The lion, the witch and the wardrobe

Definitely not fantasy with talking lions and pedophile half beings. This, a tale of back and heart aches. The trials and tribulations of a martyr. Not one with 7 virgins waiting for a kamikaze bomber but one who sacrifices for the fictional believe/feeling called love. The lion, the witch and the wardrobe.

Pride, great hair and ample of sexual prowess. The lion, a symbol of greatness and that's how it all begins. 2 people regardless of race, gender or sexual preference. The world now revolves around that person. Every smell, touch and sight is perfect. It can't be any better than this nor can anything go wrong. Paris pee'ed in its pants thinking it could outdo the romanticism emotions that took place between these 2 individuals.

"Dark clouds looms above the lands with cold winds blowing, prickling the bones under our skins. Ahead of us, we see dried leaves moving in a circular motion.  Signs or turmoil and turbulence approaches the calm and loving doorsteps of our home". The hideousness of the witch is finally showing. The ego and demands wrinkles the foreheads. The shouts and screams. The sounds of crashing porcelains and finally the sounds of the palm landing on the face resonates within the walls.

Silence suddenly creeps in. Mouths sewed tight under the impression that all that happened was because the other half was merely in a bad mood. The witch had finally appeared. Hansel and Gretel fell for the house of candy. 

It all begins mentally. The unseen pressure, the sudden expectations and of course not forgetting, the disappointments. The torture and never ending tears. Similar to a siege on a fort that runs bare on resources and is in the midst of breakdown waiting for the chance to surrender but such an option is never an option. Then comes the physical abuse. The bruises and scratches. The burns that will be mistaken for birth marks. The tortures and the rapes. The scratches and the inappropriate runs of the fingers through the body. The witch gets what it wants.

The wardrobe. A place of solemn and peace. Depression now needs a home. Further down the street, a funeral is being held for the past. The hangars for the necks and the drawers for the chopped up limbs. With its doors closed, darkness has never been this friendly. Imagination and lies now is a friend anyone could possibly ask for. A trip to Neverland suddenly doesn't look like a trip to Port Dickson with crappy beaches and dirty hotels. A place for unused dresses and shirts for molds to grow onto changing its original colour.

Definitely  not a visit to the nearest whore house where happy endings happens. Unwritten pages where life and fantasy strikes a balance. Where expectations and reality are often abused and later met with harsh greetings. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Full Stop