Sapphic Voices Horror

I Dream Of Fire

The shutters shake at the onslaught of the oncoming storm. I huddle in this room I call my home, and try to write. Marijuana, rolling papers, half-empty bottles of liqueur I cannot summon the will to finish, prayer beads, and bills I have not paid litter the table and spill onto the floor. Perhaps I am destined to forever play the ascetic, always observing, never living. Is that why you left? Perhaps it is. Looking back on the daze of my life: dreams, random scribbles in notebooks, on napkins; anything to allow the flames within me to come out, to take form and burn the pages, rake across my consciousness and transform the very fabric of my existence. Is it because I dream that you are gone? Because this life is merely a shadow of what burns beneath my indecisive eyes? I hold my hand to the light. Small bones, pale skin. The bead ring you made for me that day long ago, as we wandered down to the ocean; I still wear on my index finger. I remember how you strung those beads through the wire, twisting and bending it with a skill alien to me. "This is a token of my love," you said as you slipped it onto my trembling finger. I ached for you then, for the sweetness of your lips, the beauty of your spirit, and the soft touch of your body against mine. I wanted to grasp you in my arms, make love to you in the sand. I took your hand instead, not quite brave enough to look into your chestnut eyes. I looked down at your hair instead, falling in perfumed waves of darkness. If only you knew how completely you possessed me then, how I came so close to being your eternal love slave. Nothing has changed. Some time after that haunting day by the ocean, you took an overseas job. I recall you packing your bags, and I, for the first time, felt the volcano within me erupt. "Do not go!" I begged, wept, threw myself at your feet. Your chocolate eyes were filled only with disgust now. I tore at my hair, screamed that I loved you, that I could never be without you. I smelled the leather of your red, high heel boots, and the scent drove me mad. Then you were gone, your car moving towards the airport; and I was here, reduced to a creature not even worthy of your pity. I returned to my attic apartment, where I tried to return to the peace of dreams. And all I could think of was you. You, the woman I loved after a fashion, the woman I could never allow to touch me, for fear that you would discover some terrible secret in my flesh. I did not eat, I did not sleep. I begged the muse to take me to the place I’ve always dreamed of. A place where elves dance and the rivers run clear, and Orpheus strums his lyre indefinitely. I glance down at my arm, where I carved symbols after you left. The Star of David is a constant with me when I think of you. The two triangles become something more in their joining. It had given me clarity when I had lost it; the pain reminded me that I was still alive. I want so badly to live. I once painted flames; now that I cannot afford canvas, I burn things. With stolen matches from the drugstore. I strike one. For a moment, the perfect beauty of flame. It falls. Catches a stack of paper. I smile my secret, half-hidden smile. Am I the phoenix? Will this purifying blaze destroy all thought of you, make me more than I once was, turn me into a new life? I know I need life, but the lifeforce eludes me. It has always been so. Now, my poetry is catching flame. Let it burn. Only in fire can it be shared with the world. Only in ashes will they understand. Now the flames approach me on the floor. I take a bottle of liqueur in my hand, open it, and spill the contents over my breasts. My heart lies beneath those mounds of flesh. Fire is all that is real to me now. I look again at my hand. Flames licking at the skin, the blood, the flesh and bone. Your bead ring melts, melds into my frame. I throw back my head and laugh as I have never laughed in life. Somewhere outside, a dog howls at the moon. Soon, the sirens will howl as well.

Margaret Haugen's e-mail address is unavailable.

Click here for a list of all of Margaret Haugen's  Stories and Poetry at  Sapphic Voices Authoresses.

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