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Stockholm Syndrome

April 15, 2012

Stockholm Syndrome

When he sleeps he looks like an angel, someone once said. He dreams of the dead moving, and seeking escape in the wan light of a dying world, perhaps already dead, save for him.
Her alarm, church bells from her iPhone wakes him from a view from above of an old graveyard in a forest in the sickly blue dawn, of himself almost surrounded by the shambling corpse. He does not want to leave himself there. It is the cold dark before daylight in her apartment. She is angry at having to wake and dress and go to work.She instructs him to clean the bathroom floor when she is gone. He puts on his clothes and
goes into the bathroom.
He takes some spray cleaner and a sponge with a scrubbing surface on one side, and diligently cleans his blood, the blood she spilled off of the toilet seat cover, ruby splashes from his heart fading into disinfectant, blurring like the tears of humiliation in his eyes. He makes sure it is immaculately clean, that there is no trace of his own blood on her toilet.He wants to please her. He wants so desperately to be happy with him when she gets home. He then works on the floor scrubbing away the crimson love for her that once flowed from his heart. He leaves no evidence in the winter morning of the night when she held the knife,
eyes gleaming like the dawn of a dead dream world with hate and relish for his fear at her death threat before she
struck his face, splashing misshapen roses on the bedcovers, which dripped on her carpet
like crimson petals for her to walk on the next morning, as he staggered bleeding from her bedroom into the bathroom. 
The floor is clean, and he thinks disoriented still, “She will be so happy when she gets home.”
The tires of her car scrape the gravel
outside as the day closes like the door of a taxidermy shop. She walks in angry.
She is not impressed.

                            

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