Letter to Olly

Olly...it took days before I realized that the rug was stained permanently, the blood seeped through, right through the fabric...the bleach left an eerie orange glow, hardened to the touch and I can still smell the iron if I press my nose to it. I would sit there, on my knees just staring at it, replaying the scene over and over in my head...retracing the horror on your face. You were so confused that night...or was it day? I can't remember those insipid details. I still have the cuts on my hands, I trace the outlines with my fingers, a smile cracks as the dawn does after a long night...Olly, it was night was it not, a long dark night...these walls...still screaming, resonating...caving in on me, and I let them, I let them crumble and fall, they are tired too Olly, as I am, as you are. I still recall your words, "I don't want to live by coping, I'm done with hoping. End." You always liked to borrow words, do you still Olly? Borrow what does not belong to you, owning it, transforming it...as blood dries and fades becoming part of this rug...this rug which you still bought from that corner shop. Who would have the time to listen to its story now if not you, Olly?
LetterstoOlly LetterstoOlly
31-35, F
Aug 22, 2014