kafkaesque: having a nightmarishly complex, bizarre, or illogical quality.
There had been far too many a day during their parting of ways where Layla would find herself bound within her bedroom walls, silence being the only companion that lingered. Her brother, Liam, had recently moved into her warm, welcoming abode, yet as soothing as his comforting embraces felt, nothing could possess the ability to brighten up Layla’s already dampened outlook on life. With Jasper gone, the blonde felt e m p t y. She was the vessel, her lover the essence that once completed her. Loathing the mere thought of becoming so vulnerable was a thought that soon vanished once she was faced with the presence of her love.
Could it be, that in the words of the great Aristotle, love is indeed composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies? Call it telepathy, yearning, or simple instincts, but amid said season of loneliness, countless of revelations made themselves known to Layla, whether by reveries or the relentless apparitions of words flashing through her mind: find him. Alas, her efforts proved to be fruitless. Never had she felt sorrow to such great measures as on the moment of his departure. The months that followed were filled with restlessness, his touch only but a faint memory that grew colder with every passing minute. Ah, but the melodious echoes of his voice still managed to lull her to sleep, at least in her
mind.Layla hated feeling so weak. She had to be strong, didn’t she?
Failure. ‘I failed him’ -— this is only but a glimpse of the endless phrases of anger and defeat she would repeat whenever Liam would make her vent. Surely, the pair could quarrel from time to time as any siblings would, but his support and listening ear meant more than he would ever know. She held a small secret, however, one that she would much rather leave unspoken, perhaps not even to Jasper — she couldn’t. Layla had dolefully caved into acquainting herself with sedatives, finding it easier to spend much of her spare time in slumber than to deal with memories of a love that never had the chance to blossom. The modeling gigs and frequent jet-lag didn’t help ease the situation either, and soon enough, her use of stimulants kicked in to help keep her alert on the job. It all happened too quickly, enough to make a physique as fragile as her own crumble. But those days were long gone: there was Jasper, holding her, not yet conscious of what had occurred after his absence. The thought of concealing a significant part of the reality she faced for the last five months made her stomach flip, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell Jasper. Not now — notever. It was far too much of a burden to carry, but she deemed it insignificant, as he was here now and that’s all that mattered. Their love could strengthen them, it always did. Together they could fight all odds, as being by his side no matter the obstacle was a promise Layla would never fail to keep. Perhaps they had a lot more in common than expected, as without each other they were simply two puzzle pieces trying to fit their way back where they belonged.Her hands raised to cup at either sides of his face. The feel of his lips, his scent, the prickling of the beard adorning his cheeks were all a reminder that he was there: this was reality, no longer a figment of her imagination. As her lips moved in synchrony with Jasper’s own, the flow of tears continued, only that it had grown much lighter, the tears now materializing the joy she had rediscovered in his arms. “I can’t live without you,” she cried — soft, shaky whispers hovering over his lips as she gently lay her forehead against that of her lover’s. “I don’t want to,” she emphasized through soft sniffles, petite hands searching for his own and raising them to her lips. A single kiss was placed on every one of his fingers, and as she lay his hands back down, she smiled tenderly, albeit weakly. This moment was all that Layla had ever longed for, but her eyes, they possessed a certain kind of melancholy that was difficult to ignore. Slowly; it subsided. Life was beginning to have meaning once more. Her vulnerability may have seemed pathetic in the eyes of many, but who needs them? What’s the use in pride with matters of the heart? This was Layla, stripping away to her very core.
”Because I love you ——- and nothing can or ever will change that,” she confessed, her cheeks setting aflame; the sweet timid blonde Jasper once knew slowly making her return. “I had something done while you were gone, you know,” Layla whispered, a small smile forming as she dropped her gaze to her coat’s sleeve, pulling it back ever so slightly to expose her wrist. Over it was the day they met tattooed in roman numerals. “It may be a bit cliché to some, but it doesn’t matter. This was the best day of my life,” and with that she set her arm back down, fingers reaching to loosely tuck a few strands of hair behind her ear. In truth, Layla had always wanted a tattoo, but decided to wait until she found a genuine source of inspiration to actually have one done. Jasper was the muse, his love both her addiction and weakness: k r y p t o n i t e.
