My right foot is itching. On the underside, in the middle of the arch. I try to stick my finger down the side, but my glove is too thick and the gap between sock and shoe too narrow. I rub my foot against the grass, hoping that the sole of my shoe will press against it and provide me with a measure of relief, but it does nothing. It has been itching for a while, but thus far I have been able to ignore it. Not anymore; it is now the only thing I can think about. My existence revolves around the alleviation of this affliction. Perhaps if I try distraction, convince myself that the itch is insignificant……so I think about her. Her slight build, her diaphanous skin, that delicate smell that lingers all around her. And still, this itch pierces through everything, makes me want to peel away every layer of skin until there is only sinew and bone. The flesh is weak and sickly; it succumbs so easily to infirmity, to misery.
I reach for a nearby twig and snap it with both hands. The sound is pleasing, it quells for a moment my growing distress. I am briefly struck by the absurdity of my situation; surely I can just untie my shoe and be released from this ordeal? But that would signal defeat, and defeat is for the weak. I am not weak.
So I slide the broken twig into my shoe, and after a few slight adjustments I can feel the roughness of the stick against my skin. I jiggle it back and forth, lost to the wave of deliverance that washes over me.
No longer fettered, I continue dragging the body toward the lagoon. I carefully slip it into the water, pausing only to watch a nimbus of dark hair snake toward the surface.
She is too fragile for this world, and there are those with impure, violent thoughts who would only seek to damage her. I have saved her from that fate, I have set her free.
I wait for the water to fill her lungs, wait to watch it claim her. Then, with the stars echoed in the lights of the houses on the shore, I turn and make my way back to the trees.

The more I stay in here
The more it’s not so clear
The more I stay in here
The more I disappear
As far as I have gone
I knew what side I’m on
But now I’m not so sure
The line begins to blur
As I lie here and stare
the fabric starts to tear
It’s far beyond repair
And I don’t really care
As far as I have gone
I knew what side I’m on
But now I’m not so sure
The line begins to blur


This in this morning’s paper.

Lyrics from The Line Begins to Blur – NIN

~ by tenmiles on November 17, 2005.

5 Responses to “113223060171916619”

  1. Leaving aside the events in Knysna.
    This is exquisite. It reminded me of the Nick Cave song for a minute.

  2. Truly, Oh My God – this story had a visceral impact on me. And THEN I read the news report. Amazing. Very nicely done, FM.

  3. That was disturbing.

    I like it.

  4. You’re creepy.

  5. I like you dark. It comes across initially as an innocent darkness. Highly appealing; excellent writing.

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