From Heaven and Away from Hell

It's dark and there is no sound around her. Some hours before the traffic, before the millions of steps and voices that corner every thought or feeling, making her feel like a perfect clock but not a person. Right now is just how her skin strokes against the bedsheets, his breathing, the simple explosion of sensations that the brush of one body with another cause. A long, narrow mirror shows everything she loves to hate. She opens her arms to let her towel fall, some bruises and the shape a lot of men and women have flattered to the point of producing the question if such looks are a blessing or a curse. It's amazing how a simple caress to the cheek gives this feeling. How is it possible? There's nothing like it. The worst part is that the job, her dad, everything fades so easily just at the simple hearing of the right voice and words. It's as the addiction is the fact of scaping everything for merely some seconds of pure bliss that take her away from whatever serves as a reminder of all the things she doesn't have; the promises she forgot and everything else wired into her brain deep inside but away, buried somewhere within her, avoiding direct contact in order to make her dig in herself, as if looking for a treasure without a map but with infinite clues. Where does this need come from? Why does such intensity and pleasure come with all this guilt? Walks to the window, which produces a vertigo that seems somewhat appealing, specially now. She can't help crying feeling used, unable to enjoy without feeling nasty. Darkness fades around, the dawn with it's noise begin, a shower will help hide the streams on her face.