Eliza by Tenirsk

“Hello?”
“Eliza..”
“Manson, I-”
“My feelings have changed like the seasons. We met in Spring, but Spring faded to Summer, and soon, Autumn was upon us. We grew cold and in winter -there is no way to keep from freezing when you have no warmth of love. I can’t suffer in the depth of your lies. We have to move on, see a new Spring. You understand the changing of the seasons, my darling?”

In spring, we met, him and I. Quite easy to remember as he was covered in paint. Bright colors contrasting with the darkness of his hair. The subway was often covered with the art of the city, but I had yet to share a train with an artist. His features were smooth, entering harsh angles his eyes seemingly deep set, but perhaps it was the strength of his nose.

At the time, I had been sitting tritely in my seat, my eyes flicking to the doors that shut on a sturdy forearm. Pushing metal aside he seemed to tumble on coiling himself around a metallic pole. There were few on board, as it was late at night. I often road the trains, loving the jostle of the tracks, the grinding of steel and the flicker of lights. It made me forget, and the passage seemed to take me elsewhere, like a drug; I always felt like I was bound for another world.

I don’t remember what exactly I was thinking, but then he screamed, as he often did. Patrons on the train looked up myself included, as he lurched. The Insane youngster gripped the pole before him, bending at the waist as he put a heavy boot forward. The insane boy straightened and a crooked smile graced his features revealing a square jaw and a dimple delicately placed.

Green eyes flicked around the train, as he continued to grin, rather pleased with his male display. They met mine, and I couldn’t help but smile in turn. Before I knew it, he slipped into the seat next to me; names exchanged easily. Within an hour of riding the train he gripped my shoulders like an old friend as I squealed in delight at his antics. Any who entered the train would hear a gut wrenching yowl followed by a fit of giggles.

Days passed like this, and we grew closer. Everyday was like riding the same train, deep in the underground. Where no one cares to understand who the face they see belongs to.

I’ll never understand why he screamed so much. Sometimes he’d scream for no reason, and sometimes he’d scream his reason. Nosily breaking anything in his path. Anything glass in his view would soon find itself shattered on the floor. He would rampage and yowl. I never quite knew what to do at these times as his sturdy hands gripped my fragile possessions. I was never quite sure what I had done to anger him.

But, shortly there after his anger would dissipate and he’d come to me. Turning me from the corner into his arms as he viewed his destruction. He’d tuck me possessively into his embrace and I could feel him heave a contented sigh.

He’d tell me how beautiful destruction was. How glass doesn’t shine the same in light as it does broken on my floor. Sometimes I think he just liked destroying my things, as if to be in control of my life. Hell, sometimes I think he just liked breaking things. He often times told me I’d be more beautiful destroyed, that I needed to let go and scream.

One day he took me into a shop of china and handed me a two hundred dollar plate. He said he’d leave me if I didn’t crash it there on the floor. All because destruction was pretty, he said. That’s why he tagged, he confessed one night. No building should live without his mark. Sometimes I wondered about his sanity.

But, I broke the plate…

Other times, he was that of a gentle beast. He had long fingers that could evoke any emotion with just a brush against my flesh. But, he still screamed, sometimes for a no reason, and sometimes for a reason. He was so vocal. He always seemed to dominate, even in the tussle of sheets. Even then he was destructive. He’d scream his delight if I broke his skin with my nails, running them down his back jaggedly. Often times he gripped me a little too tight- often times he pushed a little too hard. But the passion was raw, and I knew he screamed for a reason, and that reason was me.

One day, I couldn’t take it anymore- his hoarse screams and I snapped. I shrieked and carried on, tearing at my braid as I cut it off. He had said he was leaving me, for no reason and he screamed for that reason. But, when I took the blade to my auburn tresses he faltered.

After that he treated me gentle. He said, he had destroyed me now, and that I was so beautiful.

Whenever he broke something, he’d gather it gently in his palm and kiss it, before placing the glass in the fish bowl. I never had to buy marbles, but I worried the Herman would cut his fins on the sharp edges. Mason, of course assured me that everyone is careful of the cut of beauty. I don’t think he understands that it’s a fish.

He never made sense. I had fixed my hair the next week, and he brought home a feather. He assured me that he would love me in the most gentle fashion. That he can’t touch beauty. And so he loved me with a feather. It was an experience I’ll never forget. Soft and pure, it left me tingling unsure if I was satisfied.

I remember giggling for the first time since we met, knowing he couldn’t resist the draw of flesh. But, in the morning he was gone, and left the feather by my pillow. I remember the fluffy texture against my finger tips and it still rests ever so gently on my night stand.

The covers were no longer warmed by his flesh. My apartment felt cold and quiet, and I began to get lonely. Mason said he was busy, exams in school, he’d call me ever now and again, but I found our distance growing.

I began ridding the subway again, taking the feather with me, watching it flutter when the trains passed. I met a man there, again. He was all business and soon he was warming my sheets. Months passed and I had occasional calls from Mason. He missed me, he loved me. Exams, he studied all the time, always working- always busy. He had entered an art institute.

I teased him, saying it was because he was insane, and I could hear him chuckle through the receiver as he said all artists were. I honestly thought it was just him. He liked to tell me stories of his tagging days, saying he wasn’t a criminal but an artist, graffiti clothed the buildings. I remember eating chocolate out of Martin’s hands suppressing my giggles as Mason drawled on.

But, even Martin left, and I don’t think Mason ever found out. Until now, my heart fluttered as a breeze rocked the feather over my hand. Clutching the phone I breathed in as he paused, his breathe hitched.

Did he know I had taken Martin to bed in his absence?

“Eliza, are you listening to me?”

I chocked on my words, covering the receiver from a sob. He knew… he was leaving me. I needed to scream.

Then I heard him chuckle, and my temper rose in my sadness.

“I guess I’m not much of an actor. I’ve taken on a theater class, thought I’d give it a try. But, who can be serious and dramatic when they are talking of a relationship in weather… I‘m better with a paint can and an open wall.”

Fucking artists.

I need to break something, and the feather is in my hand. But, it’s too delicate to break, to throw to the ground and shatter. Or does that make it strong? Mason and his destructive features. I think he tricked me into loving him. I just never knew it happened. I think he has most of the pieces that he scooped up after he said he broke me.

“Eliza? What do you think…”
“I think you should give it a try…what’s the worse that could happen?”
“I could fail.”
“Failing is beautiful.”
He chuckled and I smiled against the phone, “Failing is expensive. What has gotten into you?”

Broken pieces can’t hold anything, they can only be held.