Serrated metal rakes bone. I grit my teeth, swallowing down the pain and closing my eyes real tight. The bone vibrations reach right into my shoulder blades as I grip the knife harder. Blood glistens on steel.
I am sweating, but I must complete my task.
Breath heaving in my chest, I shake off the pause and keep sawing until I almost pass out. Then I realise I must stop again. I must breathe. I must let the oxygen reach my near-mortal lungs.
Once, I touched your skin. And you didn’t seem to mind.
Now I touch your skin but neither of us can feel it.
They say fools rush in where angels fear to tread. I wonder how they knew and why it came to be said, sadness in my eyes as I stare at you from across the table.
“Darkling I listen, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die;”
– Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)
His eyes they closed, a simple plea to the dark enfold; forgiveness for what he was guilty. His heart it slowed inside his chest now a mortal beat within his breast.
Nearby, the ghost, she whimpered still. She’d seen his lover have her fill then flee the scene with nought but haste and fresh discovered immortal taste.
Yet here he lay as in crept the burning light of day.
Continue reading “#Nightgale Flash Fiction 3 of 4”
The splintered vision stared back at me in the slanted rain. Darkness crackled the too cruel sky as my true form shimmered in the broken glass. The rain should have been snow, but this was to be the bleakest Christmas I had ever known unless a miracle could be coaxed.
Ripples expanded from the lips of my shoes, skittering light in an exquisite dance.
I’d left the note by his bedside. He was sleeping and wouldn’t notice it until he awoke with nobody beside him, the imprint of my body cold and empty. This was only the second time my true self had been called to the fore.
