She plants her feet into the ground one last time, breathing heavily, eyes furious, livid.
"I can't stand you!"
Fists tighten, blood driving past its' limit, arms shaking with rage.
"I do not love you," she declares wrathfully, eyes ever fixed upon mine.
And then, she bursts into flame. The amber yellow sparks stroke the sky. All the while, her ashes plummet; down, down, down into the dark soil from which she was brought forth. Deafening screams are lost within a seething torrential massacre.
She was a beautiful creature, prancing about as if she was some woodland nymph. It is a pity that she could never love. She might've been happy one day.
Margaret was, if anything, like an ever-changing apple tree. Her branch like arms always reaped the sweetest of fruits yet if one was to ever strip her of her leaves, they would have found nothing but the foulest of intentions.
It is strange to love someone so vain. Their confidence is not only a gift but a curse as well. To be with someone, so in love with them self, always means you never have to lie for they never ask. She always knew she was beautiful. I never had to tell her that she was lovely, she already knew. Even when she was not at the pinnacle of her beauty, her confidence allured her into believing the contrary.
She never was troubled to do what she desired. It seemed no matter how bizarre the circumstance, Margaret was sure to shine. All of which would make utter sense. Margaret only ever wanted to be a star, a solitary patch of joie de vivre. She considered this life we live a waste. She hastened to the heavens.
I would not consider Margaret a typical for suicide. Still, I always knew she would find a way out of this world. Funny, how she believed in nothing yet continued to glorify transience. I can only surmise she was in search for the perfect ending, a finale to her existence. She wanted to flee with a bang. Perhaps that is why she chose a revolver as her bidding farewell? Adieu…
The moment she drew the trigger, I closed my eyes. Still, I heard the click when the bullet fell into place within the barrel. Still, I saw the fragments fall from within translucent eyelids. Like shadows across a wall, Margaret and her revolver willingly surrendered to the ever fixed epitome of glory. And ever so slowly, after I had opened my eyes, did Margaret's face appear to smile with a newfound happiness. A peaceful transition to where only Margaret knows.
And this is how I left her. Even in death, Margaret was beautiful. And so, away from the ample and besotted eyes of scrutiny, I walked with but one tear in my eye, lost to a moment that in turn was nothing but a fabrication of glamour.