The Beginning - a poem by Mr. Fluid

"The Wolf Man" image by Blain Hefner,
taken from https://dribbble.com/shots/676260-The-Wolf-Man

The Beginning

It was a warm crisp Sunday
There was blue in the sky where it had been gray
And green had returned to the grass
The park was quiet except he had been yelling over his cell
About matters that could only be business
Not love
Her eyes found his
And he quickly ended his argument with the digital device
To approach her

Holes, holes, holes in her memory
Holes, holes, holes in their time

They spent the next six months learning
Of each other’s cravings and dislikes
He loved the movies, she the theater
Somehow they met in between
Art has a way of reaching to the other side, she would say
He often gave in to smiling when he didn’t feel like doing so
Love was something they spoke of
But didn’t comprehend
She understood people, he politics

Holes, holes, holes in the wall
Holes, holes in her mind

They never spoke of her problem
In fact, it hadn’t been a problem in years
She sometimes forgot
Forgot who she was
Forgot where she was
How she got there
And forgot those around her
Temporary amnesia, the doctor had called it
Anyway, it hadn’t happened in years
And she’d rather not bring it up

Holes, holes, holes in his body
Holes, holes in her life

They got along quite well
And even liked to role play from time to time
He played Wolf Man
Complete with mask and sharp teeth
And her, the damsel in torn clothes
They spent weekends by the lake
And ravaged one another like teenagers
Sometimes he left to gather firewood
On the coldest of nights
So they could listen to the crackling
And bask by the warmth of orange flames

Holes, holes in her story
Holes, holes, holes in the night

She kept the .38 in a drawer by the bed
For occasions in which
He would leave
For any significant length of time
He had shown her how to use it
One afternoon
When they destroyed a dozen or so old Coke bottles
Out back
Where only tall brown skyscraper-like trees for miles
Were hurt by her bountiful misfires
Until eventually she closed in on her targets
Sending glass sprinkles into flight
Like newly born birds touching sky for the first time

Holes, holes, holes in his clothing
Holes, holes in his skin

He was never meant to be like those Coke bottles
Until it happened again and she lost herself
There were the walls inside the cabin
Unfamiliar to her
The fire she didn’t remember starting
The strange music she didn’t recognize
She was alone, or so it seemed
She walked outside for a moment
And nothing but trees looked back at her
And the lake
Beautiful but meaningless mirrored the blank sky
She searched the bedroom for clues
Found peculiar photographs and letters
Was it her handwriting?
Her name signed at the base of each of them?
Who were they?
Who was she?
Why was she dressed in rags
Like a beggar
When the cabin seemed so nice?
Simple but nice
The .38, she found in a drawer in the bedroom
With an oily towel and a box of bullets
The sight of it frightened her to her bones
But even more so did the steps from outside the cabin
The steps that found their way inside
And at the bedroom door
She loaded the revolver and waited behind the bed
As the intruder ate away at the distance between them
She fired three shots when the door flew open
At the masked man
As he lunged towards her

Holes, holes, holes in her intentions
Holes, holes, holes in her case

She called the police quickly
Told them her story
But when they arrived she was crying
Holding the dying Wolf Man close
And refusing to let him go
Blood traveled across the floor
From his heart, lungs, and head
The lawyer she hired only managed to keep her out of prison
But not out of confinement
Her room now was white
The walls
The tile
The cot
Their clothing was always white
And there was nothing colorful any longer

Holes, holes, holes in the meaning of...
Holes, holes, holes in her dreams

The pills she swallowed daily were white
The water and food she took alongside them were tasteless
She found herself not wanting
Just observing life at it existed around her
The white pills would always come from a single bottle
Which she observed atop the nurses counter
On one particularly sterile morning she lifted them
And ventured into her bathroom
Which she locked from the inside

Holes, holes, holes in her grace
Holes, holes in the will to...

She took them all with a rather large glass of tasteless water
And fell asleep
On the white tile which decorated the bathroom floor
Her last memories were of the park
And the colors that existed there
She hadn’t thought of it in months
The argument he cast aside to join her
And discover what might have been love
In each other’s eyes
Perhaps she would see him again
Across the way
They had only just begun

Written by Mr. Fluid, 2014