I wrote something again

[Calypso 320]

He loved the enemy, there was no doubt of that. The momentary apparition of nothing that presented itself when she moved, leaving only a hole – a brief parting of ozone, a faint shimmer in the air. In his mind, the air around the hole was sweet. The displacement of it served to carry the scent of flowers over to him. The scent itself, he considered buried. Suppressed under the onslaught of the mud and shit that surrounded him. And yet he could only grasp at the tantalising strands of her presence, never pausing, never ceasing long enough for him to catch the woman in the wind. Whenever the apparition presented itself he sought to move himself. He had watched her long enough to know when she herself would make a move. In the distance, a shot and a scream would be heard. The last rites from a priest, perhaps the panicked yelling of a field medic.

 

And so they would dance, a rhythmic tango. He felt the tendrils of their territory; rooted, they began in the lines of thousands of men behind them. But here, in the ruins of civilisation, the world was theirs. Through the collapsed walls, the fallen spires of the churches into the narrow alleyways where stray dogs sought to scrounge the scraps from the broken bodies of men. Not once had he fired a shot at her – there had never been time. The empty, barren and broken world around him left little optimism in a man. Should he have had the time to examine her through the scope of his rifle, perhaps the grey ruins, the death and suffering would leave his mind. The apparition never stayed long enough to not be a hole, and yet he felt for her. He constructed an image of the apparition – not too tall, auburn hair. A smile that melted men, the fragrance of fresh flowers and lemonade. In the night, she would sidle up to him in bed. She would place her arm around him, warming his shoulders as he lay awake remembering. He would wake up in the morning, her already up and sitting downstairs in his kitchen having coffee and a cigarette. Her hair would glow in the golden morning, and as he would sit down he would feel the warmth of the atmosphere, a steady red burn in his heart. They'd live out in the countryside, spend their days away from everyone. They would never see another soul again. And while he imagined this, he could feel her eyes searching fo him. He sensed her movements as she crept from building to building, window to window. He would echo her, perhaps crouching in a bush or burying himself in rubble, all the while knowing she was nearby.

 

As time passed she seemed to grow tired, sloppy. An apparition became a glimpse, a glimpse a moment. He now knew her hair was golden, not auburn. She kept her cigarettes in her left front pocket, her lighter in her right. She never wore a side arm. The moments grew longer. So many times he could have fired, only clipping her enough to have her bleed out. But he didn't. Her companionship followed him, an omnipresent threat to keep him on his toes. When he would kill, he would know she was tracking him. He would lead her to a maze of twisted concrete and broken bones, only to turn and watch her. Her ghostly form was too beautiful to kill.

 

She was his god, his ghost, HIS enigma. No one would touch her.

 

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Hey all. A little cliche, but this came to me in a dream. What do you think?