To love her is death.
If someone had told me this ten years ago, I would have listened.
But faced with her silver eyes tarnished and etching me as we stood on the pier, a streetlight making her dusky skin gleam in hues of sadness and hate, I could not pry myself away. Every fiber of me knew that she was death, that I should turn around and salvage what was left of my life. But I could not move.
To love her is death.
YOU ARE READING
Entropy
Short StoryA story about love, despair, and chaos, told in fragments. Her screams echoed inside the glass coffin. I heard them. She scratched her fingernails bloody on the hard case that kept her inside. I felt the blood trickle down my own hands. She pounded...
