I loved her, I really did. I could have loved her to death, if she let me.
But that mouth. That filthy, foul, wretched mouth. All the hate that poured out of it. The darkness. God, she was abysmal. A horrid human being, cold and cruel and rotten to the marrow.
But I loved her. The look of her, onyx eyes and moony skin, and her length—fingers that dripped and legs that ran down like milk spilling from a table. My God, was she heavenly.
But that fucking mouth.
I went to him for guidance. I knew what he was, what he did. A neighborhood boy hurled rocks through his window once—once! and was gone. The parents didn’t bother looking. They packed up and left town and that was the end of it. Everybody knows not to cross him.
I went to him in a panic. She was making a cuckold of me, and loudly. I was desperate. She has a dark soul, I said. I can’t bear her anymore. He looked at me over dented, wire-rimmed glasses—they appeared as if he had bent them himself.
Away, then? His voice was grating, like craggy rocks rolling downhill. Suddenly fear filled my body.
No, no. I couldn’t stand it… to lose the sight of her… it’s the only bright spot of my day.
Ah, he said, and went back to his work as if I’d already left.
I went home, but she wasn’t there. A week went by and I stayed inside, peering out the window only to see if she might walk up the path. Nothing.
It took me two weeks to notice the lamp on her bedside table. It was beautiful, stunningly so, with a blood red shade that turned the whole room pink when the light was on.
At the base sat a lovely, pale woman, her skin opalescent as moonstone, her hair dark as a raven, an unknown sadness set in her eyes.
But my God, does she ever shine bright.