follower
Refugee
I don?t know if you already read this fanfiction below, I haven?t checked this board so often. Anyway I decided to show you this text below, I think it?s amazing what this girl wrote, it?s from Fanfiction.net, her name is ingenueinblue.
AUTHOR?S NOTE: This is a little piece I put together while mulling over how I want to end "Chrysalis." We tend to be short on pieces from a female point of view, so here?s on from the perspective of everyone?s favorite Mrs. Bono.
FEEDBACK: Yeah, I want it. You know I want it. Give it to me! Harder! HARDER!
DISCLAIMERS: Don?t own Bono, don?t own Ali, don?t own U2?don?t own much of anything, come to think of it.
SHOUTOUTS: Pepsi, Ernie?s Animal Crackers, Bill, Diana, iceberg lettuce.
*
He?s here.
I?m almost afraid to touch him and make sure he?s real, as though my hand will slip through illusory flesh and crash into the mattress.
But I do it anyway.
A warm, solid body.
I sigh with relief.
He was gone for so long that I could hardly remember what it was like to sleep with him for more than a few nights in a row.
I have so much to do. My work. My reading and writing. The children?they?re a few handfuls all by themselves. I don?t have much time to miss him during the day. This is the time that I can feel the aching emptiness, opening up somewhere underneath my ribcage, burned by the fire of the incredible silence.
He talks in his sleep. He breathes heavily. His mind is never completely at rest.
But his body is out of it. The cuffs of his oversized gray thermal henley are crumpled in his fists. He?s curled up in a fetal position, his mouth slightly open, completely unaware.
He?s here.
He?s been home now for a week. He came bearing his usual array of gifts, clutching the kids like he?d never seen them before. As they ran off with their books and sweaters and knickknacks, he turned to me, pulled off his sunglasses, and pushed a handful of hair out of his eyes with a wry smile.
"I?m too old for this," he said.
"Don?t be silly. You were just grand."
He embraced me and held me tightly. "Too old to be away from you and the kids for so long," he said softly. "Christ, I?ve missed this."
I kissed him. "I love you," I said simply.
He gazed at me with his twisted, little-boy smile. "I love you too."
I love him. And I?m too old, too. Too old to miss him like I do, too old to long for him and his touch like a lovesick teenager.
We made love as soon as the children were in bed the night he came home. We wore each other out thoroughly and slept embarrassingly late the next morning. He woke me up by running his lips lightly across my neck and collarbone, tingling my skin until I couldn?t stand it anymore. I whacked him with my pillow. He laughed like an impertinent child and we kissed with our first-thing-in-the-morning mouths.
And he?s still here.
They?re writing, going to the studio for a few hours here and there. But mostly he?s home, sometimes getting in my way more than helping me, willingly going along with the girls and their silly stories, watching cartoons with John and Eli, padding around the house in dirty, bare feet.
He?s gotten older. I delight in counting his gray hairs and teasing him about it. The stubble of his beard grows in white. I think he has a new wrinkle under his left eye. But he still looks divine to me.
Noticing sometimes how he has gotten older makes me feel every year sometimes, too. I don?t have the body that I once had. Four kids will do that to you, I suppose. But he still says I?m beautiful. Every single day.
His body unfurls slightly and makes a half turn. He starts to mumble. The moonlight pours in through the window and highlights his broadly chiseled features.
I can?t even think about him leaving again. I can?t think of being alone in this huge bed. He pinches my chin and tells me I?m a tough lady. If he only knew just how much I miss him when he goes?as much as I always did.
So for now, I twist a strand of his damp black hair around my finger and just smile at him as he sleeps, as deeply and heavily as usual.
AUTHOR?S NOTE: This is a little piece I put together while mulling over how I want to end "Chrysalis." We tend to be short on pieces from a female point of view, so here?s on from the perspective of everyone?s favorite Mrs. Bono.
FEEDBACK: Yeah, I want it. You know I want it. Give it to me! Harder! HARDER!
DISCLAIMERS: Don?t own Bono, don?t own Ali, don?t own U2?don?t own much of anything, come to think of it.
SHOUTOUTS: Pepsi, Ernie?s Animal Crackers, Bill, Diana, iceberg lettuce.
*
He?s here.
I?m almost afraid to touch him and make sure he?s real, as though my hand will slip through illusory flesh and crash into the mattress.
But I do it anyway.
A warm, solid body.
I sigh with relief.
He was gone for so long that I could hardly remember what it was like to sleep with him for more than a few nights in a row.
I have so much to do. My work. My reading and writing. The children?they?re a few handfuls all by themselves. I don?t have much time to miss him during the day. This is the time that I can feel the aching emptiness, opening up somewhere underneath my ribcage, burned by the fire of the incredible silence.
He talks in his sleep. He breathes heavily. His mind is never completely at rest.
But his body is out of it. The cuffs of his oversized gray thermal henley are crumpled in his fists. He?s curled up in a fetal position, his mouth slightly open, completely unaware.
He?s here.
He?s been home now for a week. He came bearing his usual array of gifts, clutching the kids like he?d never seen them before. As they ran off with their books and sweaters and knickknacks, he turned to me, pulled off his sunglasses, and pushed a handful of hair out of his eyes with a wry smile.
"I?m too old for this," he said.
"Don?t be silly. You were just grand."
He embraced me and held me tightly. "Too old to be away from you and the kids for so long," he said softly. "Christ, I?ve missed this."
I kissed him. "I love you," I said simply.
He gazed at me with his twisted, little-boy smile. "I love you too."
I love him. And I?m too old, too. Too old to miss him like I do, too old to long for him and his touch like a lovesick teenager.
We made love as soon as the children were in bed the night he came home. We wore each other out thoroughly and slept embarrassingly late the next morning. He woke me up by running his lips lightly across my neck and collarbone, tingling my skin until I couldn?t stand it anymore. I whacked him with my pillow. He laughed like an impertinent child and we kissed with our first-thing-in-the-morning mouths.
And he?s still here.
They?re writing, going to the studio for a few hours here and there. But mostly he?s home, sometimes getting in my way more than helping me, willingly going along with the girls and their silly stories, watching cartoons with John and Eli, padding around the house in dirty, bare feet.
He?s gotten older. I delight in counting his gray hairs and teasing him about it. The stubble of his beard grows in white. I think he has a new wrinkle under his left eye. But he still looks divine to me.
Noticing sometimes how he has gotten older makes me feel every year sometimes, too. I don?t have the body that I once had. Four kids will do that to you, I suppose. But he still says I?m beautiful. Every single day.
His body unfurls slightly and makes a half turn. He starts to mumble. The moonlight pours in through the window and highlights his broadly chiseled features.
I can?t even think about him leaving again. I can?t think of being alone in this huge bed. He pinches my chin and tells me I?m a tough lady. If he only knew just how much I miss him when he goes?as much as I always did.
So for now, I twist a strand of his damp black hair around my finger and just smile at him as he sleeps, as deeply and heavily as usual.