Through the small imprisonment that was wooden walls and sapphire tinted skies, he found himself supplicating for what once he knew was the devotion that Layla had given him what seemed like a thousand years ago. The pain volatilized gradually, at a slow pace, but it would never truly evaporate. It took a day to fall in love, but a million years to forget. He would have rather been engrossed in six gallons of bourbon and several kinds of different narcotics: opiates, sedatives, soporifics, tranquilizers. It was different then. He didn’t feel culpable for absorbing things that his lover would not approve of, and even though he could hear her displeasure in the silence he still went on. After that, his employer stuck to the notion that Jasper had gone mad. The junkie didn’t mind, for half that theory was true.
To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die. The words repeated in his shattered psyche, until once more did it fissure, the rupture gaining him more of an effect than he wanted. His head ached, and he placed his hand on one of his temples, feeling the fragmentation take place inside of his darkened and dim manifestation. Razor-edged claws– that compared to one of a lioness– lacerated his past thoughts, emblazoned them in a coat of arms, that which Jasper can never forget. It was his death come true, except it was slower than intended. The mother of sorrow had left him in the company of happiness, yet the anguish of the effects of his narcotics were about to reach it’s summit. Terrified, he was t e r r i f i e d. A white hot pain overcame him, sent him drawing back from her touch, letting the haze of it all sweep him off of his feet. He took a sharp intake of breath, permitting his inner demons to kiss his well-being away. It could not have been the strong white powder of cocaine, or his keepsake bag that contained what any pure person would have thought was dried moss. His heart was pumping away at an irregular velocity, strong carmine hued vital fluid running along his blood vessels like a maimed turtle. Only once did he whimper in reactions to his torment, but as quickly as it came it vanished. Mad he was, and perhaps that was the long outcome of his solitary life in his New Hampshire captivity, but he was still the rebellious lived drug abuser that knew no other life than abandonment and three hour rebukes. Yet as quick as the pain came, it vanished. Strong, calloused hands clung onto the small of her shoulders like a desperate inamorato, wanting nothing more than to feel his significant other under his hands, though his undernourished figure left a weakened grip. “It’s not that easy…” He whispered, emerald eyes gazing into her cobalt blue hues of relief. “I love you, Layla. I never thought I could love anyone ever again, but I did.” He was under the influence of one of the most potent elixirs: the elixir of LOVE.
"I don’t think you know this but…“ But I love to skin animals, I love to burn homes, burn people, burn me. The hour of the day went by leisurely and his never failing mental clock ticked away the hours like sheared wings on an angel. One by one did the seconds go, until finally he mustered up the strength to resume his confessions. "I like pain.” One, hot, tear escaped his eyes, liberated itself from the confines of eternal woe. “When I was a kid I…” He cleared his throat to prevent his throat from failing him. “…I liked to kill my pets, I took pleasure in burning myself, I had a friend that was all for her becoming my puppeteer. And she was. I would break her, clip her of her innocence. I broke her bones, I devoured her, I took off her fingernails. I did everything, and she screamed every single day. She seduced me with her pain. You don’t want me. You don’t…” His hand slid away from her shoulder down to her arm. He could feel the painfully hot inferno under her skin, his quivering hands, and the wildfire that made up Jasper Lancaster.
And there it was: the permanent ink she chose to place on her skin. It was of him, and then he permit himself to let her look at his arm, the face of his undoing, his stimulus. It was the countenance of the woman he loved: Layla Campbell. Still, he knew that would not change the words he uttered out mere seconds ago. Hands curled into large fists, eyes downcast like a child being reproached, he would not dare look at his lover anymore. She hates me, I know it.