Death Is Beautiful: A Short Story.

I enter your room to see you standing by the window; you are staring out again. I have always wondered what you see when you look through that window. Everything, to make you happy, is here; what more can you want that I can't give?

You turn to see me and your left eyebrow goes up, then you cock your head to the side and look into me. I will never get used to your eyes. Anytime, you look at me, I feel like you peel open secrets I have thought successfully hidden. I do not like this; also the laughter I sense in that gaze; i do not like it at all.

You walk pass me to your dresser and pick a pack of cigarettes, draw out a stick and light it. I do not like that you smoke but you had demanded that luxury as you claimed that I had made you a prisoner. I do not understand you; what I give to you, many girls would cut their left breast for. You have always been weird, maybe that is why you surge in my blood like fire.

You drag the smoke in and let it out slowly. It wreathes your head in fog and your red lips stand like signpost to a village lost in time. I am entranced by it until I notice that it is curving into that lopsided smile that mocks everything. Something seems to lodge itself in my throat and I turn my gaze to a less portent view, then I see the tie.

It is a plain blue tie. It lies, coiled around the leg of a stool near your dresser. I did not seen it before because your dressing gown is on top of the stool and it hid the tie from me.

I walk quickly to the tie and pick it. I raise it up and look at you. Something flickers in those eyes and disappears real quick but I have lived this long because I have learnt to sense betrayal and deceit.

I could take the mockery, the condescending attitude, the obvious disinterest but deceit, betrayal? Never!

I question you expecting a lie but you say nothing. You turn from me and walk back to the window. I have never known how to manage my anger. I did not know when I crossed the distance between us and grabbed you by the hair. The cigarette fall from your hands but you utter no sound; not even a whimper. You stare at me with those damn eyes, with the smile on those red lips.

I feel the urge to wipe the smirk off your face, so I tug you close and give you a slap. I call you names and slap you some more but you neither fight back or cry out. Your silence unnerves me, so I let you go. Your beautiful skin is starting to bruise and I feel ashamed of myself. The anger flees me like a fart on a windy day. I sag unto your bed, tired. I can feel the whole of my fifty years telling on me.

You walk back to the dresser and take another cigarette. You light it then you walk back to the window. I watch you silently, trying to understand who you are or what you are but it is beyond me.

I get up and draw my suitcase to my side. I open it and pull out three thousand dollars. I drop it on the dresser and I turn to you but your eyes are far away; you have obviously forgotten that I am even here.

I walked to your side and turn you to face me. I apologize but you just stare at me. I draw you into a hug and that is when you strike.

I am not prepared for the sharp pain between my ribs. I stagger back from you but you are not done, You pull your hair pin and stab it into me again and again. I struggle to escape you and I can't. You keep coming, a vengeful angel, silent like death.

In my head, I wonder at the emptiness I see within. I now realize that you were not disinterested, you were empty; you simply had no soul. As I crumple to the floor, the money falls to my side and you step pass me without a glance. I hear you dial a number as if from a distance. I seem to think you were reporting yourself to the police. The last thing I see before sleep takes me is you passing by me without a glance, lighting another cigarette and walking back to the window to stare then darkness comes.

The End.

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