Fire and Ice

24 Apr

Property of DarkRose, 2013

This is written for my husband. This is a very true story, if not somewhat written in “code.”
Hot Couple
Fire and Ice

My heart is racing. I am full of lights. I feel my beloved’s pain, a sharp instrument pressed through his skull, his right eye.

Devoted Blood.

I squeeze my hand down on the ice. It hurts terribly, a sort of burn. He starts to push my hand away–
“Don’t,” I plead.
I start to cry from the pain of the ice on my right hand. It gnaws at me, it eats me.

I fel myself growing wieghtless and quiet inside my shell of anguish, his, mine. ‘Wait,’ he said to me.
I waited. I waited fifteen minutes by the chime of the kitchen clock. By now I have completely turned to ice. The core of me, my groin, my breasts. My stomach, my heart.

I have finally removed my hand from the freezer and I am walking back to my love. I open the door of his sleeping place.

I feel very tall (which I am not), and feel like I’m floating in the air. I see his chamber with its bare plastered walls, the bed, and Devoted lying on it. He is rigidly immobile. He tells me, “Even in the midst of my pain, you are all I can see and think about, you are still perfection–”
I cross the bare floor, floating, and stand above him. My braids have somehow come undone, and black hair showers over me.

I take hold of his left hand and pull it away from the most beautiful face I have ever known (Beautiful in a very manly sort away).

There is no mark on him. His face is only hard, clenched, a stone. He does not resist me. He says to me, “You have already eased my pain by simply existing.”

I put my right hand, frozen, against his left eye, forehead and temple.

My beloved screams. His whole body erupts into motion. I cry out too. I clamp my frozen hand against him. I force my hand to remain on his face, which is like furnace heat.

The world seems to have cracked.

Then I feel a hurt worse than before. The pain in my love has come into me. Into my hand. I am kindling. I am on fire.

Now it has extiguished.

I feel bruised, perhaps smashed, but I continue to sit on the bed. A band of flame still circles my right wrist. It is my husband’s hand. He is looking at me now.

His eyes are such a pale shade of hazel they are nearly white.
He says, “What did you do?”

“You said–ice.”

He says, hoarsely, “You can heal and save as well as devastate.”

“No, it was the ice.”

“Once in a hundred or so years,” he reveals, “it comes like that. You are a true healer my Lamia. So many claim that title but it is only a label they use to make themselves feel better.”

“Is it better?” I ask. “Are you all right?” Then I start to cry (he hates to hear me cry), I try to stop but cannot. His pain, my pain, has morphed into emotional pain, a sweet release.

“It’s gone. You took it. What did you do with it?” He lifts my hand and turns it over. My palm and fingers are burned blue, and bleeding. “Your hand,” he says, “your writer’s hand.” He puts both of his hands over mine.

It hurts like fire again. I do not care. “Don’t leave me,” I say to him.

“At the gates of the abyss,” he tells me, “there you are, Julia in her long black hair and flawless porcelain skin.” He keeps my hand in his left hand, and reaches up to me and pulls me slowly down.

I am laying over him, my lips on his. He kisses me softly but urgently. I kiss him back. I kiss his mouth until his mouth tenses and takes mine. I put my arms around his neck, my live hand and my dead hand. Suddenly I draw back. Lift off my dress like a wreath, and reaching behind me, clumsy from the burn of the ice, undo my brassiere.

My white breasts are full yet high, firm, with budded petals.
“You don’t need to seduce me,” he whispers, I’ve  belonged to you since before time began.”

“Please,” I beg.

The tears upon my face are like splashes of gems. My eyes are wide and black and crazed with life.

My savior, my husband traces my breasts with his hands, then with his lips. I sigh. I clasp his head, the mantle of dark hair, holding him to me.

He lowers me down, until I am beneath him. Now he strips both of us, until we are equally exposed, naked and glistening.

His body is tawny comapred to my white flesh. He strokes me. I cling to him. The entry of his flesh into mine is harsh and savage.

“You’re hurting me.”


I don’t care. I want to die. I want to die for you.”
He kisses me, moving inside of me, the pain like a cathedral built up toward the heavens, arches and pinnacles, bronze and air.

I turn my neck. “Drink my blood. Please. I want you to.”

“Hush,” he says.

“I love you,” I cry, “don’t leave me. I love you.”

He cries out, as he had in pain. I look and see his eyes and in the depths of them, as if in polished mirrors, the ages of the earth, truth and eternal love, fire and darkness.



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