disposable roses

she was a moon faced assasin of the soul, and why she chose him as her victim will never be known. perhaps she saw him as an easy target. he was, after all, like an egg: a tough looking exterior that was in truth fragile, and hid a soft center, as opposed to her being more like a peach: soft and sweet on the outside, hiding a gnarled, hard, bitter pit in her core.

she caught him on a rebound, and ensnared him in a trap so well devised he allowed himself to believe the lie that he wanted to end up with her in the first place. for years he tried to get rid of her. he told her outright it would end, but she would turn it around and he before he knew what happened, he would stay. he was unfaithful (but how can you be unfaithful to someone you don't really belong to anyway?) on numerous occasions, but out of "love" she always forgave him, showing how magnanimous she was to all who saw, when all he saw was a more vulpine creature each day. she would taunt him, hiding behind a joke, asking him why he stayed with her when he could have left anytime. but when he brought up leaving, she made sure it never happened.

how could he tell others she was cursed, evil, a parasite thriving off of his misery. they both had jobs that required business trips of up to three months, so they spent a good portion of each year seperated. these were brief respites to him, mini oasis in a desert of lonliness and despair. during these times he would flourish, lose weight, become strong and healthy, happy, enjoy hobbies, but when they were reunited, he would gain weight, get sick, anything he enjoyed ususally came to an end. he suddenly didn't have time for his hobbies or friends, his passions and pursuites, and although she would encourage him to continue, he could feel her will preventing any such nonsense. he often walked around humming a lilting tune, others thought he was happy, but only he knew it was a threnody to himself.

she would walk into the room and only then he would bang his head on an open cabinet that was closed moments ago, or if he were frying dinner the oil would spurt and burn him only when she entered the room. he would only get hurt when she was around, he would ruin a meal he had cooked perfectly numerous times before, or break something he cherished. she was bad luck, pure and tangible. her evil would seep into his dreams as she slept comfortably next to him. in the morning, he would awake sick and tired, and she would be refreshed.

but who would believe him? who could he tell this to? how do you tell people who have replaced thier religion and belief in the supernatural with science and skeptisism that you are married to a succubus? you don't.

and so he didn't, knowing that he could never leave. even if he managed to just up and walk out one day, change his name and move to south america, he knew her jealousy and hunger for his suffering would follow him to the farthest nook and cranny of the globe.

and so he smiled, and joked, and accepted his life on the cross, because really, how do you fight against something only you know exists?