PARASITE by Sarah Byard (2nd place, Flash Aug22)

It is five years, two months and one day ago, and I am meeting her for the first time. We are talking and she is getting closer, closer, closer…

We are in her bedroom. I am watching her unravel beneath me and trying to hold her in one piece, but she is shattered glass. She clings to me as though terrified that I might disappear, but I will not go anywhere. Her body speaks to mine in a way that no words could. We are lost in a world of ecstasy, despair, hope and emptiness – but I do not care. She is my guide. I will follow her anywhere.

It is four years, eight months and fifteen days ago, and she is leaving me for the first time. She is drowning me with her sadness; she is yelling, a tempest tearing through every fibre of my being. She is destruction. She is desire. I want to embrace her, but she is water running through my fingers. She is leaving, the door slamming behind her. The emptiness of the room envelopes me, consuming me for weeks.

It is four years, five months and nine days ago, and she is a month spent in bliss. She is a weekend by the sea, her body dissolving as she swims among the fish and plants. She is a night under the covers, planning a future we both know will never occur.

It is four years, four months and fifteen days ago, and she is gone.

It is three years, nine months and two days ago, and she has been back for over a month. She is not happy but I do not know how to help her. I can feel her drawing further and further from me. She is a balloon in the careless grip of a child – constantly trying to drift away until, at last, she cuts herself free and flies aimlessly, higher and higher, unobtainable forever.

It is three years, one month and four days ago, and she is gone.

It is one year, three months and twenty-nine days ago, and she is a parasite. I can feel her draining me, but I am a willing host. She is desolation; I am painful optimism. She still unravels beneath me, but now it is with a frightening intensity. She clings to me harder, as if my very presence is the only thing keeping her from disappearing entirely.

It is one year ago, and she is a distant train on the tracks.

It is last night, and she is a frantic scramble of clothes, hands and lips. She is the world crumbling around me – the aftershock I was not prepared for. Her hand is upon my chest, feeling for the beat to remind her that I am real. She wants the world, but I am a cage. She is a parasite, but I am a willing host.

It is this morning, and she is gone.