Pierced Skin

“I love you, Harry.”, Anne whispered against his lips, the words rolling off her tongue slowly, smoothly. Harry breathed her promise into himself, letting its sugary texture dissolve within the walls of his body, feeling his heart rate pick up at the new dose of glucose threatening to mess up his brain. “Don’t. Walk away while you still can.”, his mind tried to warn him, to prevent him from making the same old mistake, to resist the familiar, warm feeling that had always filled him whole, yet that had left him bitter every time. But no memory of former lovers, of past heartbreak, of the empty, nauseating feeling he had experienced post-love could make him leave now when the same drug had already fogged his every thought. Just one more, he reassured himself, wiping away every worry, insecurity, every trace of sensibility, and smiled a dizzy, boyish smile: “I love you, too.”. 

The next few months of his life, their life, were immersing every day in passion, in dreaminess, in blind, utter love. They were melting into one another, melting the seconds, minutes, hours with every touch, look, or word until only their signs of affection dictated time: hand-in-hand walks when the sun rose, longing kisses before work, tight hugs in front of a TV screen when the sky was dark. Harry loved her, loved loving her, loved feeling his entire being sinking deeper and deeper below the real world, where time stretched to infinity and to nothing at the same time, where he was in a constant trance she had put him in. He was living off Anne, his existence hers. Whenever she laughed the sound echoed in the depths of his chest, a melodious disenchantment that always felt to bring his heart closer to the surface; whenever she screamed in a fury (even at him), he couldn’t help admiring her furrowed eyebrows, her darkened eyes, her awfully red cheeks, trying to take a mental picture of her rawness, to absorb her emotion into himself until he felt it in his veins, until the sap of her being ran through him, until he was completely hers, a chunk of her. 

Harry became a helpless addict, letting her puncture love into his skin with soft needles, until he was riding the high he had ridden so many times before. “It’s different this time.”, he would manage to tell himself just before slipping again into the spell of the drug.

However, as months melted into years, her passion did begin fading. As devoted as Harry was to Anne, constantly following her like a puppy, she couldn’t bring herself to feel for him anymore. Her love was almost wasted, drying up inside of her until she had nothing left to give. Now, she would oversleep intentionally, or avoid kissing the lips that had become tasteless to her, or turn off the TV whenever he climbed up in bed next to her. What was left of love became a routine, an ordeal, the same coffee she would make every morning for the person that she had once called her lover. Like a painful reminder that she was settled, that life had the same colour as years before, she would always find her hand moving mechanically over the coffee pot, grabbing the same “Best Boyfriend” mug to pour the bland liquid into, then handing it to the same sleepy man muttering a long, yet tender “Moooorningg” to her. Even his everlasting, unchangeable love for her was making her sick, bored, livid, and, on her side, the spell broke. Now she wanted to tear herself away.

But the spell still held one victim. Even though Harry noticed her change in attitude, he didn’t do anything different. For him, love had to be permanent, he had to be injected with the same affection and desire, to be able to see the tiny red spots on every part of his body left by the needles. Love represented him, made him, defined him, so he saw no reason to give Anne a little space. Not even when she began to really need it.

Thus, when he came home from work on a freezing December evening to a half-empty flat, he couldn’t comprehend what was happening. The air was thick with an unusual tension, like an overfilled balloon that was about to burst. Wardrobes were standing wide open, revealing nothing but their dark wood material, just like the paintings Anne had bought when they had moved in were nowhere to be seen. Muffled grunts and the sharp sound of zippers closing made him go into their bedroom, where he spotted Anne with her back turned to him, trying to fit some clothes into a suitcase.

“Anne…”, he called her softly, his voice almost like a child’s. But when she turned to face him, Harry went silent, like the realization of what was about to happen finally started to penetrate the layers hanging above his inner consciousness. Her pupils were larger than normal, her breathing was coming in short, sharp inhales, her cheeks and forehead and nose had a maroon note to them. She took a small, unsteady step towards him as if she were about to crumble, and then another, a bit bolder, and then a third one, until she was mere inches from him. 

And next thing Harry knew, he was suddenly pulled back to reality by a harsh hand, the cozy universe where he could dream and love like a child, like a madman, coming down from three simple, oh-so-familiar words: “We are done.”. Anne stormed out of the flat, struggling to carry two heavy suitcases with most of her belongings, Harry just behind her. As they were going down the stairs, he pleaded and begged, apologized and cried, promised and compromised, but she would hear none of it. 

Down they were in the street, the crispy air biting at Harry’s tongue as he was humiliating himself, Anne ignoring him and straying farther away. After twenty steps, he knew there was nothing left to do, so he just watched her walking away from him to catch a cab, the moon casting a cold light over the lonely street, over the minuscule holes in the cement dug by the several heels that had run away from him before, to which now another pair was being added.

His love taking her last breath in his arms, Harry went back inside, mourning her, mourning himself. He was hurting, but a tiny spark of hope still burned in his chest, that he would love again, madly and stupidly, that another love would be born and thus give him life. He didn’t know it then, but three months would pass until meeting Emily, five until kissing her, six until they would become a couple.

“I love you, Harry.”, she would say seven months later, in her dulcet tones. “I love you, too.”, his response would naturally come. And the needles would puncture him again, and the red spots from the drug would pop out again, covering his body whole one more time. Just one more.