Harry swivelled round on his heels, red in the
face, his veins were popping. How could it not
be what it looked like? They were having sex
in his house, in his own bedroom. It was the
ultimate betrayal. "What? How could you
possibly say that? How can you talk to me?"
"I'm so sorry!" Zoë grabbed him now. She
grabbed him by his collar and sobbed against
his shoulder.
"Get off me! Get off me!" He pushed her
away; he could not stand the touch of her
against him.
"Harry please, just let me explain," she choked
on her tears, "It was just -"
"It was just what? What?" Harry was angry
now. How could it be 'just' something, how,
after all they had been through, after
everything that had happened, could she say it
was 'just' something.
"I don't know, I have just been so … lonely. He
was just there. You are always away; I didn't
want to. But he was so forceful. I am so sorry."
It was barely comprehensible what she was saying
now, she was sobbing. The tears were streaming
down her face. Yet it all seemed so surreal to
Harry. What was going on? How had such a
normal day suddenly changed into something that
seemed like the ending to everything?
"No - don't blame me. It is not my fault that
you are …" He was done with this. It was the
end.
"That I am what? What am I? You don't even
know who I am anymore. I can't remember
the last time that I saw you properly."
"No! Zoë, we are over. I am through with you.
Never come back again. Never talk to me
again!" The finality of that statement
shuddered through them both. It was over.
Forever.
Aluredian
53
Today.
The day school where you see
All the same people,
Answer the same questions,
Think the same thoughts.
The day when nothing happens,
Nothing new,
No passion,
No care.
Just waiting,
Letting time slip through your fingers,
No thinking ahead,
Or having any dreams.
But, perhaps you should care,
Not just sit and fall into the pattern,
Not become another let down,
Or failure.
Perhaps you should be bothered.
Care for what your elders say,
Be inspired by those past before,
Like the legend of St George,
Or the arts of Shakespeare.
And Maybe, Just Maybe,
You too will be remembered.
Today
by
James Pardy