The Sundress Fire

Disclaimer:  As always, the stories on this page are fiction, unless they are written in my rambling journal style.  If there is a fiction tag on the post, do not think it is about reality.  Sometimes there are elements of reality either past or present, but one should not treat these stories as current fact.  Thank you.  

Things were going fine.  I went out a lot, I met someone great, and I could actually go a couple of days without thinking about your dark hair brushing against my chest, your porcelain skin against mine, and the heat from your breath on my neck.

It didn’t bother me being friends with you on social media.  I knew you were seeing someone, and that was okay.  I had written you off.  I knew you only ever came to me as a back-up, and I knew you never felt for me the way I wanted you to.  And after years of thinking that one day, I will be your first choice, and one day, I will be worth overcoming any obstacle for us to be together; I finally accepted reality.  You used me, and I let it happen.  It was a hard thing to accept, but I managed.  I didn’t mind being your friend anymore, but I could no longer be able to emotionally invest in someone who was not invested in me.

You were no longer the person I turned to for everything.  I didn’t even tell you about the accident, and the months of rehabilitation I had to undergo.  I didn’t tell you when my daughter was bullied at school.  I didn’t let you know that she overcame it and graduated a couple of days ago.  You were the first person I thought to tell those things to for years.  Then you were just a passing memory, of the most intense connection I have ever felt in such a short time.

I could even pass by a woman in a sundress without craning my neck to see if it was you.  I remember your sundresses.  They are practically all you wore.  The way you presented yourself, the bubbly, innocent, classic beauty.  The way you so expertly hid the fire  behind that facade of innocence.

And that fire.  That fire you let out once you knew you could.  The fire within you that I became addicted to.  The fire I still have vivid dreams of.  The fire that leaves me with scars on my back and is permanently burned into my very soul.  The fire I would gladly allow to completely consume me once more.  The fire that is so very rare to find in someone.

But here I was, living without it.  Living without you.  And I was happy.

So why did you do it?

When the doorbell rang yesterday, I thought it was a solicitor.  Looking through the peephole, seeing you standing there in your sundress, I was tempted to pretend I wasn’t home.  Then I saw the tear streaming down your face.  What can I say?  I guess I’m a sucker.

I didn’t notice that you had the black bag with you.  I remember what you kept there, and I would have never allowed you in had I seen it.  When you asked if you could come in and sit down, I shouldn’t have said that you could.  I should have known.

As usual, I listened to you talk about how you were mistreated.  I listened to you talk about how you feel you are not good enough and can never be happy.  I did a good job of maintaining a sense of detachment this time.  I was much more clinical, and did my very best to not allow you to manipulate me again.

At first.

When you asked for the hug, I should’ve known.  When I could smell you.  Lilac.  You did that for a reason.  When your hands began moving on my back.  When your breath first, then your lips met my neck.  When you whispered that you thought I was amazing in my ear.  When your hands moved under my shirt, and you changed the pressure of your nails from light tracing to digging in.  When you pulled my head back and forcefully kissed me.  When you showed me the fire, and made me beg to be consumed by it.

And then, after you took me, in every way your devious mind could imagine; you finally told me that you love me.

And when you left and told me you wanted to be with me, you made me believe it.

Now here I am, on Facebook.  Imagining the same dream I used to, together in a field, you in a lovely white dress, our hands being fasted, friends and family gathered around.  Imagining it through my tears as I see your latest profile picture of you in his arms, in a very similar white dress.

I fucking hate you for making me love you.

 

Thanks to Lotus Carroll for allowing CC use of the featured image from her flickr.  It can be found here:  https://www.flickr.com/photos/thelotuscarroll/16184216653/in/photolist-qE9kLa-67c9Gr-ph2kpM-e8edFH-jurxWj-dLiFmu-pj5FYM-f34Qt7-nDDfke-gdLxQt-eg3adC-hnxFB3-jg1ZS5-kdz72U-dCyjha-dVgpmb-fr7Z6m-fJscQh-21GBAx-edjjqX-nTNggq-fKt5SJ-e83Bad-ece5Rs-oX4wmC-fZrs3y-ryhpw4-f8vhWd-iR42jc-etzh9V-hMFcng-j1HTXM-im7r71-q4JNZA-bEscyJ-nPp9dA-eco3Vu-oiZwnW-ppqvLk-hZJPDP-X9uRJ-isqhwb-j7RfXF-6s2v7F-j4zGBg-oVEsWR-jGp6Fo-i8HKDD-psptNf-oy5SAt

 

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Author: Josh Wrenn

Cancer survivor, wanna-be artist, musician, author, and all around good guy.

4 thoughts on “The Sundress Fire”

  1. Lovely. The familiar in an unfamiliar way can provoke such pain and ache.

    Also, in a less serious vein, NUH UH! I know that’s your sundress you’re writing about and that picture must be your daughter! 😛

    Liked by 1 person

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