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This story contains themes involving suicide, so please be cautious reading.
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I found her staring at me, mascara and blood blending in unison as she lay on the bed. The razor blade had gotten a taste of her soul and consumed it, slowly and surely. I often see it in my dreams, which is most nights now. She used to appear when I looked in the bathroom mirror. I don’t have mirrors anymore. I sleep on the couch, which keeps me cold. I’m addicted to the feeling of the cold, especially at night. I keep the lights on in case I wake up and need to remember where I am. Her eyes matched the mascara, so now I sleep with the lights on. The razor blade is gone, but the cuts remain, leaving a burning sensation in the back of my mind. The walls are gray, and I find it a small comfort. The window stays closed; the blinds shut brings me relief. The sky seems bleak around this time of year. Someone should mourn with me; if it is nature, so be it.
I visit her daily, asking her how she is. The grave never musters the courage to answer, but the white rose I place down each time tells me all I need to know. The crows honor her more than others, as they rarely approach her. The few times they have, they leave an acorn or some other small sacrifice to her cold shrine. I like to imagine that I do the same with my presence, even when it is insufficient. The winter is cruel to the roses, but she seems to love the warmth of spring. She had shown love to the world around her, even when the audience had turned a blind eye, so I bought her a rose for her performance. She had the stars in her eyes whenever I saw her, staring ahead to a bright future no one else could see. The stars she saw are dim now. I don’t look at the night sky anymore.
Coffee tastes like sludge, as most things do. I am addicted to the smell, but she took the taste of it with her. I brew a pot in the morning and place it on the dining table. My bookshelves are full of dust and books, once loved but now neglected. I haven’t the heart to read them, to see her name in cursive on the front page in a corner. She haunts me, and I’m uncertain if that brings me joy or sorrow.
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“I love you.” She whispered with a playful smile as she wrapped her arms around my neck. I wake up in a cold sweat, the clock on the wall mumbling as I lay on the couch. I sit upright, 3 AM calling out to me once again. I take a sip of the bland drink on the dining table and stare out the window, peeking through the blinds. The streets were dead, as they always are. I walk into the kitchen, browsing for something. I grab a stale pop-tart and take a bite from it. It tastes like the coffee. As I stand in the kitchen, pop-tart in hand, I feel something new. I feel an urge, an urge to go somewhere else. I turn to the door to the balcony. The blinds hid the darkness outside the door. ‘Honey, let’s talk outside.’ A voice within my mind whispers. I could recall the number of times we had talked on the balcony off the top of my head, the memories often replaying in my mind. ‘Honey, let’s talk outside.’ I toss the pop-tart into the nearby trashcan and take a few steps toward the door. ‘Don’t.’ A strong voice from within commands. It wasn’t as soft as the first voice. I recognize it quickly. It had been a good while since my conscience spoke. ‘Honey, why don’t we talk outside? It’s so nice out tonight.’ The first voice purrs. I open the door and step outside.
The cold wind greets me as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The nearby buildings were bleak, the street lights flickering in solemn silence. Traffic was nonexistent, and the alleyways were clear except for a few homeless tents taking refuge from the wind. ‘Honey, let’s talk.’ That soft voice was so enticing. My conscience makes its presence known once more. ‘Don’t, it’s not worth it.’ The second voice didn’t have much of an argument, but I still felt like the words held weight. I sit down in a black metal chair, a relic of the old days left abandoned. The urge brought me to the balcony, but it seemed too good to be true. I enjoyed the company of the voices for a few minutes, each making its own case as they argued for what I should do. It was probably the most passionate argument I heard in a long time. The victor was already decided, but I wanted to humor the debate regardless. Once they both became silent, I stood up and leaned over the balcony railing. ‘Honey, let’s talk.’ The voice sounded closer. It startles me. I finally had doubts about the intention of the first voice. ‘Run!’ My conscience screams. Goosebumps and a shiver go down my spine, panic filling my being as a hand grasps mine, forcing me to hold onto the balcony railing.
“Honey,” the voice gasps. “There you are!”
I scream, trying to tear my hand away. After a few attempts, I pull my hand free and fall backward onto the floor, the nails of the hand on the railing ripping my wrist open. The sharp agonizing pain throbs as I try to crawl away. As I reach the doorway, blood now running freely from my wrist, I feel a hand grasp my left ankle.
“Honey, come talk to me.” The voice was no longer just hers, but an unearthly screaming that spoke in union, like two voices at once. I reach out and grab the door frame, the hand pulling with unfaltering strength. As it pulled, the blood covering my hands soaked my fingers, my grip slipping away. I lose my grip, my chin hitting the cement. As it drags me, I turn to face who the hand belongs to. It was her face, stretched over the face of that thing, its mouth open and its tongue a long bony arm attached to the hand, its ears replaced with two arms that grasped the railing. Two large black eyes stared into my soul from behind the flesh mask, staring through my body and into my soul. I scream as its jaws unhinged and it pulls me closer into its abyss, faces within beckoning me to join them.
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I wake up in a cold sweat, screaming and crying. I roll off the couch and onto the floor, unaware of my surroundings. After a few more minutes of weeping, I see I am inside my apartment. The clock continues to tick away, the face reading 3:07 AM. I wipe the tears from my eyes, my heart pounding and my hands shaking. ‘It was just a bad dream,’ I thought, taking a deep breath. A gust of wind gently blew through my hair, and that is when I noticed the balcony door ajar, the blinds covering it flowing with the wind. My heart sank to my stomach. The eyes watched me from the balcony, whispering, ‘Honey, let’s talk outside.’ I feel something wet drip onto my foot. I see my wrist, slashed to pieces and bleeding, as it crawls over the balcony and into my apartment. I blink and suddenly find myself in the bathroom. I see that in my hand I am holding a rusty blade. It was the one that she had used. It stood behind me, smiling as one of its hands guided my right hand, adding another cut to my left wrist. I blink again and find myself on the balcony, leaning over the railing and looking down to the street below. I trip as I back away, landing on the floor.
“What is happening to me?!” I scream, pulling my hair.
“Honey, come talk to me,” The thing says from behind me. “Come talk to me.”
I stand up and face it, leaning on the railing.
“What do you want from me?! Leave me alone!”
“Come talk to me.” It replies, smiling. It stands over me, twice my height. As I take a step back, I go over the railing.
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“A Loving Husband,” they carved onto my grave. I lay next to her, finally allowing us to talk. Unfortunately, I stopped bringing her roses, but she doesn’t seem to mind. The world still looks gray, and the birds watch from afar, but the altar hungers. An elderly woman stops by, laying down a few roses. My mother deserved a better son. As she leaves, I turn to the one I love and ask her a question, a burning question, that had been unanswered for far too long. As I face her, I ask, ‘Do you love me?’ She stays silent, taunting me. I ask her again, knowing the answer. Silence. Raindrops sprinkle over us, the clouds weeping. Her eyes matched the black mascara, the stars in her eyes now reduced to darkness. I can’t lament, and I can’t rejoice. The image of those burning black eyes burns me. The night sky serves as a reflection; an empty black void all around me. It no longer haunts my dreams, as I am now trapped in the hellish eternal dream with her, that cruel goddess. Her cold embrace was too good to be true. Like a razor blade, she made promises she couldn’t keep as she consumed my soul. The rain continues pouring over our shrines, like the tears she once shed when I found her. Her grave never musters the courage to answer my question, and I know it never will. I ask my goddess one more question as night consumes me; ‘Honey, can we talk?’