Love

She was in love. That's what everybody told her. But wasn't love supposed to be happy? As far as she saw it, love was incinerating who she was, blinding what vision she had, deafening her ears to anything other than what he said. She hated it.

She was obsessed. Every detail of him she had etched into her mind. Every hair, every crease in his face when he smiled. She could recall every last speck of color in his eyes, every last word he had said.

Her body had far depreciated from its original beauty, and the reflection of happiness in her eyes no longer shone.

She reached for her cell phone and dialed. He wasn't going to pick up. She knew that. His father had stopped picking up five phonecalls ago. Still she called.

A futile attempt.

She hung up on the voice mail, letting the phone slip out of her hand.

Standing, she walked over to her desk, and placed her hands on the back of the chair. They gripped at the wood, veins popping out of her skin. Her face twisted into a cruel grimace, and she ripped the chair off the floor, and catapulted it through the air, where it hit and dented the wall.

How dare he go and die on her? She had been so happy with him, and he chose to end it all. Selfish bastard. Was he thinking about her when he pulled the trigger? No. Otherwise he wouldn't have done it. Otherwise, he would be right here now. With her.

But he wasn't.

And she fell back onto the bed, and curled herself into a sphere. She was in love, they told her. In love with a dead man.

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