(& this is how I side-step actual blogging.)

& Another (old) bastardisation of Greek mythology, written in February 2007, a second-person re-telling of the story of Eros and Psyche.

& monsters under the bed

Your beauty was always a problem. There were always monsters under your bed and there was bugger all you could do about them. Your parents didn’t even try to help. You think they were spooked by your beauty too and, even though you were too old to die by exposure, they left you on a mountainside, all alone (with your matching luggage set and a .45). You hitched a ride and got hitched and you didn’t have a damn clue who you married because you were drunk on misery and tequila sunrises.

Your new home was a penthouse, high above everyone; it was just like the song that played on the jukebox in the seedy dive where you signed your marriage contract (love was lifting you up where you belonged).

You never actually saw him, your significant other. He was away during the day and always made love with the lights off. He used to joke about how, if you ever tried to see him, if you ever turned on a light or lit a candle (or even a bloody cigarette) in his presence, he would walk out on you. The funny thing was that it wasn’t really a joke and it scared you to think that he might offer you up to the monsters under your bed. That was why you never turned on the lights when you heard the rustling sound of wings at night or when you felt a draught (even though all the windows and doors were closed) or when you heard whispers in a language that was not your own.

You did not think that your own sisters were the monsters under your bed although you should have known. They were always such vindictive bitches because you were always so much more beautiful than them. It was their fault and their whispers in your ear that made you turn on the light and he left you because he didn’t believe in second chances or child support.

You talked to your mother-in-law and learned the true meaning of vindictive bitch. She was the one with the goddess complex and the lipstick-smeared martini glasses who always made you feel as though you were the worst thing that ever happened to her son and it was all because you were more beautiful than she was. She resented you for making all the guys crazy when you walked down the street in your miniskirt and high heels.

You didn’t want all the guys, though; you just wanted the one who deserted you when all you had done was turn on the light to ward off the monsters. You knew he was beautiful too, with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes and feather-soft kisses and strong arms.

You won him back, of course; you were stubborn that way and you made ground-rules, like counting to ten before losing your temper and leaving all the lights on and all the candles burning and pretending not to be home when your mother-in-law came to call.