'Kiss' Sneak Peek... XD

s h u d de r

(because there won’t always be time for a fairytale romance)

The house is not by any means old, but it looks as if it’s been through a million bitter wars; a whole side has been blasted away, fragments of wood litter the ground, and the gate is hanging a little off its hinges. What pains him the most, though, is the body lying in the exposed bedroom, thrown aside so carelessly to rot along with her husband and child. The little house across the cobbled street is indeed a sight to behold. A light autumn breeze wafts down the road, bringing with it the smell of decaying flowers and death; he can still detect her perfume through the stench, strawberries and cinnamon on the wind. He shivers in the cold night air; a singular tear freezes on his cheek, glistening, crystalline, in the moonlight. A lone, choked sob escapes him, an animal sound of pain and indescribable misery.

-x-

He’s closer now. He’s hovering in the doorway to the bedroom where the child lies sleeping and his love lies dead. He longs to hold her again, to protect her and adore her. And he does not remember the last time they met, no instance of solace greets him through the night; consolation does not come to him in a moment of clarity, because this is no fairytale romance, and he knows that sleep will not visit these eyes for many nights to come. The wind has picked up now; it’s whistling through the derelict house, strong gusts blowing smouldering debris away from the bare shell of a once loved place. He wishes he could say he hears her voice on the air, whispering to him from beyond the soul, but all is silent. Her hair flutters about her head, loose strands whipping across her deathly white face and into her glazed, staring eyes. The house is but a void; a place so utterly empty and broken, stripped of all joy and life, happiness and light.

-x-

Closer still. Lightning flashes across the sky, a streak of dazzling white against the harsh, midnight black. Thunder rumbles overhead. Rain pelts down on the desolate village, ashen storm clouds swirling above. His breath comes in short, sharp gasps, wispy clouds of vapour appearing before him at every outward wheeze. He’s beside her now, kneeling over her still body. He will not brave the cold for much longer; his mind is blank, but the icy tendrils of frozen air still seep into him, chilling him to the bone and slapping mercilessly at his face. He’s on autopilot now, nothing will stop him. His knees sink into the sodden carpet as he leans down for one last kiss. His face is a millimetre from hers; he can see every last beautiful detail, every single line, every premature wrinkle (stress-induced, he knows, but she does insist on calling them ‘laughter lines’). Her eyes are wide, in terror, anticipation or shock, he will never know, but they’re still that intoxicating shade of malachite green, still stunning emerald lakes of bittersweet wisdom and experience, but the light is gone; the flickering, fiery sparkle is now woefully absent, the window to this soul now closed. She lacks her once inspiring defiance. His own recalcitrance evaporates in this moment, as he truly begins to realise that maybe, just perhaps, she might really be gone.

-x-

(looking back, in later years, he cannot quite fathom where it began and where it ended; was it when she fell through the water-logged, dilapidated floorboards in that magical split second where he genuinely believed that he could have one last opportunity to hold her again, to protect her and adore her, or was it when he looked brokenly through that gaping hole, and first noticed his best friend’s defeated body lying sprawled across the hard, unforgiving ground?)

-x-