Twisted Deviant

It hurts to breathe, as I look at his ruined face. I want to sob – to wail and damn God for what has happened, though God has nothing to do with the evil of men. I wish my tears were like the phoenix’s so I could heal him, make him whole again. He barely looks at me, and when he does, he looks right through me, each glance stabbing through my fragile emotions. The room is so crowded, people pushing and prodding to get a good look at him – gawking at his torn flesh even as they pretend to love him, smothering him with their concern. They try to push me away, try to make me believe that I don’t belong; but where else would I go? Every time I touch him, he flinches away, as if my touch burns the very skin of his flesh. Yet they touch him with their pitying hands, making soft cooing sounds, trying to soothe away the pain of his soul with their calloused touches, and he allows it. The pain of my folly rips through me with a serrated edge each time she clasps his hand, her expression s