A Series of Us: One Flesh

Faith Silbernagel

Captive in Her Eyes, a book about a man obsessed with the woman he loved. When I read it, the leaves turned different shades of red, or brown. Everything around me was beautiful. He was beautiful, and like the man obsessed with the woman he loved—I was obsessed with him. I was obsessed with how he was easy to read like one of the books I brought home with me. 

In His Arms was one of my favorite books in high school. It reminded me of long winter nights I spent away from him, and all of the thoughts I wish I told him. I sat by the fireplace at night and reminded myself of his pine scent—which was, strangely enough, like my book. 

Teary-Eyed was a book I left at his house. It defined all the emotions I felt when we cried that night about ending our relationship, and all the times we had fought over my books. 

Beginning was when I met her. The courtyard shined like heaven opened and picked her as its perfect angel. The muse for every book that caught my attention and every emotion that fluttered my journal with butterfly words. 

Sunrise was the day I spoke with her about my books and how bright everything was around her. She giggled in a way that was like the sunrise described in the book—something bright, soft, awakening the soul. 

It still wasn’t the right story.

Beauty on every page I read, her mouth the epilogue, and her glance was the beginning of every chapter.

I spent my days basking in her sunlight as her blonde curly locks tangled in my glasses. Between Two Shaded Trees was our spot on campus that fall—our make-out spot and reading spot. I read her endless stories, the ones that reminded me of her. She was like a book. Beauty on every page I read, her mouth the epilogue, and her glance was the beginning of every chapter. But there was a stillness in her glance; it was soft, yet something loomed unspoken. 

Bittersweet. Heartache ensued when she told me she found someone else. Someone who didn’t compare her to the books they read—someone normal. 

Crumpled—the book of defeat. Enemy lines ripping your allies to shreds, and breaking through your defenses—my reality. My friends had moved on from me and my love of books. They wouldn’t be part of my narrative anymore. 

In the springtime, My Heart echoed in my mind as his arms enveloped me like vines that circle a tree. As his hands caressed me, my thoughts wondered where we would be, come spring. 

He read me April Showers while we picnicked in the park. I sucked on grapes and felt the sun’s rays warm my back. He glanced away from the book into my eyes—soft blue rain showers. I grew that spring. 

As summer came along, Forgotten sprang to mind. How he held me, and let me go for a whole week—no texts, no calls—nothing. Nothing but the heat stabbing me as I walked to the library for another book to read. 

By the Chapel Gate I read the week before fall when I nestled in his arms once again—listening to the pitter-patter of his heart echo in my ears. The sweetest lines in a poem—the best story of a person I ever read.

Latching On. Our time spent together his heart beat louder, and my hunger outgrew my self control. Warm embraces became flavorful sensations, glances became deep infatuations. We were glued to each other.

Whispers I read a week before we slept together. The kisses he left on my neck, and the way he spoke to me gently as the winter landscape sparkled through the glass window of his dorm room. I still remember the warmth I felt. 

My narrative still wasn’t like the books I read. 

Fall brought the autumn breeze when he invited me to his sister’s wedding. The white of her dress blended with her snow white skin, and her blue eyes like spring rain. Together he and I sat in the corner of the reception as he stirred my heart with The Light In His Eyes. 

When winter came that year, The Light in His Eyes came to my mind again—so pure, so innocent. His eyes still shined like they did at his sister’s wedding four months ago. As I recalled the starry night that shined like his eyes, I grew excited. When we walked down the path near our apartment during long nights, I reached for his throat. I couldn’t help myself. My teeth gently grazed the side of his jugular—like the vampires in Among the Thorned Roses. He held me tighter—digging into my skin and his heart pitter-pattered louder—louder than before. 

Your Song. As I lay asleep next to him in January I heard the pitter-patter once again—the sweet song of his heart just like the innocence in his eyes. It drove me wild. I desired the song. I desired him.

Of all the books I’ve read, he was the only one I finished. He is the one I want to read. But I can’t forget about Me. I don’t want to be alone. How do I know he won’t leave me? He won’t leave me. 

Blood pooled from my hands. My nostrils flared and my breath felt as if it elevated from my chest. Pitter Patter—his song, the sweet song. I wanted it to last—the sound of his beating heart as my lullaby. 

His melody goes on. 

He won’t leave me. 

Our Story has no ending.