Till Death Undoes Me

It was a love that was left to decay in a cold winter, and she was a girl left to rot in a cruel Christmas.

The sky was dark with clouds, her heart still ached.

But that wasn't true, was it? Because her heart was long rotted, and she had been long forgotten. She doesn't remember exactly where she was hidden anymore, but she feels like maybe the earth does. Maybe the wind does. 

Every year, at the end when it's snowing and everyone is decorating their houses with joy and cheer, she feels the chill blow through her, feels the leaves dance around her bare feet. Only for a few hours does she feel anything, only for a few hours she feels the need to search for home.

But she has forgotten, and she hasn't bothered to look anyway. Each year she feels more numb, each year she forgets him more. Forgets that tired man who had broken her heart and fixed it in the same breath, with the same smile.

She didn't know who she was anymore.

And she didn't know who he was either, but she still ended aching, because she still missed him. Missed him with something like pain, and hate, and loss. She had lost him, but maybe he was never hers.

Not like she had thought.

That doesn't matter though, because it's been years and the snow barely chills her feet. Barely reminds her that it snows sometimes, that sometimes the world feels around her, even if she herself couldn't feel.

She barely feels the cold, when she does, the wind doesn't push her to look for home anymore. She is lost, like she feels she has always been, on this empty earth filled with those who live. She can't remember his eyes anymore, doesn't know his smile from the sound of her own voice, but she remembers his hands.

Nails bit till they bled, hands covered in pale scars that made her shiver, always shaking. She would hold them and kiss them and make them hers, finding out every-little-thing about him with that wrecked flesh, with that tarnished skin so cold it would make her flinch on the warmest of days. It was almost all she could remember now. After all, those hands were the last thing she touched, the last thing she saw, beneath the beautiful cloudy sky.

She still loves him, with her rotted heart.

Even though he didn't love her, because she was almost sure, in her hollow bones, he never had. Even though he had dragged her screaming, withering form to the lake near their hide-out. Their hide-out, because how could he bring another girl there? With all they did? With how his body (if not his heart) had loved her, made her still-beating heart race. Now along with her dead one. 

She still feels his hands under her nails, as she tried and failed, as she had wilted.

She still loves him, and still remembers the feeling of those hands grasping around her throat, pushing her head underneath the freezing water, holding her till she was weak. Remembered watching the sky with tired, burning eyes. Watched him leave, watched the water above her freeze back over. What was his name? She can't remember, but she remembers how she loved to call him, call him hers. Call him 'mine'.

What was her name? That was the first thing she had forgotten, but she still remembers his hot breath on her chilled ear, whispering 'baby'. Remembered later, just before, how he had called her 'b***h'. 

Because he hadn't loved her, had proved it near the end, caring less about her, and more about everything else, anyone else.

It still hurt, and she still loved him.

Author's Note

I know this is short, but I honestly wrote it in half an hour and felt myself become a little stuck, but I hope it still reads good. This is going to be my first piece on this site, so please be gentle but honest. I want to know if it's bad or not. Also I wasn't too sure with posting (types, tags genre, audience) if if I've done something wrong, or you feel something would suite or work better, please tell me. Thank, Lily.

(also sorry about the swear word, but I couldn't find anything else that started with 'b' that was rude and wouldn't be censored. if you have any ideas, comment)

Reviews

[Sharda]

It is hard to come to terms with death, sometimes we wonder if we even have the right to feel pain for the departed.
The relationship between the dead and the narrator is a difficult one. Nicely told, I like your style of writing but I would like to see some more content.