After-mission ritual.
We can't watch each other as we have sex, because then we'd be assaulted with the reality of our blood-stained bodies. He can see the smears of red running across my chest in wild streaks that had soaked through my shirt no more than I can see the dried up blood underneath every one of his uneven fingernails.
The blood is sickening only when we acknowledge it in our minds because when we are together for these brief moments of escape, nothing can break through these strong feelings of sadness and hurt; pain and desire; release and freedom. Every now and then, we can allow ourselves an emotion we aren't supposed to have behind the closed doors of our secret longing for acceptance in a world that has experienced none.
Words never break through the silence during our lapse into temporary sanity. If outside interruption occurs when we start feeling lost, the moment has passed and he leaves our shared rom to give us both some privacy. There's no need to feel bliss when we aren't together, and nether of us do. It's never the same anyway, because the emptiness returns almost instantaneously to pull me back into the world I don't want to live in.
The rush is always in both worlds, but he's the only rush I don't feel guilty about. His laughter and jokes vanish when our door closes softly behind him, the lock falling into place like usual. Our ritual's simple but so perfect it forces breath out of my lungs; the life from my system.
The cool heat surrounds us completely from all directions as we burn into each other's skin, our eyes tightly closed and both of us moving by memory alone. When I reach my hand up and trace a finger lightly down his cheek, I don't feel the flakes of blood flick off to land on my hand, just like he doesn't notice the still-wet chunk of my bangs that he tries to weave his fingers through.
The only true sounds made are of our jerky movements against each other and the occasional ghost of a sigh. We picture each other in our heads, painting innocent images of clean skin and smiling eyes. If our vision wasn't blocked off, I would witness him like he actually is like he would witness me. The bruise on his face stretches across his cheek to curve under his right eye, the marking of a now-deceased soldier who was with nothing but an unloaded gun. It was a last resort reaction on the nameless soldier's part, but the bruising proved to be his downfall.
If he opened his own eyes, however, he would see my busted lip and the finger-shaped smears of red across my face, the very top of the mess going across my forehead. We refuse to acknowledge the taste as we slam our lips together in a mock imitation of a kiss.
For just a little while, nothing in the world will matter but the subsiding feelings of passion and love for a friend, then the mistake will be made like always and we will see each other as we really are.
Recognition will make a quick appearance in our eyes as we lay in each other's arms and discover the evidence of our sins that we made before we got together in our little world. He will see my bloody lip and be perfectly calm until his eyes flick down to my bare chest. His hands will find out that underneath the streaks is smooth skin.
We let each other go, him clambering off the bed with no need to hide his body from me, and I will be drawn back to his fingernails where the blood is trying to hide.
His eyes cloud as he forces his gaze to the hand-smeared blood across my face.
The familiar scent of our release is now overwhelmed and pushed away by the thick smell of blood, his body beginning to sway slightly as dizziness slams into him. I absently reach down and feel his essence on my stomach, my eyes following the movement and seeing the sticky white substance mixing with swirls of red.
My heart stops as he turns and races to the bathroom, lifting one hand up to his swollen lips. My stomach clenches as I hear his vomiting through the cracked doorway. He hasn't eaten anything, and I know this. He's dry-heaved before afterwards, so I'm not too worried.
The blood and semen is decently mixed now, a thick red strand staying connected between my thumb and index finger, finally dripping apart as I pull my fingers further away from each other.
I throw myself off the sweaty covers as my gagging reflexes kick in, falling to my knees on the carpet and closing my eyes to block off the sight of the sticky red release on my hand. His heat is still on my stomach, though, so I imagine the blood there, as well.
Neither of us would be affected if the blood rushed from tears in our skin. If it was our individual pain, we would never have to experience this ache of horror after we spend time together.
If it was our blood, it would still be a part of us and it would join our ritual easily. If it was our blood, we both wouldn't have to experience this painful sickness.
If it was our blood, we wouldn't feel guilt.
The guilt never goes away...
... and yet, we continue torturing ourselves.
