mdarkweaver
They told her drowning was peaceful.
It wasn't.
If there is anything to be learned,
from this rush of glitter and golden light,
it is that one should always wait
just one more moment
before tying that rope.
She gasped and rolled over, her hands reaching out into the night sky, touching swirling stars.
So this was what it meant to be mortal.
The second her lips touched his, he was nothing but sand on the wind.
Falling through the cracks between her fingers.
Sprinkling over her shoes like one last pleading kiss.
The inventor shrunk backwards from the smoking wires and felt a sob rise in his throat.
She broke.
They wrestled the gun from the assassin's hand too late.
He had already fallen to the ground.
Fallen as quickly as she had fallen in love with him.
His blood as red as her lipstick.
The little white boxes were stacked in neat rows on the table.
"They're guaranteed," said the slick voice.
"You promise it won't hurt?"
"Oh, no. It'll be just like going to sleep."
She was inside the fire.
The fire, likewise, was inside of her.
2:00.
His hair was messy.
His eyes were blue.
And the baby was laughing.
2:01.
The car was totaled.
His hands were red.
And the sirens were very loud.
"I know exactly what I want," he said, leaning across the table.
The three men in suits cringed backwards. One of them lifted a quivering hand.
"Put the gun down and we'll talk."
He laughed, high-pitched for a boy his age.
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writing since 2011 · 37 entries · 37 days shown up
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