He has fantasized this—this moment echoing through eternity.
He has been stranded in a desert, harsh and boundless,
Coursing through dunes,
Through the sandstorms that tears his skin,
Bleeding him—over and over again.
A mirage—
A cruel and beautiful ruse the mind creates when all hope is withered.
He's wandered through illusion countless of times.
God's will crushed him late—
Crushed him agonizingly slow,
Until his bones shattered within ragged, scarlet–splattered flesh.
The Heavens, in their whim,
Presents mercy—
A beautiful oasis.
A glint, her glimmer reflects in his eyes.
In the depths of despair,
Ishmael finds his Utopia.
He hadn't realized how deep he'd longed for her.
Not until she opened up a portal,
And ushered him into this otherworldly realm.
Now—
He stands before the door.
She has left him standing there all alone,
And he cannot wrap his mind around her impressions of him.
The ghost of her voice echoes to someone unseen, unbeknownst to him.
He tries—
Truly tries not to terrify her.
But as always, his yearning soul acts before thoughts can rise.
He moves fast—
Faster than the caged birds flying toward freedom.
And at once—
He rushes in.
Pulls her into his arms.
The phone slips from her hand,
Clatters to the floor.
There's a loud crack inside him—
The frost awning his heart fractures,
Melts—
Ignited by Neva's warmth.
He no longer cares if she fears him,
He's purely drinking—
Drinking from his oasis,
Moistening the parched throat of a starved man.
The faint flame of the candle—
Appeared so life deprived to the world.
But for him it was enough,
The flicker was enough to carry on breathing.
For the melting candle defied the looming darkness.
The Illumination dim,
But sparks flew as he dreamed imagening where the fate might lead to.
He is the ruinous environment,
The flaring taper his aspiration of her.
The moment shall one day come,
And now it is here—
Stealing his breath away,
Stealing his heart away—from him to her.
Her warmth cracks and thaws the glassy frost cloaking his soul.
He feels the pleasure—
Of a burning firewood left still by an angel
On a snow–draped mountain,
While he—shivering,
Naked—had been left to freeze.
But now,
He lies in the spring glow—
Next to her—
In a green pasture made for dreams.
Neva gasps, reality yanking her back to her senses.
A chill runs down her spine as she finds an unfamiliar man's arms wrapped around her.
She presses her palms to his chest and shoves him hard.
She stumbles backwards, breathing hard.
She swallows the horror rising in her throat.
Her knees tremble.
Of course, he is not Rhett.
Not at all.
They may wear similar skin—but he's cold.
He doesn't feel home, warm like how Rhett feels against her.
"Neva?" Ishmael breathes, red veins creeping across his wild eyes.
Neva flees—her breath caught in terror.
She slams the door shut behind her, leaving him yet again...
Alone and drowning.
Ishmael swallows the lump in his throat, his heart bleeding confusion.
He stares toward the door she dissapeared.
Grieving, trying to process her reaction.
She's his only one.
His most beloved.
Why does she not recognize him?
In a daze, he moves closer—plants his palm to the wood, chin dipped in quiet devastation.
"Neva," his voice breaks, soft and brittle.
"Have you—have you forgotten about me?" A pause.
"I'm Ishmael," he swallows. "Your Ishmael." his voice is pleading, urging for her to remember.
"I... I don't know what you're talking about," her voice is a muffled whisper through the wood.
"P-please go away.
I think you have the wrong person."
A numbness descends.
His limbs heavy. He breathes slowly.
A sharp pang in his heart now poisons his senses.
"Is your name... not Neva?" he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper.
Though he already knows the answer.
She's his Neva.
He feels it. His soul knows it.
She's quiet for a moment.
Everything is still for a moment, and then—like the wind closing a curtain, she speaks.
"It is," her voice shakes.
"But I don't know you,"
"Please, go away."
Silence drapes the room. The only sound now is his breathing. Ragged. Deep.
He goes quiet for a moment.
"Neva, have you really?" his voice cracks like a twig under foot.
"No.. it can't be."
Then something shifts within him.
His eyes blacken.
The ever–present darkness in him curls around his mind like black smoke. Into rage.
"You promised me," he hisses.
And then—he bangs at the door.
"Open the door!" his voice rise to an octave higher, wild with desperation.
"I said OPEN the door!"
His fists crash into the wood, relentless, brutal.
The door rattles. The wall trembles.
He steps back.
He clenches his jaw.
And then—lunges.
His shoulder shatters through the door.
It bursts open. He stumbles in.
Neva's gasps carves the silence.
He looks up. Her eyes wide—tears perched on her long lashes, a dagger clutched in her trembling hands.
The warmth in his eyes is long gone.
He prowls toward her. Like a wounded animal.
"D–don't come closer," she stammers, stepping back.
Her back hits the wall. The dagger wavers, and tears streams down her eyes.
His eyes are drunk on her. And yet—they are hollow.
She is his prey. And he needs her.
He needs to devour every inch of her flesh and soul.
He stops—and stares at the dagger.
"D–don't—!," she cries.
But he's already here.
He grabs her hands.
Pulls her against his chest. Crashes her trembling form into his heat.
"Kill me," he whispers, his lips grazing her brow. His breath warm, minty, cruelly gentle.
Her fear spikes, throbbing like a wounded drum inside her ribs.
The closeness sickens her—it crawls over her skin, invades her lungs.
Ishmael's gaze roams over her features. She trembles like a hunted bird beneath him.
"I will gladly die by your hands," he breathes in her scent, floral, sweet and delicate—
the very air keeping him alive.
She whimpers, struggling to break away from him.
He grips her fists, guiding the blade to his chest.
Neva's knees nearly buckle as she feels steel pierce flesh.
Her stomach flips.
Her skin prickles where his breath touches. The pressure of the blade against his chest makes her vision blur. Her scream catches in her throat, sealed shut by terror.
The warm, metallic scent of blood thickens the air.
"If you don't kill me this instant," his voice rasps, "I will hover around you much like a shadow.
Everywhere.
Forever."
Drop—by—drop, his blood paints the floor.
Neva gasps, her mind spinning.
And then—he snatches the dagger from her.
He flings it across the room. The clang sound resonating.
Before she can scream again—he lifts her and throws her over his shoulder.
"Let me go!" Her scream rips the air.
She thrashes—fists pounding his back.
But no one comes.
No doors open.
No help arrives.
Down the stairs.
Out into the night.
Toward the silent, waiting Rolls Royce
sleeping in the shadows.