Amicus Mortis

Her name was Evangeline Louise Dubois and in another time or another place, she might have been perfect. Her eyes were the colour of freshly-ground coffee; all dark and elusive, just the whisper of an untold secret burning with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. She had lips like cherries; deep red and thick, though most of the time they were dry and had withered up like a sinking sunrise.

I remembered when she’d kissed me; how they’d felt like velvet against my lips. I remembered running my fingertips along her hip bones, wondering how someone that could hide behind a pole could be so fucking huge and consuming in my world. But she was slippery – Evangeline was, more so than ice, and she would slip and slide through my brain until I was unable to grab her, even though I wanted to more than anything. Because I was fucked up and lost beyond belief but you couldn’t even hold her with your fingertips. You couldn’t even look at her without wondering if she was really there.

And so as I stood there with the tangled remains of her heart balanced shakily in my hands, I somehow wondered whether I would ever see her in the confines of my mind again.