Necrophilia

“The world could end today.” He stated matter-of-factly.

He rolled onto his left side on the blue and white striped sheets to face her. The bed squeaked in protest. She did not acknowledge it. She stared a vacant stare; she was off in wonderland.He reached his hand up slowly and lightly touched her hair. Maybe just maybe the slight vibration would penetrate her skull and tickle her brain drawing her back to him.

Her eyelids closed and when they opened she was back. She squinted her eyes a tad bit like she usually did when she was focusing really hard on something. Her face was smooth no creases although her lips were pursed as if ready to lay a kiss on his forehead. He knew every crease. Every curve and flavor for he had adventured it late at nights and early in the mornings on filthy corners and even in puny closets that by no means diminished it’s sweet ambrosial taste.

“The world has been over for a while now,” She whispered almost like a sigh. “I was there  eyes wide with innocence. Mind utterly unprepared. The world has been over for a while now,” she let the silence sit,  “I remember…. I was there.”

He hated when she said things like that. It was like she was teasing him with all the dark corners of her soul she had put in vaults and didn’t want to share. It unsettled him. Her darkness unsettled him. He nestled closer to her an automatic reflex after months of this routine. He knew that asking wouldn’t make a difference. She would simply withdraw from him an armadillo into the shell that was her mind. Eyes vacant, body cold, he didn’t like to be with a zombie.

She was still a little warm from the last half an hour. She wrapped her arm around him and nestled deep into his hairless chest. She pressed her body against him almost painfully. It felt to him as if she was trying to drown in him. She’d rather be in him than out of her mind alone. She just didn’t want to be alone, even if she was just a zombie. How did he fall in love with a zombie?

He lay on his back and she automatically rearranged herself deeper into him. He stared at the filthy white ceiling. Nothing had changed it was still rough. No matter how many times he looked and wished he were somewhere else staring at something else it was always rough. He squeezed his eyes and tried a little harder. It was still rough. He was stuck just him his bed and the filthy rough white ceiling. She kissed him softly on his chest blurring his thoughts. He loved the sensation, a slight distraction from the roughness.

How did he fall in love with a zombie? He never thought she was. He remembers a park bench, laughter so deep it rocked her body, and he never realized it didn’t reach her eyes until they finally lay down. And he lay on his back watching the rough white ceiling. He loved her no matter how many times he stared up wondering what demons she had locked down deep inside her; what demons took her away from him even as they shared heat; what demons she thought were to heavy too share with him; what demons made her a zombie? He knew her too well to even ask. He squeezed his eyes again and opened them to the same filthy white.

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Broken things and broken limbs

Today I woke up and did not break down. Today I put my foot off of my bed and it hurt today. Today I can not run and everything I have worked so hard for… blood, sweat, time, and tears is put on break. Today I woke up and was not the same.

To understand the magnitude of my dilemma place yourself in my shoes. Shoes that trek across campus all day long but after classes do not return directly to their dorm. Instead these shoes tread into the field house where there exchanged for running shoes and pounds the ground in search of speed. These shoes support me when I lift, when I stretch, when I run and yes even when I sit in need of rest from the strenuous activity of a approximately three hour practice.

“My shin hurts” I mutter repeatedly under my breathe but there is no rest for the weary and no excuse for a division 1 athelete. For months my shin has plagued me on and off it has disappeared and reappeared like any celebrity turned addict in and out of rehab but this time it stayed. The pain crept up on me bit in an refused to let go like an animal gone rogue. It pounded and struck up my inner right shin. It shocked me. It made me cringe to put pressure on the ball of my foot and what’s a sprinter who can’t run on the ball of her foot? Out of commission that’s what.

A day passed and nothing has changed and ice has not numbed the pain. I stand and cringe. I get dressed and find my way to help. His hands are meaty and warm and gives mine a shake enthusiastically. “How are you” he asks and nods as I answer his queries and describe my predicament. “Possible stress fracture” he says and I do not blink nor break for I have prepared myself for this possibilty. X-ray today he presses and MRI tomorrow “No running until I have the results pool and biking only.”  I take my slip and smile because of the two options that’s the most respectable, and based on your view the braver and stronger thing to do.

I march or a pathetic attempt at one into the field house. I trudge about looking at my teammates dressed and ready to train. I am an outsider today and I’m seeing things differently. My coach instructs me to go into the pool. I do not protest. I quickly change and walk back and forth in the chlorine pit and 20 minutes run by. I exit silently to attend to the next matter of business.

My usual gait wide and confident has been tainted my an ugly limp. It changes every few steps to accommodate the pain. My x-ray goes on incident free after of course being asked a billion times if I was pregnant, the favorite question of any medical staff to a female patient. I retire to my room to brood with Netflix and a Butterfinger in an attempt to drag myself from the pit I have sunk into. Self- pity was never my thing.

Another day passes and I wake and to no relief at all. I soon find myself in the hospital a place that I have always detested. We twist and turn until we finally find ourselves in Radiology department. Where we wait patiently and make conversation to pass the time and in my case fight off any negative thoughts lest my body reacts to my thoughts. The man is tall and nice as far as I can tell. “Where does it hurt?” he asks and I point to the spot. He places a yellow liquid filled sticker on it and I lay down head on a bed of pillows. “It will be about twenty minutes” he states before he leaves the room and leaves me with my thoughts.

The machine is huge and loud. Black ear muffs cover my ears and I am not allowed to move. The machine devours me I move deeper in as it shouts and yells rather offensively at me sounds that are hard to inscribe but varied and sometimes sound rather techno. The timer on the machine flickers on and off in it’s green lettering and I close my eyes to help it fly by more quickly. I do not panic. I am not claustrophobic.

It is over and I receive a disc. Now all thats left is to wait to have a the results read in a few days. There is nothing worse than not knowing the imagination has a strange way of running wild and tormenting you with possibilities. So I sit here distracting myself from all the sick possibilities with the help of itunes, facebook, netflix, homework -__-, and yes you wordpress.

p.s I’m going to see Hunger Games tonight!!

update: I indeed have a stress fracture. I’m in this boot for approximately two weeks.