Mitchell's Mustard Blog

July 14, 2016

His Loving Touch

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 3:09 pm

“Fuck. . . I’m sorry” he yelled.

The words that echoed around the walls as she lay looking up at a crack in the ceiling, it wasn’t the only thing damaged in this house. His voice had changed so much over the years, it had lost it’s edge of calm, of love, and reassurance. It had become angry, just like him. Soon after it would turn to desperation while she cried nursing the new trophy of their altercation. The kind of trophy you didn’t want on show, hidden under her make up rather than proud on the mantle piece. This had become her life. Another day, another bruise. She was strong, had built up a tolerance to his knuckles. But this time was different, the type of knock that puts your world on it’s side, pulling you into a plume of darkness, the ones you have to wake up from.

“I didn’t mean it, darling. I didn’t. . . It was an accident” he pleaded.

She flinched from his skin, she could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores. This smell had become resident in their household, a long time gone were the scent of flowers and peace. She stay laid where she landed, he collapsed back onto the sofa. His presence of anger turned to adolescence, holding his troubled mind in his damaged hands.

“You have to forgive me, my love” he begged.

She had never feared him before, she knew the telltale signs as to when she should keep her distance, but never actually feared him. But she lay there fearing the next moment, the next day, and the next time his anger touched her skin. Her nausea could have been from concussion, realisation, or their unborn child.

“Help me, please help me” he sobbed.  

The thing she feared the most was that she didn’t want to be there, but she didn’t want to be anywhere else either.    


June 30, 2014

No one seems to write letters any more . .

Filed under: A Little Something — Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , — mitchellsmustard @ 10:34 am

For you . .

Love, the word itself, seems too short, too minuscule, to explain its true meaning. The way this single word holds you in an alien state, a whirlwind of emotion, hand in hand with the silence of a lonesome night. Big enough to take over one’s existence, yet small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. Your biggest strength, your weakest attribute, the most powerful weapon. I’d pick you up from your dusty knees, but only to ground you when you’re too high. Knowing that a personal goal comes in the form of this word, a sucker for a happy ending. Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, hand in hand, till the last light. Sunsets into full moons, morning rain to afternoon sun. Imprints on pillows and messages on mirrors, they’re not a myth, not just a scene from a movie, they’re a life experience that comes with a choice. A choice to let go, understand, to appreciate those little things we seem to neglect. I’m lucky enough to have an existence around you, but fall short as you’re not here to fulfill my existence. At times we all bend, we buckle, but we smile, and we all live to fight the good fight for another dawn. All I’m trying to say is, you make it easier, tougher, seem longer, feel shorter, more colourful, yet still black and white.
And after all, after all of this. . . . I love you.
But you will never know, my darlin’, because the words themselves couldn’t hold the weight that you deserve, unspeakable.


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