You're scared. You feel irrelevant.
Like a small child's doll, laying long forgotten in a toy chest.
But then you remember her.
The way she laughed. The way she held her hand out for you to take. The way you would confront her when she was scared.
The way she now smiles at another.
You wonder if she ever misses you. You fall to the floor.
The wooden floor presses into your shoulder blades but the numbness embraces you with warm, tender arms that wrap round and round.
They wind and bind and take.
Then all goes dark.
You wake in a dimly lit room with only a desk and chair. Upon that desk rests your unfinished poem for her, with a pencil sat neatly by, waiting.
And then she appears, smiling at you and holding out her hand like she used to.
She leans her head back to laugh and dances away into the dark with the sound of her laughter echoing back to you.
She reappears, dancing in circles around the desk. And there, in her neat copperplate writing, sat three words at the bottom of the page.
"And She Loved."
YOU ARE READING
Collection Of Dark POVs. Vol. 1
Short Story''Darling, if your looks could kill, this ballroom would suffer a massacre,'' he mutters, the corners of his lips lifting. You smirk. ''Ah, but where's the fun in doing it that way.''
