SYMPHOBIA - Chapter One

She Likes it Now

Red is never quite red in a photograph. Why is that? It always seems faded or ridiculously oversaturated. There is a sliver of red cuff at the edge of the hairy wrist. No watch, no ring, no obvious personalization or identification, but the hand grips her arm just below the pit with angry control. The sweat on her arm transfers to the folds of his fingers.

Sunlight makes the red brighter than it should be and her shirt stops halfway across her shoulder, so the heat is expected. The grip, however, is not. Her grin hasn't yet registered the interruption. Her shirt is the sky. The clouds of white in the pale blue tie-dye move over her. It makes her think about flying. Her short brown hair looks darker. Almost black. But it’s still brown where the sun hits it. It’s shorter than she told the lady to cut it, but she likes it now.

Behind her, the green trees are blurred in the distance. The colors are warmer than the day. Even the brown of their bark seems softened by the lushness of the full summer air. The comfort and tranquility they suggest is denied by the drained whiteness of her skin around his clenched fingers.

Perspiration is gathering on her forehead like it does when she runs. She can’t run with the hand on her arm.

Her eyes are focused on the grip, but her smile is to the camera.

Her other arm is clenched, in complete contradiction to her submissive limb. The elbow is drawn away from her body. Her hand is at waist height, partially concealed by her shirt. Her fingers are clenched and her knuckles are white. At the base of her first, the glint of something sharp betrays her calculated and convincing smile. The shape of the blade is just visible through the clouds that cover it. She knows it will be messy. Messier than she first imagined it, but she likes it now.