Thread: ugh

RE Lights in the North Nova's drabble Who would ever want to get close to another person if they knew how hard the letting-go part was? In your heart they only die a little at a time, dont they? Like a plant when you go away on a trip and forget to ask a neighbor to poke in once in awhile with the old watering-can and its so SAD. Stephen King Liseys Story Her husband had died two years ago. It hadn't been anyone's fault the doctors had told her it was a heart attack. Some genetic thing. A freak occurrence. That only made it harder, honestly. There wasn't anyone to blame, there was nowhere to direct any of her pain. But she had got through it, in the end. She had gotten through the funeral, the meetings with the lawyers. The family gatherings where everyone treated her like glass. She had survived friends slowly flaking away, the ones that she'd never had anything in common with in the first place. Her husband's friends, the married couples that they did things like cooking classes with. The first few months had been the hardest and she didn't really remember them much. After the funeral things had blurred together and what disturbed her was not that she lost time, but that she didn't care that the time was lost. Eventually, she became aware of the fact that if she did not return to work she would be evicted from the apartment. This was something she struggled with for a while, she didn't really care but his things were here. This had been their home and it would be wrong to leave it. So she went back. Her performance suffered, but she guessed she was lucky because she didn't lose it in spite of that. After the first year it seemed that she was functioning again, she was able to do every day things like buy groceries without breaking down or feeling lost. Eventually, she stopped thinking of him every waking moment. She stopped crying for him, and for her own loss. Slowly, she lost the urge to call him on a bad day. Or after a good one. At some point she was able to change their home phone's answering message, and to erase his number from her cell. She packed up a few of his things, and though she kept the boxes in the spare room it looked less like him in their home, and more like her. The only thing she couldn't do was cum. She hated that she cared, it felt so selfish and stupid and petty, but she did. It mattered. Every time she tried to do it herself all she could think of was him, and then she couldn't. Her hands became his hands, moving on her like he used to. And even though he was better with her body than she had ever been, the memories of him only made her feel so impossibly alone. One year and six months after her husband's death she did something she had never told anyone about. Unable to stand it anymore, she had gone to a bar. She hadn't ever had a one night stand before, but why not? Other people did it. So could she. The guy was good looking, she guessed. Not as good as her husband had been, but good enough. He didn't really matter anyway, he was just a means to an end. It wasn't until they got to his house that she realized that she wasn't going to be able to use him like she wanted to. It felt like cheating, and no matter how many times she told herself that the slimy feeling didn't go away. So she told him she was going to the bathroom, and instead walked out the door and went home. Another six months passed until she had the urge to try again. It was a few days after the anniversary of his death, and she was doing the dishes. There wasn't one thing that made her want to, just a sudden feeling that she had to. It was time. She dried off her hands and slipped one under the waistband of her pants, clutching the edge of the sink with the other. As her fingers traced her folds the feeling of him began to wash over her again. His hand exploring her, the familiar soft stroking movements... When she felt tears on her face she tore herself away from those thoughts. He was dead. This wasn't his hand, it was hers. To prove it she moved faster than he ever did, allowing her nails to rake over the sensitive flesh, the pain keeping her in the present. Soon her hips were rocking like they did with him, so she stopped that too. Made herself hold still. He was gone and this was her. Her hands on her body. Her voice in her head. The sound of her breathing. She was alone. She was killing her last memories of him. It felt like years, but she finally was able to push herself over the edge. Her knees buckled because it was good but goddamn did it ever hurt , and on the way to the ground her chin hit the edge of the sink. She tasted blood in her mouth, and at first she was afraid to pull her hand away from her body. She was sure that she would find the rush of fluid had been blood, and when she looked at her fingers they would be bright red. After a few moments, the pleasurepain stopped and she summoned the courage to look. Sucking on her tongue to swallow the blood from where she had bit it, she would slowly pull her hand out of her pants and then examine it critically. There wasn't any blood. She was so relieved that she cried, and after that she was able to let go of that part of him too.