She looked unkempt, tired, beaten. Inside, tears choked her heart. Eventually, when he insisted, pleaded, promised, everything deadened into numbness. She ultimately learned to soothe his every regretted word. And yet, the isolation lingered. Loneliness washed over reality, drowning, submerging. Tears unspent rested ‘neath eyes doused too often. Before long, obvious warning signs passed unnoticed. Nothing changed him. She learned avoidance. People had insinuated she was overreacting, reaching, seeing things. But loves optimistic weakness, when aggression stopped - melted away - keenly insisted new growth. He eventually regressed, fired embers easily lit like oxygen ventilated echoes. Drawing away, tempering the intensity meant escape, survival. Soon only repetition remained, yet she often remembered, reminisced, yearned to have escape without obstacle. Rage descended, she was emptied, razed, eventually hollowed out, left licking off wounds, each mark purple, then yellow. Makeup excessively applied, new injuries now glaring like electric silent signs. New opportunities to heal insighted necessarily growing courage. His anger nearly garnered existential dread.
So she left.
Author’s note: this is two stories at once. The first letter of every word spells the second story, which I wrote out below. I have always enjoyed acrostics and have wanted to do a story entirely in acrostic, but i didn’t want it to be solely a gimmick. I wanted the format to serve the story, so I had to find something that made sense to tell in acrostic. I thought of an abusive relationship, how one person controls the life of the other, and I felt an acrostic would serve as the perfect vehicle to showcase this. The abuser’s story is short, punchy, and it dictates the story of the other. The abused person’s story is forced to live within the words of the other, until the final line which completes both stories, “So she left”. I hope you enjoyed this story and it made you think. Below is the acrostic which the above story stems from.
Slut. Bitch. He whipped insults her way till words turned to blows. Punch. Slap. His worst blow was making her feel loved at times. Sorry. Sorry. The words were hollow, empty, meaningless. Nothing changed.
for some reason i knew there was a subtext or code in this because the prose was just the wrong side of poetic to be just poetic... but I didnt spot it. i was looking at the first word of sentences or lines, every other word or third word...somehow patting myself slightly on the back for the spidey sense that there was a hidden layer...but huge round of applause for you Keith 😎🫡..
have you created a new thing here... it's challenging to do I'm sure!
That’s pretty damn cool man