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10th July, 2010

Catherine,

You are a lovely jewel, Catherine Bean; the most beautiful. When I first saw you through the window of your house, I wanted you like I have never wanted anything else in my life. Your skin was wax from a candle and your hands carried the dance of a cloud when they swept your tumbling hair made of liquid gold. When you looked at me, your black eyes swam with mystery and sensuality and your cherry-pink lips pursed delicately. Catherine Bean, when we made love under the moon, when the white light licked your skin and your tresses winked, I thought you were the most precious thing I had ever held. The many months we had together had me in terrible bliss and I could not stand the moments without the sight of you. But something bad happened, Catherine Bean. Of all the faces in the world, you are by far the most wonderful; we both know that. You told me you loved me every time you saw me, and my heart-hand grabbed it close and I immediately said it in return. Only when I said it, it came from my lips, and yours, it came from your body and spirit. I asked myself every night why it made my tongue hiss with trite and at that time, I found no light. I am so sorry, Catherine Bean, but I tried. Your ugly beauty had taken a veil to my eyes and shunned me from what was truly there. It was nothing but petty admiration, and I drank it like a dying man. Only the sun knows the truth and when it touches your black eyes, it sees just a jewel. You are a jewel, Catherine, you are a jewel. I wear you like I wear pride on my sleeve and naivete on my cheek. When I received that letter, you were not on my thoughts and our separation played no hindrance on my departure. I am sorry for that, I am so sorry.

But I knew it, I knew that after everything, you would still sit by that window and watch the world tread swiftly by with only your soft skin and groomed hair to hold you. You would let the world go as if you were a stranger to it, all the time, all the time. People would come inside and you'd smile when they touched your hair and kissed your lashes. You still wear that pink dress, don't you? The white corset around your waist and the dry rose lace around your neck. You still wear those stockings, don't you? The white fabric across your porcelain legs like the hands of a ghost. You still wear those shoes, don't you? The string so tight against your little feet that you can't walk, and only I can come to you.

Catherine Bean, I'm sorry I can't have you, anymore. I grew up and now it's your turn. You trap yourself behind glass and brick, so why aren't your knuckles bleeding? Don't you see, Catherine, don't you see? If there was no use for your body, I know you'd be gone. Open your black eyes and let the water wash them away. Tear away your cold chest and let the wind carve your bones. If not, Catherine, it's no use. There's no use.

Catherine Bean, her name is Beatrice Cunningham and she has blue eyes like the sea and brown hair like the earth. She is a marine biologist for the Palsine Academy of Biological Sciences and we met during her assignment in the Fleuve de l'Âme three years ago. We're engaged to be married in four days. It will be the best day of my life.

I'm sorry, Catherine Bean, but I have to let you go. I cannot love nothing. No one can.

Jonathan.


14th July, 2010

In the loving memory of

Catherine Bean,

Died 14th July 2010

Aged 26 Years.

Forever treasured


A/N: Morbid. I know. This, again, was of the 'spur of the moment' variety. :) And you can see that it's written in a different style. I hope it works.

Anywho, thank you for reading. Should you feel the need, please review, it's always, always appreciated.

And yes, this piece does have a deeper message to it. I hope it's fairly obvious but if not, just ask and I'd be happy to elaborate and it will also tell me that I need to revise how effectively my point is brought across. NOTE: the dates are quite important. The dates themselves are not very important (other than the fact that she dies on my birthday, but that's only for personal reasons. :D) but the time period is. Sort of. It just adds the extra oomph to her suicide, methinks.

Liz xx