Their Hell Perpetual

Neither slashes or claws.

Moves to strike or looks to slam.

Faces not shown, but hidden from each other, as they pull at each other’s hair.

Their bodies pressed together as tightly as they might possibly be, as they, in what seems like an endless hell of pain and pressure, roll left and then right — no advantage gained or lost in those slow, up and over turns.

As though they loath one another to the very depths of their souls, their hate drives them not to defeat and remove, but instead to hold on and torture.

For as long as they can stand the pain and the emotional drain of warring with a woman who mocks them, challenges them, and worsens every wound they might suffer.

And when, after hours, that limit of physical, spiritual, and mental endurance is reached, they do not tear apart from each other swiftly — spitting and snarling.

But instead sob together. Shake together. Until whatever emotion it is they land on, that finally pushes them apart. And then in their distance, to gather their clothes, sniffling weakly as they dress without speaking a single word to the woman with whom they have writhed and rolled for so long.

Each knowing that the next night, they will return to that same storage room, when everyone else has left. Remove their dresses once more. And then after they have taken soft grips of each others hair, once more lock themselves together.

The initial spark that began their endless feud having faded into the ether of life long ago.

Just as the end they once sought seems to get further and further away with every session sent pulling. Rolling. And hurting each other without a single thought paid to peace or finality.

The only words spoken between them in the intimacy of their hateful embrace being either pleas for mercy, or curse-laden denials of the same.

Neither letting go. Neither giving in.

Their hell perpetual.

Their mutual suffering all that is left to heal the wounds they continue to share.

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