asshole quota with that ending; so, suffice it to say, Redhead Lives Matter.
Happy Valentine’s Week 🙂