My Isa Monologue

Sirens pierce through the still midnight air. I weakly look up and watch as the walls of the room are lit up with red and blue flashing lights. I sit hauntingly still, a mere ghost in the shell of my existence. Is this what catatonia feels like? I wonder dully, trying to downplay the presence of the dead body lying in my arms. Perhaps I should recount the events that have lead up to this state in the hope that it may help retain my sanity. It may just exacerbate it. I am far past the point of caring.

This ordeal began when I choose to fall for her. Liberals will try to persuade you to think otherwise but love is indeed a choice. It is only through a choice that this magnitude of destruction and pain could take place. Regardless of how natural

My Isa. We attended the same quaint school, run by the church in our town. At first I found her antics quite charming and was refreshed by her seemingly limitless bubbling energy. She had a light aura about her that uplifted my spirits even on the worst of days. I found myself flushed and blushing around her. I never meant for it be. It just did. I began spending all my time with her. And we were happy.

I’ve come to learn that an integral part of the human existence is suffering. Without strife, struggle, pain we don’t move forward. Our existence and purpose are pushed and perpetuated through these things. As a human it is not possible to exist and be completely happy or even dare to covet more. In that greed for more, one’s suffering proportionately increases. We wanted more. We wanted to be free and relish in the youth of our love. And we paid dearly for it.

Isa’s father came to the revelation of his daughter’s Sapphic relations one fateful night when he innocently meaning to check the time clicked on my Isa’s phone to check the time but instead found an incriminating photo of the both of us as her background. The beating hit a peak that night. I hold her right arm out to inspect it. The bruises were just starting to yellow. A vehement anger turns raw in my gut as I make out the faint shapes of hands and fingers echoed in fresher bruises, around her neck and arms. His