When the wolf started howling, I knew I was in trouble. You had been standing there for a while, wrapped in an uneasy cloak of silence. Still, not smiling nor frowning. It wasn’t the animal’s wails that worried me, but the darkness of your gaze. Your eyes, pitch black, making it impossible to discern your pulpils from your irises. I felt a mild pang in my chest, and that’s when you pulled your hands out from under your mantle. There, in your cupped palms was my heart, vulnerable, innocent thing. The snow was falling between us, thick curtain of ice lacing, still I could recognize it from afar. Suddenly, the howlings ceased, leaving us in the high pitched hissing of the winter winds. You grinned and closed your fingers on my fragile heart. The discomfort was instantaneous, yet bearable. I wanted to speak, but my lips were sealed. Of all of them, I thought I had chosen you wisely. I had never imagined we’d come to this. You tightened your grip and the pain shot in my chest. That’s when I noticed it on your face. The obvious pleasure of knowing you were hurting me. That thought was even more painful than the feeling of my crushed heart. I wanted to ask “why?”, wanted to jump on you and scratch your face off. I couldn’t believe you could treat my precious heart like a vulgar stress ball, while looking me straight in the eyes. And I understood. As a long shriek begged to spring out of my lungs, and tears longed to roll on my cheeks, I pulled all the strength in me, and kept a straight face. You could hurt me, but I wouldn’t give you the pleasure of spitting the rage back to you. I wouldn’t even let you enjoy my falling apart. I would own my pain. I sucked in the wrath building up, and held your stare. Your grin faded, and you closed your fingers tighter, like an eagle’s claw on its prey. I felt my knees shaking, but stayed impassive. Your pleasure turned into annoyance, and then into fury. Blood leaked on your wrist, when you finally threw my heart in the snow, spun around and disappeared into the storm… And I kneeled down, letting myself pant from the pain, picking what was mine up, like the trophee it was. “Your loss…” I whispered between two hurtful breaths. “Your loss!”
This piece of fiction is a clumsy homage to S.K. Nicholas, author of A Journal For Damned Lovers. It is, very loosely, inspired by his work, and I warmly recommend paying him a visit to discover much better writing than my own!