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Those Eyes There was a moment, the moment he realized just how deep the knife had sunk. In that moment, despite the pain, the emptiness, the sobbing heart, I looked into his eyes, and I loved him. His eyes showed me his soul, and it was a reflection of mine. His pain was as deep as mine, his heart cried out as mine did, and in that moment I knew we were bound together. The knife would have torn anyone else apart, and to anyone watching us that night it would seem as if it had, but his eyes told me more than his words, and so we could never truly separate. His eyes told me we were one. I had seen those eyes watch, laugh, crave, praise, question, comfort... and now cry. I loved every look. Every silent word his eyes whispered to me lifted my soul to the heavens and let it fly. My favorite look, the one that makes me laugh when I remember it, was the one of joyful surprise. I saw that look three times, and each time it made me happier than I had ever been before. There is something intoxicating about being able to inspire those looks; it appeals to my ego and my altruism at the same time. I have this power. I can get his eyes to jump for joy. I can turn his day from dull to exciting. The things I do make him happy. My presence excites him. The thought of me makes him quiver. I cause these emotions and I don’t know how, but I want to keep causing them for the rest of my life, because then two lives will be improved, two hearts will be happy for eternity. Somehow I have the power to change the world in a small way. How can I pass up that opportunity? When I think of the knife, I still hurt. The blade itself did no damage. The pain was caused by time. He took so long, let me fall so far, before slowly, quietly, sliding the cold steel into my heart. As the wound bled, I thought of "if"s. If he had told me sooner... If I had asked about the circumstances before hand... If I hadn’t fallen so quickly, so completely... I wanted to rewind time and see the different routes fate could have taken. The shock of finding this blade suddenly wedged between my ribs, sorrow dripping from the wound, made me beg for this chapter to be rewritten. Time passed, and I knew that the ink was dry, the pen had moved on to write the next scene. I considered my options. I could keep bleeding; I could watch my soul depart drop by drop. This was too dramatic. I couldn’t let one wound, inflicted without malice, destroy me. Or I could heal, grow, learn, and let the experience make me stronger. This was a better fit. I could see the logic in this plan. And so I healed, grew, learned, and now I am strong again. The knife did not destroy me. The only evidence of its invasion is the shadow of remembered agony that passes over my heart when I remember that night... that night, that knife, and those eyes. Content Copyright © 2002 L. Force unless otherwise noted. You hear that? It's mine. All mine! Steal it, and I'll come after you with a rusty spoon. Then I'll make you drink water from that rusty spoon and you'll gag because drinking water from a rusty spoon is disgusting and you'll get really upset because you should have known better than to steal my friggin material. So, um, don't steal. If you think I'm brilliant enough to quote, tell me and provide a link back here. Thanks muchly. Want another disclaimer? Click here. |