By S. Westwood
Key Themes: BDD, body dysmorphic disorder, borderline personality disorder, self harm, suicidal ideation, short stories, poetry, prose, fiction
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‘A Moment Gone’ is a collection of short prose by S.Westwood, author of ‘Suicide Junkie’. Through short stories, prose and poetry S.Westwood explores his deep thoughts, philosophies and feelings, each piece written at times of emotional confusion and sometimes depression. But along side tales of anguish we also see folktales and flights of whimsical imagination, stories with meanings that could even be suitable for children. It is a real mix of work but all following the journey that Mr.Westwood took through life, trying desperately to understand the world around him and writing with an obvious passion for words.
PRAISE FOR ‘SUICIDE JUNKIE’
‘Suicide Junkie is a dark and painfully honest account of a young mans struggle with Body Dysmorphic Disorder and Suicidal Ideation. His powerful writing will grab your attention, and his soul will truly touch your heart. ’
About the Author
S.Westwood is the author of ‘Suicide Junkie’ his autobiography, living and surviving body Dysmorphic disorder, borderline personality disorder, self harm and suicide. He is always working on promoting the book and most importantly raising awareness of BDD. S.Westwood has appeared on TV to speak about BDD on the shows 'This Morning', 'Trisha', 'Doctor Doctor' and Channel five news. He has had his story published in national magazines, newspapers and also had an interview for radio. He regularly gives talks at training days for subjects such as suicide prevention. S.Westwood is 33 and lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and their baby boy.
He walks along the road he has always walked-the road which will lead him home. But he is in no rush to reach his destination, for this walk is important. The things in his mind must work themselves through before he reaches his door. But there are so many things; so much has been said. His mind struggles to keep it all together.
His legs move without his brain having to signal to them. His brain has better things to do. His mind is a thought, and there is room for nothing else. The road goes on travelling under his feet. Cars travel past and pay him no mind. It is only inside him that the insanity shows like a firework display of emotion.
Rain comes, darkness of clouds that should dull the mind. But the gentle drops of water falling upon his head make no impact. He does not even notice, and his legs keep up that steady pace.
The rain does not like to be ignored, and so it comes down faster, heavier, wetter. His hair falls, soaked down over his eyes. His clothes cling, cold to his body. Yet he walks, his mind thinks, and nothing outside of his frame means anything to him.
Let his house move away from him. As he walks, let his home move also. Let the road grow and have no end. Let the rain come and the wind blow. There will never be time for his thoughts to settle, so let him just keep on walking. He is always walking.
A Spell Of Love
In her room the light of the last candle dims into darkness, and then her eyes adjust to see once more. She sits on her bed, back on the pillow and legs stretched out in front of her. She has been that way for hours, staring forwards, looking at the door. She has been that way ever since he left. She had no idea she would feel so empty without him filling the room. She had no idea that she would have to live through this moment. This time was never supposed to come.
He had gone through that door; he had let it fall half closed, and there it stayed. Somewhere far distant from those four walls, he went on with his life while hers was as still as death. If only he had blessed her with that release. He had surely taken away her life, yet somehow her heart continued to beat, and her lungs went on breathing. Such pain should have killed her, yet there she was, and there she would stay.
Let the weight fall from her bones. Let her stomach starve and shrivel into nothing. Let her mouth dry up and set still. Let her bones sit and look at that door; let her corpse wait for his return. For it would take that long, and she knew it. He was not coming back to her.
How many had he touched in this way? That phantom, drifting into existence's from out of the cold night. Coming into the warmth of a home and into the warmth of the bed. The touch of yielding female flesh under the grip of his huge hands and agile serpent fingers.
“Can I fetch you something my sweet? Before I come to you.”
His words were still within that room, playing amidst the dust in the air. And the remembered visions of him were dancing with the shadows. Such a beauty he was, like no man should be, for such beauty is dangerous in the hands of a male. It was a female’s beauty, a pure exquisiteness, as perfect as a sculpture and just as pale. Yet he was handsome not pretty. A man chiselled from fine white marble and then lovingly smoothed. A man who had borrowed his lips from the cherubs and his eyes from the blue waters of the sea. Dark eyebrows and hair that moved gently in the breeze as he stepped up to the door.
He knocked, and he waited. His face fell into peace, his eyelids resting before they opened. And she had gone to him, to meet her stranger at the door.
“I am sorry to disturb you, but my car seems to have given up the ghost, and I can’t find a phone box around. Could I possibly…”
She had invited him in, for she knew who he was; he with those eyes that looked right into her body and soul. He with the sweet voice of a thousand whispers becoming a whole. He who’s body moved beneath that jacket, promising a handsome nakedness.
She had been waiting for him, and she had brought him into her house.
Such an effect he had on her, the strength of it took her by surprise. The sum of his parts added up to twice what they would in any other man. But this was the man she had dreamt of for so many years. This was her creation manifest from all those vivid, lucid dreams. Dreams full of sweetness and light. Dreams of him coming to her, and coming with her in sex that filled a hunger no food ever could; a thirst no water could reach; and an ache that only his touch could soothe.
This was how it was supposed to be, yet it had felt so strange. How could she love him so without the slightest knowledge of his life? Why was she so willing to give him everything that was her and ask for as little in return as a single kiss? It was such strange magic that it scared her.
She had been excited as a child when she heard the knock at the door, quickly applying more lipstick before going to him. A brief look at herself in the mirror, a smile on her face; she could not believe she was so lucky to have this chance.
She opened the door and swooned at the sight of him. Even her imagination had not been able to piece together something as wonderful as he. She had no idea of the feelings the mere sight of him would invoke.
Years ago, as a child, she had dreamt of a man with such beauty and with such words:
“I do not wish to step out of line, but you really are amazingly beautiful.”
She had smiled at his flattery, and smiled to herself. He had no idea; he probably never did; yet this was his life, and this was his purpose. She had done nothing wrong, merely calling upon he that was, surely, always meant for her anyway. Yet there was a price to pay, there always is. For every happiness, nature must even it with pain. For every corruption of nature, there must then be balance, and pain will soon tip the scales.
One stolen night she had. One night which lasted for the shortest forever. Arms around her, lips on hers, flesh within flesh. Kisses and caresses sending sensations to every part of her long deserted body.
But it was over now. He left at dawn. He left as surely as the night leaves to let in the day. But he was not coming back.
She should have known it really. She should have known that it would only last for one glorious night. But she had taken that risk. She had read from that book and she had mixed her herbs. She had called on him to come to her. The magic was so basic and so slight. And the spell had worked, but the magic had died. Soon it would be her turn.
You’re so beautiful. Those eyes that shine right into me and see who I am.
A precious face, to me, worth a thousand trees, a million tropical sunsets.
A soul more beautiful than nature bestows its beauty on the birds and the animals.
I am lost. There is no way back.
Nothing else is beautiful anymore.
OTHER WORKS BY THIS AUTHOR
This product was added to our catalog on Wednesday 23 April, 2008.