You sit five feet across from your murderess. Your intestines gnarled by decades of emotional constipation bend you chest to knees. Your asymmetric physiognomy suggests prior stroke at first blush. But she clearly knows you have disconnected one side of your brain from the rest of your body: ignorance of its existence retarding holistic development. Plainly put, the diminished left side of your body, its failure to thrive, visually represents the denial of your right hemisphere.
Her brown, doe eyes wait patiently for a crack to occur. A fissure. A chasm, no matter how narrow will suffice, allowing her words to slip through and sprout roots, enveloping the entirety of your heart complex with a tenacity you will be impotent to defeat. Knowing the roots will never leave once they grab hold, you refuse to breathe. Futile perhaps, but you believe you owe that much to the delusions that have befriended you and guided you this far.
A small noise. A knuckle popping?
“A person can only experience joy to the degree they are willing to experience pain,” her furnace-fired words drip slip from the ice floe protecting heart from brain.
“It’s not like you can reject pain, but accept joy,” she adds, sitting wrapped in a calm you covet. She knows the adage that the person who speaks first loses.
More dripping. More slipping.
Curiosity defies you, “Oh?” you question, becoming both your destroyer and your savior.