One cloudy night, they laid together in bed, spooned. Their hearts gently beating in unison. Their bodies were cold, their faces were stone. Their eyes were the same shade of grey. They slept in dead silence.
All he had were nightmares. His mind unsettled and restless, imagining himself running from a large wave of darkness, feet barely moving. The darkness never engulfs him, even when it touches him, but he's afraid that one day, it will.
She dreamed in monotone black, staring at her eyelids throughout the night, and waking to face nothing but a lifeless corpse of the human she used to be, and the dead man that slept next to her, flinching, softly whimpering.
She created this hell. She killed him. Every ounce of beauty in him, she drained him of, every ounce of identity and manhood.
She stood up and entered the bathroom, going to wash the dirt from her face. For a long time, she simply watched the mirror with an empty expression. Then a tear streamed down her cheek. And another. Her eyes, like rusted pipes, slowly leaked more and more salty wet bulbs. Her face was unchanged. She stared into herself, seeing nothing.
A small sob erupted from her when she felt the knife enter her back.
She didn't have to look back. She knew it was him. She knew his expression, his posture, his heartless stare that was piercing through her mind, as if the knife carried a shock that lasted as long as it remained in flesh. She knew exactly what happened, and she slowly fell to the ground, laying on her side.
Heavy weeping suddenly burst through her lips as she bled out. He knelt by her side and put his hand on her hip, staring into her eyes, maintaining his glare. He watched her die slowly, waiting for her heart to stop fighting the knife in her back and give up on her, on life.
But as she cried, convulsed, and cringed in agony, she grabbed hold of the knife and slowly took it out of her. She removed his hand from her side and held it in hers for a solid moment, kissed him goodbye, and walked to the nearest hospital.
She had an amazing willpower to live, they say. That's how she made it.
Some say she actually just drove there.
No one knows how she made it. But she did.
God must have been looking straight down on her that day.
But she's not really alive. She's something far beyond the living. An old soul, they call it.
And she still loves that man, that man who almost killed her. She watches over him, pulling the strings of fate to keep him from getting the grey she cursed him with, as she is the only cure.
And sometimes, he looks up at the sky at just the right moments, to see her smiling down at him, sending her love.
"To fall in love is a blessing. To stay in love is a curse." - Unknown
All he had were nightmares. His mind unsettled and restless, imagining himself running from a large wave of darkness, feet barely moving. The darkness never engulfs him, even when it touches him, but he's afraid that one day, it will.
She dreamed in monotone black, staring at her eyelids throughout the night, and waking to face nothing but a lifeless corpse of the human she used to be, and the dead man that slept next to her, flinching, softly whimpering.
She created this hell. She killed him. Every ounce of beauty in him, she drained him of, every ounce of identity and manhood.
She stood up and entered the bathroom, going to wash the dirt from her face. For a long time, she simply watched the mirror with an empty expression. Then a tear streamed down her cheek. And another. Her eyes, like rusted pipes, slowly leaked more and more salty wet bulbs. Her face was unchanged. She stared into herself, seeing nothing.
A small sob erupted from her when she felt the knife enter her back.
She didn't have to look back. She knew it was him. She knew his expression, his posture, his heartless stare that was piercing through her mind, as if the knife carried a shock that lasted as long as it remained in flesh. She knew exactly what happened, and she slowly fell to the ground, laying on her side.
Heavy weeping suddenly burst through her lips as she bled out. He knelt by her side and put his hand on her hip, staring into her eyes, maintaining his glare. He watched her die slowly, waiting for her heart to stop fighting the knife in her back and give up on her, on life.
But as she cried, convulsed, and cringed in agony, she grabbed hold of the knife and slowly took it out of her. She removed his hand from her side and held it in hers for a solid moment, kissed him goodbye, and walked to the nearest hospital.
She had an amazing willpower to live, they say. That's how she made it.
Some say she actually just drove there.
No one knows how she made it. But she did.
God must have been looking straight down on her that day.
But she's not really alive. She's something far beyond the living. An old soul, they call it.
And she still loves that man, that man who almost killed her. She watches over him, pulling the strings of fate to keep him from getting the grey she cursed him with, as she is the only cure.
And sometimes, he looks up at the sky at just the right moments, to see her smiling down at him, sending her love.
"To fall in love is a blessing. To stay in love is a curse." - Unknown
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