As I walked way from that door, the tiny blob of matter in my chest died. It had been trying to pump blood to my veins, but all that circulated was him. Up and down, left and right. And everywhere. It was due to lack of blood, I’d say. And with surprising similarity, both of them changed colors. From a fiery red to a dreary black. Gangrene, perhaps?

“Oh, it’s you.”
That moment onwards, it didn’t take him much. Only a few touches here and there, some soft words and a white powder. Softer than I’d like, if you ask me. But strangely enough, it didn’t seem as if I had a choice. From a woman to a soft breed of sheep, it only took me a quarter of an hour.

Do not misunderstand me, Dear reader. Magnificent, he was. But ah, the seemingly shapeless mass resting in my bony skull begs to differ. It tells me – the shapeless mass, that is – that the sparks beneath my hair shouldn’t be confused with the rest of their kind. As much as I might listen to it, now, I know I had hushed it away a few hours ago. I had been touched, I told it. In more places than one.
(Oh, and unlike me, it knows that he’d probably be escorting another woman at the said time.)

With him still circulating in my veins (and blocking my lungs, much to my displeasure), I struggled to walk back home. Nauseous flashes blocked my view (oh, no, not those, dear) as I moved those two legs I had been given. One step. Two steps. Three.

I entered my house and heard,
“You are a characterless woman.”
As my gangrene-affected heart sank, I figured it wasn’t my mother, but the good ol’ television.
Nevertheless, I walked on, and heard my mother say, this time :
“Do you have any idea what you have been doing?”

Yes, mother, I do have an idea. But it wasn’t me.
I forgave her.
Afterall, we’re all but women.

____________

It’s not connected to me. So, don’t get any ideas or something.