26 Apr A Short Story: Fiction

*This story is entirely a work of fiction.*

Her and I were laying in bed one day and she turned to me and said, quite spontaneously (if I might add), “I really do hate you… do you know that?”

I just shrugged my shoulders because I’m used to this type of temperamental antics from her, but I said quietly, “No… why? Tell me again…”

She quickly got out of bed and started to put her clothes back on, as quickly yet as slowly as possible, probably so she knew that she was getting my attention. She loves attention.

She did look good of course, like a main course and after a few minutes she looked at me, with this type of face that’s difficult to explain… somewhat frustrated, somewhat turned on and said to me, “Because. You’re the least handsome guy that I have ever met; yet you’re also the most handsome guy that I’ve ever met. That’s why I hate you.”

 I actually never heard her say that before, so I was slightly surprised. I then decided to entice her a bit with some entertaining vernacular and cunningly, “Woman, you know how I’m just writing fiction real good.”

The look she gave me after I said that was one that I had never seen from her before, she had this enraged hue in her eyes and she outlandishly said, “Is that even an answer? That’s the answer you’re going to give me? You don’t have to write fiction to my heartbeat, it’s confusing…”

I could tell in the sound of her heartbeat she was trying to start a playful argument. I think she does that a lot because she likes when I act smart, so I responded with a very endearing tone of voice, “Woman, you know how after I write to your heartbeat… you don’t want anyone else. It’s not my fault I speak real good. And it’s not my fault my potency with you is real nice.”

I knew that I struck the right chord within her because she walked over, laid back down in my bed and with a half-whisper half-sigh said to me, “I really did think you were joking when you said that you can hear girls’ heartbeats, but then in some of your songs, I hear my heartbeat… I need you to explain to me how you do that.”

I then sat up in bed and placed my hand over her right temple, it was warm… very warm and I proceeded to say to her, “Shorty, there’s a lot of stuff in this world that can’t be explained… and I’m trying to figure it out myself. But, what I do know is, you give it to me… you keep giving it to me. So you must like it…”

With her usual hot temper she quickly jumped out of bed and fiercely said to me, “See. This is why it is impossible to talk to you and – “

Before she had a chance to finish her sentence, there was a high-pitched sound and the bedroom window cracked and broke into small pieces.

We both kind of looked at each other confused. I didn’t say a word for a few minutes… I just kind of looked at the broken window in awe. I then got out of bed, walked over to the window, looked outside and then said to her, “Woman, have you ever thought that maybe I’m protecting your heartbeat? Like a force field…”

She gasped and let out of an annoyed type of laugh and then said to me, “And what makes you think that my heartbeat needs protecting?”

I smiled and responded, “First off, you probably wouldn’t give me your heartbeat if you didn’t and secondly, I wouldn’t be able to write to it with pin-point precession. Girl, have you ever actually experienced what love really is before you met me?”

She then walked over to the door, turned to me and said, “No. That’s why I hate you.” And then walked out and slammed the door behind her.

I was going to try and stop her from leaving, but I figured she needed some time to think stuff over… considering she didn’t even say anything when a window literally randomly broke in front of us.

I looked down at the broken glass, and some of the pieces, as clear as day, spelled the word shadows.

I stared at that for a long time to make sure I wasn’t just hallucinating. After about thirty minutes I realized that I wasn’t and I started to think about how fractional of a probability it was to have broken pieces of glass form a clear-cut word on the floor.

Typically when strange stuff like that happens I go to my notepad and let the pencil take control; it’s almost like another form of meditation. 

The pencil started to write, in cursive, which I found extremely unusual and it spelled out:

No one said this was going to be easy for you. Keep your passion in forward motion, for too many shadows would like to see it in the trashcan. There’s a new set of skills waiting for you… close your mind to open all three eyes.