Did he ever think of her? She supposed he did, even when he was with other women. Otherwise, what was the point of being the love of his life? “Maybe I didn’t need you before, but I do now,” she thought with that sick, abandoned feeling. A gunshot sounded outside somewhere. Why is it that the places we live in seem to constantly become more and more dangerous? Remember learning about depreciation in high school economics? Some things lose their value as they age: our neighborhoods, houses, cars, bodies, loves. She looked in the mirror at the one breast which seemed to hang lower than the other. She recalled with a twinge of shame the eye exam earlier that day, and how she had honest trouble reading the smallest letters. It was a harsh realization to reach before her twenty-fifth birthday. It couldn’t be the reason he had stopped calling, though. He always loved her body. And even though he preferred her without glasses, they couldn’t have mattered that much. She felt her heart pounding a little harder and faster than usual. He promised. What could have kept him again? Waiting was impossible. She had to know right then. So she dried her tears after every consecutive, unanswered phone call and waited until she received a reply. She left one thousand messages and wrote ten thousand letters. Later she discovered the house he once lived in to be deserted. After walking the one hundred miles to and from, her feet were bloodied and blistered. His pictures disappeared from her walls, his handwriting faded from the notes he used to write. She cried, “Please, please don’t tear your heart from me!” But despite her pleas, he left her forever; she could herself barely retain the memory of the love of her life, even when she was with other men.
Note:
This is really scary. Why? This is one of my first attempts at creative writing since probably the third grade. It’s obviously not very long; not long enough to be a short story. I’ve been reading this collection of short stories of black humor, some of which I haven’t found the humorous in at all. I also recently finished reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which I think had some influence on me, especially the extremely swift passage of time within a few sentences, creating what I feel is a sense of unreality. I can’t presume that my writing will ever be anywhere near as beautiful as any of Garcia Marquez’s, or as masterful as any Thomas Pynchon or Joseph Heller, I’m simply stating the gravity these two books hold for me right now. And since I don’t know how to properly write creatively (although I would say there probably is not one way or another), it would again be awesome to receive some pointers. The second quotation is part of a verse from “It’s A Crime I Never Told You About the Diamonds in Your Eyes” by The Black Heart Processional. I know it isn’t my normal type of blog, but I was unprepared again, and I try to write at least once a week. Thanks!