she called it friendship, he called it torture, & I called it love. (Fiction one-shot) Options

[agirlnamed_aly]

Warning: Incoherency and run-on sentences ahead.


It's only when he shoots her with gun metal grey eyes that her heart falls out of her mouth like the food she throws up every night. He plays with her hair like chinese silk, weaving in and out of fingertips too rough and too calloused to be considered skin.

Her throat burns with an itchy feeling that reminds her of the wool sweaters her father used to wear in December, and she vaguely recalls falling asleep on someone's shoulder in the bus - but faces become blurry like water color; after all she's become just another painting.

He's made out of acryllic paint and beach sand, when summer was over and the smell of cinnamon filtered in and out of his room because his older sister had this thing for hot cider. Caffeine never ran too well within his veins, and the word "decaf" spilled from his lips like the impulse he gets when he bites them.

And he took pictures of her during winter next to barren leafless trees because no one felt like walking around in the park when it was below 30 degrees, and all he had to warm himself up with was a pair of fingerless gloves and what could be called a thick jacket he had picked up at the surplus store last week.

Her lips are frigid and red because she doesn't have chapstick to stop the cold wind from making them burn - but he tells her it's okay because it gives the appearance that she's wearing make-up on them: Fire Engine Red #7 like the color his mom used to wear before she took up that job at the Wal-mart down the street.

Hair as black as ebony, skin as white as snow - she was the prettiest girl he ever did know.

He made her into a fairytale with photos next to graffiti covered buildings and brief shots of her smile when they sat in the empty cafes on the south side of town. She made him into an artist because he was the type that never knew what he wanted.

He could never be a writer because what was the point of expressing your emotions when it was restricted by run-on sentences and periods and commas and proper grammar that always limited what you really meant because you had to make everything coherent and understandable, but that's not what he was because he was made out of grime and glitter on the floor of the clubs his sister sneaks out to at night and the cement sidewalk he walked on when he went to school.

He wasn't a painter because he never got the brush to brush on just right, got the colors mixed up, and didn't understand the difference between abstract impressionism and pointillism, and what was the point in remembering definitions, when he couldn't define why he was doing it anyway.

So he picked up a disposable camera one day and a year later eventually saved up enough money to buy a real one (with employee discount from his mother) and discovered being an artist doesn't mean complex meanings or deep, profound ideas since he was simple and found fulfillment in the way she always gave him the right angles, right lighting, right look when she modeled for him everytime he got tired of taking shots of the city.

And she was like a doll that could crack if you threw her back into her cupboard too hard, it was like she had some huge stamp on the back of her neck that read "HANDLE WITH CARE" though no one saw it unless they came close enough to see. She was already somewhat worn since she never put her hair up in a pony tail for anyone to read the label, but he noticed it one day when he was moving her hair around trying to get a good profile of her face.

So he makes her into a fallen prom queen with some shots, or a goddess on her throne the next - and she'll let him make her into whatever he wants her to be, since she was made for him like the baby quilt his mother sewed for him before he was born.

But in the end, she called it friendship and he called it torture - because trust never came easy with either of them and the idea of empty homes and tired smiles seemed so much more familiar than love.

***

I'd love feedback. I haven't been on createblog in a while, so yeah, decided to come back for a teensy bit.

[KissMe2408]

Nice job!
I like the concept alot, a lot, a lot.
Try taking out the word "because". I think it'll help you a lot. You tend to explain a lot of things in your short story.

And he took pictures of her during winter next to barren leafless trees because no one felt like walking around in the park when it was below 30 degrees, and all he had to warm himself up with was a pair of fingerless gloves and what could be called a thick jacket he had picked up at the surplus store last week.

Her lips are frigid and red because she doesn't have chapstick to stop the cold wind from making them burn - but he tells her it's okay because it gives the appearance that she's wearing make-up on them: Fire Engine Red #7 like the color his mom used to wear before she took up that job at the Wal-mart down the street.

I understand what you're doing, but you can tone it down a bit :)
But i think your work is beautiful.