Meeting you was like a dream. Ephemeral, iridescent, faceted.
Your emerald eyes locked with my brown ones for the first time in so long, too long. I devoured the breathtaking sight of your deliberately, elaborately mussed hair, and the stubble on your well-defined jaw, once clean-shaven. You took in my "Atlantic eyes" as you once told me in a locked room, and I plundered through the emerald-tinted windows to your soul as we stood there, ice statues glittering under a summer moon.
Your mesmerising, yet tired bejeweled orbs lit up, and I felt my heart jump. Could this… work?
I wasn't sure. Then again, when was I?
Unconsciously, I took a step closer. You remained frozen.
Consciously, my coarse fingers groped in the murky depths of my duffel bag, awaiting the cold touch of metal. I thought of the abortion and smiled. The memory of your icy fingers burning against my wrist throughout was crystal clear.
I took another step. Your lips parted, ever so slightly.
Another step. You sucked in precious, precious oxygen, so crucial to a hammering heart speeding up.
Yet another. You exhaled a tainted breath of evergreen mouthwash.
Then I stopped. The glint of the carefully polished metal caught your green depths, and you gasped. You thought I wouldn't do it. You thought I was too petite, too fragile, too afraid, too much of a coward.
No more. I smiled, for I had waited so long, and you were finally here. I knew you'd come back sooner or later.
I lifted the cold metal, watching the copious emotions flit past your flawlessly chiselled porcelain face. I held your wrist the way you did to me when you were punching an innocent life out of my womb. My arm jerked forward in a swift and fluid motion, and retreated in a dilatory manner, eager to heighten your agony.
The edged metal, so very carefully polished, was now stained. I ventured a lick, and was satisfied to taste the russet liquid's unique tang of rust and salt.
Crimson roses, so delicate, yet so exquisite, were blooming on your white shirt. I reached out and leisurely fingered its petals. I plunged my hand into the carmine soil, but all I found was worms. I frowned.
You were no longer that proud dragon, the lady killer. Not that it would have changed anything those prolix years back - our conjunction that unforgettable night was never consensual.
Your porcelain mask was shattering, the painted lips screaming in agony. You seemed much like a worm at present, writhing and convulsing.
I decided to leave the worms in. Squeezing them didn't make them curl up into that seemingly perfect spiral as I had expected.
I poked a finger in. I knew it was your stomach. You screamed again, more and more like a worm by the second. The world could use a lot more soil-turning worms, I thought. I wiggled my finger, not unlike a worm. You convulsed, and tears were gathering under your dilated pupils.
The pressure around my finger disappeared as it left your stomach. Wouldn't want it to corrode like your organs were…
You couldn't tell me how long I was going to suffer. Sometimes I wondered if it was simply that five excruciating hours, or every minute till this day, this hour, this minute.
I could tell you, though. You'd die in fifteen minutes. Dead and gone. No comatose nonsense. And even if I hadn't invaded your body, you'd feel the acid seep carelessly into your bloodstream, corroding all your organs that were once as precious as mine, and die in fifteen anyway.
As you slipped into the easy darkness, I slapped you awake. You weren't going to escape from a mere twentieth of the agony I went through because of your drunken delusions and selfish sanity. You groaned, already limp and far from hostile. My smile grew.
Then my watched beeped, and you fell limp, your eyes glassy and unseeing. Oh, I forgot.
I guess it was too late to tell you that the Atlantic wasn't brown.
This is sort of... creepy. I can't believe I wrote this.
But then again, when ain't I morbid?
I do have a sense of humor that doesn't lean towards such morbidity...
I started out writing, thinking that Atlantic blue eyes wasn't true, because the Atlantic was white with ice.
Then I realised I was thinking about Antarctica. Asinine.
My draft wasn't half as sadistic... what am I becoming?
By the way, the guy raped her. When he was drunk. (Clue: the locked room?)
That's why he admired her Atlantic eyes even though they were brown.