Footprints in the Rain

I always used to think that blood was sensual. Before you say what you are thinking, I will. It was a morbid fixation. But I no longer think that it is.

I find myself lying on my stomach in a puddle of water. My arm is stretched out. Just in front of the tips of my fingers the trail starts. A trail of bloody footprints. The lines are undefined because the rain has blurred them but there is no denying that they are footprints. Her footprints.

I am afraid to follow the footprints. I do not want to follow them. Because if I follow them, my worst nightmares will no longer be a fear that grips my heart and torments my soul. For if I do, they will become a harsh reality that may as well be a Dementor's Kiss.

I have forsaken the war and all that either side stands for. I have left behind my fortune and the beautiful coastline with the rolling green hills I use to call home. I denied it all for her. I do not want to see her lying there cold. I do not want to see her blank, glazed over eyes or the pallor of death upon her skin. I could not stand to see her blue lips nor the stillness in which she would lie. Her chest would not move with the breath of life and her eyes would not seek out mine. Her lips will never find my own and never again will she brush her soft skin against me.

If I do not follow the path of blood, I will not see her. I will have no closure and my soul will still be tormented with what if's. Hope will still have its spark within me. Any hope, however failing, is better than the despair of the absolute truth.

What choice is it that I have? Nightmares or despair? No hope or faithless hope? Finality or wondering? Those are not choices at all! I do not want to see her body and henceforth destroy hope. But I also do not want to leave without looking and be plagued to wonder if she had but only been injured and I had unknowing left her to die.

Do not wonder at the depth of my love her. For I did not love her. I hated her and she despised me. But hate is the best kind of love and love the best kind of hate. The line between the two is blurred and uncertain. One cannot go without the other, they go hand and hand, they are the flip sides to the coin.

I push myself up to sit. The rain trickles down from the sky and runs along my face. Let it rain. Rain is beautiful and deceitful. Its beauty and refreshment only lasts so long because it foreshadows the storm. Life is like that. All things good foreshadow a horrible price to be paid.

The rain is getting heavier and the bloodied footprints have become red puddles without shape.

Finally I stand. I follow the swirl of blood and rain. I am getting closer and so I close my eyes tightly. Then, I open them.