After the storm, the plastic chairs and table washed of our laughter. Thin puddles reflecting an empty sky, wine glasses half full of rainwater. Indoors, the sofa we fucked on, a leering vacancy. Her husband will meet her about now, I thought, clearing up. And I'm supposed to find it funny, or not to care.
Who knew things were about to change? Suddenly I was expected to be more responsible and lead by example. Everything I owned wasn't mine anymore. Conflicting emotions, insecure mind and alien concept of sharing had to be adapted.
But, I'd give up the world to make her smile. My favorite prayer come true. My sister.
In the silence, she was surrounded with nothing but shattered pieces of her silenced voice. She felt suffocated amidst a millions of verbal presents bestowed upon her last night. Her dream vanished into cold tears. “Abort her” her man’s words still babbling in her ears and made her suspicious “does she really own her body.”
This word primarily made you think of someone, maybe your mother, wife, daughter, grandmother, sister, friend, girlfriend, crush, celebrity or fictional character. Perhaps your story doesn’t feature them. She’s nonetheless imprinted into your subconscious.
Do yourself a favor. Show her how special she is to you. Revive your own story.