Relent

Forewords from the Author:

It took me quite some time to come up with the words to write a short story. Like the quote at the beginning of my blog, writing is bleeding. Like any good writer I try to write what I know, diving into former experiences and emotions in order to bring forth a story of some sort. So basically, these words took a lot out of me. That being said this is only one of my first few attempts at a story, four in the morning tears and tea by my side. Writing truly is bleeding. It's kind of short but here it is.

                                                                                                                                                                        

Relent

by: Nicole Lambe

The sun peaks through the trees and she decides to leave her stuff to clear her mind. She gets up, throwing her pen atop her book and begins to walk through the thick wood.  The ground is damp and her feet are crunching leaves. She longs to hear the birds chirping and the water running so beautifully downstream. She wants the colour back in the sky, to see the rich browns of the soil and the way her skin shone in the light of summer.  She continues her walk, her mind in a million places, as she rounds the big oak by her blanket.

She sits, staring at the page as if the words are going to fall onto it, the same as her tears. There are oceans between three words that she feels forbidden to say—forbidden to write. She continues to stare.  Flipping through the empty pages as the wind blows through her hair, making her feel invigorated, but she wants to write. She wants to write to him. Violating her pages it flashes before her, his words haunting.

You’re going to be an amazing writer one day.

Write for me, write for me, write for me.

She hears his voice, shouting at her, pleading with her.

Write for me.

Her eyes start to water as she brings the pen to the page. She can’t bring herself to do it. The words are heavy, she feels them in the palm of her hand, the ink is suddenly brick and she sees the colour around her continue to vanish. Words and memories are clouding her head.

Write for me, write for me, write for me.

His words are continuing to echo. She feels them in her skin, lingering her whole body like his last embrace.  She begins feeling his breath on her neck, his fingertips trailing her waist. His lips brush her cheek like every time he lay next to her, holding her lovingly close to his body. She allows her self to be completely immersed in the illusion, inhaling his musky scent. The colour begins to manifest around her again as she feels his hands begin to guide hers to the paper. She knows his devilish eyes are scanning her while he smirks that angelic smile. He starts whispering.

Write for me.

She almost thinks its real. The dream vanishes, leaving her hopeless, yearning for his touch. She brings the pen back to the page as the colour disappears again. She starts writing.  The colossal importance of his presence in her life holding her words prisoner, she tries to scribble out the first words.

“You saved me,” she states shakily as she writes it.

The oceans return, she desperately struggles to put more words on the page. She feels as if she’s drowning in a sea of emotions. Shipwrecked by the words; she longs to release their grip from around her delicate throat.

Gasping for air she brings the pen to the page once more, her tears dripping on the page. His voice echoes in her ears again.

Write for me.

“I love you,” she whispers.