Condemned
He was engaged.
In one month's time, he was to be married to the perfect woman: elegant, tactful, quiet and refined. She had brown hair that fell down her back in a silky sheet, and wide, shining eyes like two pearls set on a china doll's pale face. When she spoke it was with a soft voice and a soft countenance, and when she walked it was with a noble grace and a noble tenderness.
He moaned. His fingers found the bottom of her shirt, greedily slipping under the hem and creeping stealthily up the smooth skin that met him there. A chill ran down his spine, a set of cool fingers playing the bumps of his vertebra like the keys of a piano.
He was engaged. In one month's time, he was to be married to the selected woman: wealthy, educated, obedient and doting. She had brown hair that looked the same as all of theirs, and wide, shining eyes like they were copies of his, his father's, his uncle's, his cousin's. When she spoke it was with a trained voice and a trained countenance, and when she walked it was with a practiced grace and a practiced tenderness.
He moaned. His fingers found the two buns that tightly secured her hair, impatiently pulling them loose. His hands entangled themselves in the now freed dark tresses before roaming down to settle firmly on her slim waist, pulling her into him. A fire roared in his chest, a flame that flickered somewhere between his ribs, in the place of his heart.
He was engaged. In one month's time, he was to be married to the wrong woman: simple, weak, soft and boring. She had brown hair that was slightly the wrong shade, and wide, shining eyes that just weren't brown. When she spoke it was with a trembling voice and a trembling countenance, and when she walked it was with a broken grace and a broken tenderness.
He moaned. His fingers found hers, and they fit so perfectly together that he felt his heart shudder. His hands grasped hers like a lifeline, his calluses and scars matching hers. A longing ached in his heart, a strong pull that tugged from somewhere deep within.
He was engaged. In one month's time, he was to be married to the worst woman: one who simply was not her. She had brown hair that wasn't her brown hair, and wide, shining eyes that weren't her wide, shining eyes. When she spoke it wasn't with her voice and her countenance, and when she walked it wasn't with her grace and her tenderness.
He moaned. His fingers left hers, falling away and tingling with a sudden cold and emptiness. His hands clenched as his sides as he pulled away from her, backing away from her hurt and angry stare. A stinging burned behind his eyes, a weakness wrought with guilt and shame that he couldn't bear to let her see.
He was engaged.
I'm beginning to think that bitter endings are all I can write.
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