Disclaimer: I own nada. It's sad, but that's how it is.
A/N: This actually occurred to me a few weeks ago, while I was trying to write something about life. I find it rather disturbing, especially the end. It's mostly because I have never written anything remotely suicidal. Anyhoo, read on, and don't forget to review.
He called her his radiant beauty. Back when the days were long, and the nights were short, and laughter was for free, her called her his radiant beauty.
She laughed in his face, though her mirth, he noted, was somewhat forced. And she called him a liar.
And she lay her head back on a patch of grass, and that was that.
He told her again, years later, when she had nearly forgotten, that she was a radiant beauty, for she was mirthful, and her hair was of woven copper, and she glowed with a fire from this inside. He called her Sunny.
And she, not to be outdone, smiled, waved her hand dismissively and said that as he was pale, and his eyes were ice, and his hair of liquid platinum, he was her Winter.
And the days grew shorted, the nights grew longer, and laughter cost a pound apiece. He kissed the inside of her wrist and told her that she was his Summer.
She smiled wanly.
Years passed, and days melted into nothingness, nights meshed together in a ball of molten wax, and laughter ceased to exist.
And with breaths he forced to control, with a voice raspy as Despair, he told her that she was always his radiant beauty; she was always his Summer.
And she hugged his head to her chest and cried with tears only summer can shed, and begged winter-in all its frost and discomfort-to remain.
It didn't.
And Summer, as summer is without winter, lost all purpose of being summer. She raised her wrist, where he kissed it, so many years ago, and saw, with satisfaction, her radiance oozing away; her fire slowly extinguishing.
And moments later, after a final taste of life, she ceased being his Summer.
A/N: This actually occurred to me a few weeks ago, while I was trying to write something about life. I find it rather disturbing, especially the end. It's mostly because I have never written anything remotely suicidal. Anyhoo, read on, and don't forget to review.
He called her his radiant beauty. Back when the days were long, and the nights were short, and laughter was for free, her called her his radiant beauty.
She laughed in his face, though her mirth, he noted, was somewhat forced. And she called him a liar.
And she lay her head back on a patch of grass, and that was that.
He told her again, years later, when she had nearly forgotten, that she was a radiant beauty, for she was mirthful, and her hair was of woven copper, and she glowed with a fire from this inside. He called her Sunny.
And she, not to be outdone, smiled, waved her hand dismissively and said that as he was pale, and his eyes were ice, and his hair of liquid platinum, he was her Winter.
And the days grew shorted, the nights grew longer, and laughter cost a pound apiece. He kissed the inside of her wrist and told her that she was his Summer.
She smiled wanly.
Years passed, and days melted into nothingness, nights meshed together in a ball of molten wax, and laughter ceased to exist.
And with breaths he forced to control, with a voice raspy as Despair, he told her that she was always his radiant beauty; she was always his Summer.
And she hugged his head to her chest and cried with tears only summer can shed, and begged winter-in all its frost and discomfort-to remain.
It didn't.
And Summer, as summer is without winter, lost all purpose of being summer. She raised her wrist, where he kissed it, so many years ago, and saw, with satisfaction, her radiance oozing away; her fire slowly extinguishing.
And moments later, after a final taste of life, she ceased being his Summer.