Wild Thing

They put my girl on Prozac.

I’m forced to look at her dead, stale eyes. For it was me who is guilty of destroying a wild thing. I only wanted to tame her, and now my waking moments are spent wondering if I destroyed her.

Her eyes used to dance, untamed. Her body swayed in a pure rhythm to music only she could hear. She chopped off her blond hair. It doesn’t sway the same as it used to. Last year it hung past her breasts. When she spun it would flow wildly. Haloed and billowing outwards like wings encompassing her body.

If you cut off an angel’s wings, you’re going to hell, right?

I imagine at the end of my days, I’m going to close my eyes and float downwards. Between the stealing, the gambling, the drinking, and the hurt I’ve done, I’m hell-bound for sure. No doubt in my mind where I’ll spend everlasting life.

My enigmatic gone girl tortured by my own destruction and devastation.

A wild thing is tranquilized in her own dungeon, her mind. When I first met her, those eyes were mesmerizing. I’d never seen eyes change colors like hers. Happiness gave off a bluish-gray shine. Stone cold gray meant she is transfixed in thought. Green meant unfiltered rage. The vibrant sapphire blue, I’ve only seen this color a few times, it’s her broken heart. She wears her heart in her irises.

Today her eyes are gray, dulled. She goes through every motion one can expect from a wife. She asks questions about my day as if she cares. Her body pants heavily and she screams in ecstasy when we make love. She promises undying devotion. I know she means it. Loyalty is a trait, embedded far into soul. She made vows and she meant them. It was I who didn’t understand the magnitude of the promises I made and couldn’t keep.

My drinking is out of hand. My life is spiraling into the great mid-life crisis. Where else am I supposed to go? I want to kick the wild thing. I know if I did, I’d just break my toe. Then I’d have to hobble around and lie. As if my life isn’t one gigantic lie as it is.

She is the wild thing I’ll never be able to hold. I’ll never wrap my arms completely around her.

She’ll look at me and say, “You’re never meant to hold a fish.” Referencing her Pisces nature. Her steadfast belief remains in how the stars align perfectly, making us into the exact human beings we were meant to be at birth. She’ll tell you how we embrace those signs and shine our ways through life.

Sometimes, I think she is right.

My scorpion nature leads me to hurt, sting the ones I love the most. I pinch and there isn’t too much that can penetrate my armor. I am my own protector. Maybe it all began at my birth. I’m forever unable to change those fated stars. I could protect myself from everything. Well, I used to be able to, until a fish wriggled right through my shell and settled her scaly skin on top of me. She evolved into everything I could ever want.

Then I damaged some part of her, perhaps her tail or her gill. She can’t swim anymore. Not like she used to. Her breathing is different. There is a deep blue oceanic calm and it engulfs her. I’m left standing and screaming on the shore, only allowed to watch her.

I’m left asking myself constantly, “Did I kill a wild thing?”

Wild things only answer to their creator. Otherwise they run free, touching the bits of earth they were meant to roam. They eventually cross paths with a human. I don’t think one can ever forget their encounter with a wild thing. There is some kind of soul blood on my hands. All I can do is set her free. Let her go and let her run. Let her be wild again.

writers

Author’s Note: This is the fourth piece in a continuation of a series. The first piece being Enigma, second piece being Gone, and the third being Destruction and Devastation.

These pieces may or may not be fiction.

******

Wri-Ter

 

Rachel E. Bledsoe is a writer and an Appalachian Misfit Mama. She enjoys swimming, long walks on the beach, and Marie Antoinette biographies. She is the sole voice and writer behind The Misfits of a Mountain Mama. You can visit her on Facebook or on Twitter @MisfitMtMama.

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