Blood and Stains

There is a sadness in her smile, a sorrow that conceals itself within the curl of the corner of her lips. It's like watching someone discover the small good in a series of bad memories. There, she sits, with her back arched away from the comfort of the sofa, ready to run but hoping to stay awhile. All she knows is the me of hearsay, the whispers and tales from the tongues of mutual acquaintances who will not allow me to change from what was... This is the me she expected. This is the me she wanted to not want. The ambivalence was painted on her face, the outer layer of sheen that illuminated the make-up she wore to protect her emotions. But I knew, more than I knew her reputation, I knew the look of self loathing that stood beside wanting something, someone, that was bad for you. This was that look. She had come to me with purpose, with no goal less than the impossible. She wanted my heart and would risk her virtue for the chance to confirm I did or did not had one... She had heard my stories, read my words, and desired the wounded writer she heard no woman could have beyond a night. She yearned to be the exception... She needed to be more than merely another distraction to me. She would disprove the rumors of her own identity by capturing a user of the users who had dirtied the name she truly deserved. All she had to do was become more like them, lessen the value of her body, offer herself for the fragile promise of my attention for as long as possible. All she had to do was make sex become love. The reverse of what she was raised to believe. The opposite of what she wished for... This was years ago... when ignorance allowed bad and good, black and white, to be equated with the world in her eyes. Before life itself taught her of the truer reality of shades of grey. Back before she knew that her identity was hers alone to create. Back before she had children, no husband, and a list of lovers too long for her to want to remember. Back before she realized that she could not change anyone but herself... Before she made the choice to give herself to my drunken desire, lascivious nature, and uncaring touch... Today, I saw her long enough for her to confess this all to me... Standing before me as every single thing she once prayed to never become, She confessed her honest regret of that night, her actions, and all decisions that followed... It was after I returned home that I thought. It was only then that I remembered her, that I vividly recalled the night she spoke of. And a sad sense of sorrow came over me as I recalled the morning after... And I remembered everything... And one memory filled me with guilt, One memory knocked the wind out of me and replaced it with shame and regret... One memory ensured that I would always remember her name from that moment forward. It was the one truth I should have cared enough to never forget after my night with her: "She was inexperienced, she was in pain during, and... there were blood stains on my bed sheets."