She died for a love that never was


Conventionally, every human is capable of even the worst of behavior; with or without recent experience of it.

It’s almost like a natural inclination to vice and animosity. One that of course cannot be corrected even with a proper education. All that has to happen is them to be pushed hard enough to break.

I stared at her, being consumed by the cold. Her fingers in one hand clenched and in the other twitched. Her toes straightened out and she seemed to be getting colder by every expiring second.

Her eyes rolled in as she chocked on her own blood, her life seemed wailing and her kicks looked feeble as she slipped in to the slumber of death.

I was standing there near her, my soul weary of love and drenched in pure hate.  Everything that was around seemed to have been transcended by the strong thud of my heart beat. I was still strongly holding the stone that unceasingly ended her.

“I have killed her,” as if talking to myself in voice loud enough; such a deep hauling voice at the back of my head.

Reality kicked in with must strangeness as I staggered not just a little, but my weight fortunately landed me on a wall.

Down its design, I wasted myself to the ground, hugged my legs close, drowned my face in, and shut my eyes.

In her diary she had written:

“At the smoothest touch and brush of his fingers on my rosy cheeks, at once the world around me silenced in bleak, weakness, oblivion and glimmer. We were the only two stars in the vast multitude on one in a many nights with absence of the moon. I was Venus and he, he was pluto.”

So, this is where it all went wrong. This is how she fell in love with an imbecile. I am utterly eager even in her death to let her know that Pluto isn’t a planet.

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Artista St. Pope

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