We can't watch each other as we have sex, because then we'd be assaulted with the reality of our blood-stained bodies. He can see the smears of red running across my chest in wild streaks that had soaked through my shirt no more than I can see the dried up blood underneath every one of his uneven fingernails.
The blood is sickening only when we acknowledge it in our minds because when we are together for these brief moments of escape, nothing can break through these strong feelings of sadness and hurt; pain and desire; release and freedom. Every now and then, we can allow ourselves an emotion we aren't supposed to have behind the closed doors of our secret longing for acceptance in a world that has experienced none.
Words never break through the silence during our lapse into temporary sanity. If outside interruption occurs when we start feeling lost, the moment has passed and he leaves our shared rom to give us both some privacy. There's no need to feel bliss when we aren't together, and nether of us do. It's never the same anyway, because the emptiness returns almost instantaneously to pull me back into the world I don't want to live in.
The rush is always in both worlds, but he's the only rush I don't feel guilty about. His laughter and jokes vanish when our door closes softly behind him, the lock falling into place like usual. Our ritual's simple but so perfect it forces breath out of my lungs; the life from my system.
The cool heat surrounds us completely from all directions as we burn into each other's skin, our eyes tightly closed and both of us moving by memory alone. When I reach my hand up and trace a finger lightly down his cheek, I don't feel the flakes of blood flick off to land on my hand, just like he doesn't notice the still-wet chunk of my bangs that he tries to weave his fingers through.
The only true sounds made are of our jerky movements against each other and the occasional ghost of a sigh. We picture each other in our heads, painting innocent images of clean skin and smiling eyes. If our vision wasn't blocked off, I would witness him like he actually is like he would witness me. The bruise on his face stretches across his cheek to curve under his right eye, the marking of a now-deceased soldier who was with nothing but an unloaded gun. It was a last resort reaction on the nameless soldier's part, but the bruising proved to be his downfall.
If he opened his own eyes, however, he would see my busted lip and the finger-shaped smears of red across my face, the very top of the mess going across my forehead. We refuse to acknowledge the taste as we slam our lips together in a mock imitation of a kiss.
For just a little while, nothing in the world will matter but the subsiding feelings of passion and love for a friend, then the mistake will be made like always and we will see each other as we really are.
Recognition will make a quick appearance in our eyes as we lay in each other's arms and discover the evidence of our sins that we made before we got together in our little world. He will see my bloody lip and be perfectly calm until his eyes flick down to my bare chest. His hands will find out that underneath the streaks is smooth skin.
We let each other go, him clambering off the bed with no need to hide his body from me, and I will be drawn back to his fingernails where the blood is trying to hide.
His eyes cloud as he forces his gaze to the hand-smeared blood across my face.
The familiar scent of our release is now overwhelmed and pushed away by the thick smell of blood, his body beginning to sway slightly as dizziness slams into him. I absently reach down and feel his essence on my stomach, my eyes following the movement and seeing the sticky white substance mixing with swirls of red.
My heart stops as he turns and races to the bathroom, lifting one hand up to his swollen lips. My stomach clenches as I hear his vomiting through the cracked doorway. He hasn't eaten anything, and I know this. He's dry-heaved before afterwards, so I'm not too worried.
The blood and semen is decently mixed now, a thick red strand staying connected between my thumb and index finger, finally dripping apart as I pull my fingers further away from each other.
I throw myself off the sweaty covers as my gagging reflexes kick in, falling to my knees on the carpet and closing my eyes to block off the sight of the sticky red release on my hand. His heat is still on my stomach, though, so I imagine the blood there, as well.
Neither of us would be affected if the blood rushed from tears in our skin. If it was our individual pain, we would never have to experience this ache of horror after we spend time together.
If it was our blood, it would still be a part of us and it would join our ritual easily. If it was our blood, we both wouldn't have to experience this painful sickness.
If it was our blood, we wouldn't feel guilt.
The guilt never goes away...
... and yet, we continue torturing ourselves.