Muse Musing 4

She wore black; although I suppose that's cliche, and my consciousness deserves reprimanding after all the years of training in literature about how cliches are horrible little creatures that sucked originality and uniqueness out of a piece until the writer sounds like nothing but a generic robot that couldn't come up with something more clever. Run-on sentences are included in this.

I had been dating a boy from Malaysia. The history of the birth of our relationship is unimportant in this; however, it is important to note that passion and loneliness (which we had in abundance) is not the ideal concoction for true love (which we lacked, and probably still do). It was unexpected, had the worst timing, but we had such faith in it, as if one day, we'd realize that years have passed, we were still in love, and the logical next step would be to put a ring on it. It was the first--and only--time I really opened up to someone. All of my dark secrets, all of my flaws, all of my thoughts and feelings and verbal vomit and attention were given to him. He, dear soul, accepted it all, and most importantly, told me so. In a short few weeks, I had become dependent on him. But the funniest thing about dependence is that there's a part of you that hates it. Absolutely abhors it. As if it were some disgusting parasitic creature feeding off of your life force, but for some strange reason, found it oddly charming and couldn't get rid of it, one way or another.

I was sleeping over at his place. I did that a lot. When we started having sleepovers, my entire body could still remember the pain and torture of the previous relationship. After we got past the physical barrier, I started having nightmares. I woke up in sweat, sometimes in tears, sometimes with a sharp inhale, and he would wake up to comfort me.

It's important to note that the Woman in White had already been conceived and at inopportune times, reminds me of her presence (and, perhaps, my insanity.)

On the edge of sleep, I saw a silhouette of a woman in the distance, just at the brink of darkness, when all of a sudden, her face was centimetres from mine, and I could see the smoothness of her black skin, smell the acidity of the gold lipstick she wore, and the shock of gold eyes that looked almost black. She had a wide, evil sneer, blood dripping down her sharp teeth, and I awoke, unable to breathe, unable to blink, unable to answer him.

I don't blame him from running. I would run too. I just wish he had the courage to tell me that that was the reason.

The Woman in Black is not a sympathetic character, nor is she important. She's sociopathic and violent. She's frightful and mean. If anything, she adds to the weight of the problem. But she's here and here to stay.

I'd like to note that yes, she is black, but not racially black. She is legitimately black--like a black crayon coloured her in with a heavy hand. Racially black has different tints; she does not. She is the colour of the absence of light.