Diseased

She'd always been a mystery to me. Everything about her, from her strange otherworldly habits to the smell of her hair. But I think the most mysterious thing about her was how suddenly she was taken from me.

She wore the same necklace every day. Small and round and beautiful, its ivory face chiseled into the silhouette of a pure maiden. Crystalline diamonds traced the outline, like stars around the moon. She used to cradle it in her hands, a smile on her laughter-lined face. Before bed, she'd take it off and kiss it goodnight. Then she'd climb in next to me and say a prayer to the sun, thank you for the warmth and light and life. She didn't believe in any gods, but she believed in sunshine.

She'd lay her head on my chest and become my own cameo necklace. She would fall into a tranquil sleep, a look of innocence engulfing her face. I'd watch her for a while. Her eyes would shift back and forth under her lids, and sometimes she’d cry. I’d ask her about it the next day, but she could never remember why. She was a good liar.

One day she couldn't keep her secret any longer; she couldn't keep playing this mental game of hide-and-go-seek. She told me she was dying, simply, the same way you would tell someone that his shoe was untied. Weeks later, she cocooned herself away in a bleach-scented hospital room, and let her disease eat away her spirit and strength. And I watched.

She was this beautiful creature, so mysterious and wonderful to me. Then one day she wasn't any more. And now all I have left of her is a cameo necklace and a prayer to the sun.