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Published:August 11th, 2006 15:35 EST
Do It Again

Do It Again

By Jess Mcwherter

Picking up speed, my back propelled against the condensed air, until it suddenly found comfort in reclining against the black canvas sofa presiding one glance away from The Koops Sisters. In identical symmetry, the clocks placed eloquently among glossed frames pivoted 12:03, 04, 05, and my sphere of sight shot into a benevolent darkness, placid in its lack of vibrant hues and hardened neutrals. I fell into the encompassing retreat of rest. As the amusement beneath my translucent exterior lulled dormant, I could seldom recognize the conversation pugnaciously fogging up the twelve foot ceiling. A silver tinsel of understanding waved through the dusty air, strung from the two young mouths to my beaten ear drums, stretched with stiffened phrases.

Cheek over tongue. "Do you think she will do it again?" Cheek over teeth. "I hope not and dont believe she will. It has been difficult for our old friend." 

In a matter of ninety six increments of sixty minutes, my resolution to fulfill a life in forte embalmed to abandon behind the pale radiance that is my current loathful resentment. The malignantly miniscule words, with less than genuine meaning, yet acidic enough to influence a plight into continuous peace, ricocheted from my cartilage to the back of my cerebral cortex. An existence ridden of reverberating hearts, I have come to believe, shone incredibly attractive. At all times, the corrupting rhythm of the body`s most prized muscle ate through to birth a nervous stirring throughout my senses. I partly do not prefer to recognize those who have comprised follies against me as containing a thriving heart. It is less difficult to prepare ones mind with the intention of exiling another from remembrance if the blood below their leathered skin is not pumped but instead circulated by some means separate of normal human anatomy. The impossibilities of such an assumption are endless, I am aware. 

An unsettling wind catches my wrist. For a matter of thirty seconds, the itch of a recovering abrasion burns its course, then in an absence of irrupting relief, snuffs out. From their peripheral vision, The Sisters witness me retract eyelids to view the intensifying Texas precipitation. The conversation meets a muffled demise. For an exquisite minute, we three glimmer in the bijoux that is prolonged silence. Since the plight, I have forgotten this natural human right of uninterrupted companionship. But as all pleasant and precious aspects of enjoyment are erroneously beaconed away, as I am, to be brought before The Sisters squatting kin. With furrowed brows, their pupils sit heavily on my left wrist and the maroon, wiry scabs protruding out from behind a bandaged shell. Before my comprehension can follow, I am striking the wool-white carpet advancing to a secluded room exhausted by light.

To greater extents, I am discriminated with concern:

Cheek over tongue. Cheek over tongue. "Do you think she will do it again?"

Cheek over teeth. Cheek over teeth. "I hope not and don`t believe she will. It has been difficult for our old friend."