Thursday, June 21, 2007

The Fushimi Prince

Created from a prompt for a writing exercise.

I’ve let go of the consequences. Nothing beyond this moment matters. Nothing. The future was what held me back—that egg of golden opportunities I nurtured with the hopes it would hatch into the perfect life. I believed the lie. Went to sleep and willing lost myself in my own illusions.

We’re told the truth pierces through—hits like a right hook and drowns us in waves of clarity. It doesn’t. It’s more like having your collage of the world attacked by scissors. There’s the initial pierce, then a lot more pain follows as the membrane of your bubble is hacked through.

I thought I could mend it faster than anyone could cut. But it’s not an erased sketch that can be penciled back in. No, the truth spills ink over the image, and all the pretty imaginings vanish in a wave of black.

All of them before, every one of the things I hunted, they were practice for you. You, the smug moth who thinks he’s a butterfly. Who doesn’t see the glass that separates what you are and what I was born to be. You think they’ve opened the window and let you inside. You’ve got no idea what inside is like. This is my house, and pests like you aren’t welcome.

You lunge. I spin, my heel connecting with your shoulder. There’s no more need for words. For ranks. For favor. I know my job—my place. Very soon you’ll know yours.

1 comment:

Rachel said...

Oooh! Wow.