Beyond recognition- COMPLETED

BEYOND RECOGNITION

PROLOGUE

'I hurt.... everywhere, my heart, my soul, my mind, even my legs when i try to walk. I hurt doctor'

'The pain will ease Constance, but slowly, gradually'

'Only on his return will the pain subside'

'You think that now but time can be a great painkiller'

'Doctor?

'Yes'

'Have you ever lost somebody you loved? No matter how thou is lost, have you?'

'Yes'

'So you must know that right now I am allowed to feel this way, I am allowed to feel as though all is lost, when my everything has suddenly disappeared'

'But Constance, did you ever really have him? Was he ever really yours?

It was this remark that structured the bricks in her heart, structured them so one would fall by one, every gulp, breathe, blink felt the hard, shattering tumbling throughout her until every piece of her sat lifeless in her stomach.

He was hers, she had the letters to prove. She had the memories and could feel every pore of his skin, every fragment of carving against her cheek, her fingers and more so in blissful intimacy. Within a moment, he had gone and with each passing second she withered with age, years added to her greying hair and sinking face. Beauty lost in love. The irony contradicted her writers soul, her realistic hopeless romanticism.

'Doctor, is it possible we can love too much?'

'We can love so much that can kill us, slowly or rather abruptly, physically, mentally and or emotionally. But no, we can never love too much'

'I think we can, I think I have'

'Many people in this world could never imagine loving too much, could never imagine love at all for whatever the reason be, so, frankly if you believe you have loved too much, irregardless of the pain shifting through you. You are possibly amongst the luckiest people alive.'

'I don't feel it'

'The lucky never do. The loved never do. The talented never do. Thats how we know they are.'

                                                                                                 XXX

Constance hated therapy, she never thought herself to need it, she had loved and lost but alike the world suggests, it is better to have loved and lost than never have loved at all. And she had, within immense capacity. Constance was fair, beautiful but gently so, her beauty was slightly aged and accurately proportioned throughout her anatomy, but pain had adapted to thriving off of the beautiful, and so her loss left her withered and old, lonely but as a writer will always be, spirited. She was a respected author, now forgotten but respected, people knew her story and sympathised, pitied her, and through this never knew what to say. She'd become dehumanised by stares and whispers, dehumanised as a result of humans only chance of immortality. But death can't suck the life out of a writer, so she took to paper, day by day. She began to write a story about a Man, a man infatuated with nature, with the world, he had a unique artistic flare and lived to explore, this being the dangerous fault of the man as well as his most endeavoured quality.

'He knew not of words like I, but of memory, of vision and detail otherwise unexplored, unappreciated by mainstream wonderers. He suggested wonderers to be the best kind of people, but what if they were blindly wondering, oh well she thought, he sees enough of the world to account for the blind and everything he captures, will forever remain fixed and permanent, now beauty can never be lost.' Constance wrote in a way completely disconnected from the rest of the world, she herself lost her senses, she could not hear when writing, could not see anything other than the ink lacing the paper, she couldn't move her hand quick enough to spill the words as she began to drown in her own needing. The book was called Torturous Tendencies, though what she wrote was bewitching it was equally as haunting, punctured by something demonic and painful. She wore the stories on her skin, the carvings of her thin worn face, the bullet holes in her pores filled with alcohol and tobacco.