My Love Was My Decay

It was what some people might've called the perfect day.

The birds were chirping, the sky was purely blue, and there were just enough clouds to keep it cool, even when the sun was beating down brightly.

She was sitting in a white dress on a black plastic bench. The dress was of light material and of a baby-doll composure - it spread in all directions around her when she sat in the grass and touched the daisies, and fell to her knees, slightly flared, when she was standing. He was shooting photos for his photography project and had told her not to expect him and to act natural.

He wanted to do his showcase for photography about her, and at the same time portray an emotion to fulfill the requirements. The emotions in question he was aiming for were freedom, love, and a spontaneous safety.

She was as natural as a butterfly landing to rest on a carnation, as lovely as the bloodred sunset. She was as free as a bluebird in the heavens, as safe as a lost kitten looking for milk. She was everything he lived for and nothing he could describe.

"Let me see." Her voice so suddenly at his ear rang like the sweetest song throughout his head and he smiled just at the mere sound of it.

He gave her his camera and watched her shuttle through the photos. "They're all beautiful, Ash."

She smiled and returned the camera. "Is that enough or are you going to take more?"

"More?" He grinned. "If you don't mind."

They were at it until seven o'clock, when the sun was letting off its final beams in the sky. He was sitting quietly on the concrete sidewalk, going through and selecting the best pictures for his project.

He looked up, about to call her name so they could walk home, but instead his throat tightened as he saw her.

She was sitting on the tire swing, gazing past the distance into somewhere beyond. Her eyes were empty and her hands clutching the chain as if it were her only tie back into reality. The dress seemed strangely wilted and it was as if the world had gone cold, looking at this shadowy image of shock and despair. He quickly set his camera on monotone and snapped the picture.

Color immediately returned to her cheeks and the dress seemed to gradually restore its shine as she turned his way. The ghostly, hollow look on her face had disappeared.

"What?" She smiled absently.

He shook his head, and beckoned to her. "Let's go home."

It was dark.

He was sure he wouldn't be able to see the tire swing if he'd gone out now. As it was, though, he was in too much pain to go anywhere.

The razor was safely back in its case, washed, clean.

He, on the other hand, had closed his eyes and was sitting utterly still on his bed. His left arm was wrapped in an old shirt, the blood soaking through and reading what he'd finished. Ashleigh.

He felt as alone and in pain as she had looked that day on the tire swing.