Heartless. How heartless it is to see the inevitable happen. To watch his soft, tawny eyes which once looked upon you with such adoration and pleasure, to slowly, but surely, shift into those displaying nothing but bitter contempt. Bitter contempt which pierces through your brittle, lifeless flesh, releasing dense, poison barbs deep into your core, the very essence of your filthy, dirty being.
And why does he feel so? Why, because he can now see into the depths of your mangled, rotten heart, and he knows you are something undesirable and dirty and downtrodden. Something you should find rotting in the street, something timid and festering, something which might reach out one solitary, wanting hand, fingers spread out in deepest desire and desperation. And any individual with half a logical thought in their brain would kick that grubby little hand away, crushing it into the dirt, refusing to rest until they hear each and every bone crack and crumble under their thick rubber soles. The screams of the heinous creature will serve to only aggravate one further, to render the punishment only irrefutably more barbaric, until it’s mangled wails and screams echo down the barely lit alleyway into the cloudless sky.
But, as it happens, you are not rotting in the street, reaching out one shaky, murky hand into the resolute silence of the twilight. No, you are here, in your study, with him. You have everything you could ever want, you are content and happy and he knows you have played the game so very persuasively, so cunningly. It is too late now, the second he placed the ring on your spindly finger, he was aware that it was simply too late. And, behind those makeshift tears of happiness, was the first real smile you had ever displayed in front of him. A cruel, cajoling scowl which permanently remained imprinted on your angular brows, as you stare at him with mocking, azure eyes. And the smile never ends, because you have won and he must now remain with you, through sickness and in health, until the day you die. And that day will be no time soon.
You tenderly remember the way he looked at you when you were first introduced, at the Musee d’Orsay, if your memory serves you correctly. It usually does. From across the gallery, you see him shift from foot to foot with intense trepidation, his sweltering gaze taking in every twist and turn of your feline form as you pretend to examine the latest Matisse, with its incandescent hues and gaudy paintwork. It was miserably boring. You pick at your lapis necklace absentmindedly, daring to let one slender, confident smile rest upon your narrow lips and you turn to gaze at him, in the first of many grim-faced smiles. The blush spreading over his cheeks looked delicious, and you remember gearing the footfalls of his nervous steps, feeling the warm, shaky hand on your shoulder. And just like that, you knew he was the one.
Copyright © 2017 Rebecca Sherratt
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