Prompt: By the Bed

On the nightstand in the tiny bedroom we used to share, I keep your picture. The frame is tarnished now but I can’t bring myself to clean it. I don’t want it to change. I want it to stay just the way it was when we had it made.

The artist’s hand wasn’t perfect, but she captured you so well; I see more than just your face, I see your aura, your lust for life, your contentment. If only he hadn’t come and dangled that one temptation before you, hadn’t made you those grand promises that I could never match, hadn’t stolen your heart with his talk of power and peace.

You were always an idealist, my dear. You always thought the world could be a better place, and all it took was the right carpetbagger to come along and offer you that perfect, idealized, impossible picture. It’s not your fault really. I can’t blame you for it. Power has always been your Achilles’ heel, and now you’re stuck in that terrible contract because of it.

He has you wrapped up in words, tied up with responsibilities, locked away in an illusion that fulfills your dreams. You know better though, don’t you, my dear? You can see the cracks bleeding through, you can see the disruption you cause, you can see that absolute power can’t bring perfect peace like you imagined so long ago. Don’t worry, I’m coming for you. I’ll break you free of his grip one way or another. I won’t leave you to rot away in a prison cell, even if you did choose to be there. You couldn’t possibly have known what it would be like; you couldn’t have known how it would tear us apart. You wouldn’t have accepted if you had known, right, dear?

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Originally posted on Typetrigger. Fiction in 300 words or less. Please pardon typos or grammatical errors. See sidebar for copyright information.