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The bright side

The grass is greener on the other side…or so they say.

Not here. Not for us. Not for me. On this side, the sky is brighter, and the grass is fresher—I can even smell it every day, without me wanting to. Over there where he is with you, dark clouds always roam on the horizon. I don’t remember there being a single day when it was sunny across the bank.

You don’t belong there, you know? You should be somewhere else…I don’t know where, but certainly not here. Not where he is.

Sometimes, I think you know exactly what I’m doing, even though I am quite sure you have not once looked my way—oh, I know. I know. I know, because I look. I look over to the other side, but no matter what time of day and from which angle I observe, your gaze never glazes across the river to this side. Still, I am convinced that you know. I am convinced that you notice me and all that I do whenever I sail across the waters.

Whenever I cross the river—you must know what I do, right? In spite of my efforts, sometimes I still fail to erase all traces of my ever being there…no, it's never on purpose. It's really just my forgetfulness. And yet, each time you pass by the bits and pieces I leave behind, the bones and marrow I neglected to collect—they disappear. They vanish as you walk by as if they were never there. At times like these, I wonder if it really is your intentionally ridding your ground of the remains, or if it is only the weight of my conscience fueling my imagination. Maybe I never forgot anything at all; maybe I am only delusional.

But am I, really? I don't know. I don't know anything these days. Sometimes I wake up in places I don't remember how I arrived at to begin with. Should I be concerned? Would you fetch me?

Perhaps I am not delusional, because he certainly sees. More than once, I have seen him glancing off to the side at a little tiny bone I must have left in my wake. As soon as you pass by, it disappears—and then he blinks. From where I stand, I can never see the look you give him in those moments, as you have your back on me. I know only that after your eyes meet, he goes back to doing whatever he was doing before he noticed the proof of my existence, ceasing to acknowledge it.

So…you see, you don't belong there. You should be anywhere else but there. Don't you see how he turns from you, how he averts his gaze?

Did you see me last night, just around the river bend? That's where you live, right? At least, that's where you live sometimes, right? When you're not with him, that is. I say that because it doesn't look very inhabited. You won't mind, then, if I take your bed. You really are as effective in all that you do as you are known to be: even your bed doubles as a storage space, with a hidden compartment beneath the surface layer. All I have to do is flip the top open, and there…

Well, I've heard that on some rare occasions, the top springs up on its own, slamming into the wall and killing the sleeping person on the bed. But certainly, you wouldn't allow any risk in your belongings. Ahh…I could hide a dead body in that bed—and I will.

After all, you don't belong here. Certainly not with him. Don't you see how he turns from you? He belongs with me.

To me.

11 Novembre 2022 11:52 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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