Saturday, 12 June 2010

Cold Stare

I wake up completely blind. Dumb. Paralysed. Yet my ears rage and my skin burns with the heat of you beside me; your rancid breath, a sickening stink.

Why do my senses ebb and flow? What makes them fluctuate so?

I plummet without warning to the ground. Prickles at my fingertips surprise me and I come back to giddy life. Inwardly I sigh, recalling where I am. My mind floods with memories, of days of wretched grief.

My vision clears and I seem to see you through curtains of mist. They swirl, revealing glimpses of the crypt, of you bent over my tumbled corpse, sobbing helplessly.

You take no last look upon my face as you lift and place me back onto the cold marble. You don’t see my eyes screaming as you wrap me once more in the linen shroud. You kiss my unbound lips goodbye. They twitch with words. You walk away.

I whisper in the dark. You turn your head, then back again. The iron gates groan, drowning out my breath as you pass through; unwashed, emaciated.

I find my voice. ‘Don’t go!’

Too late. The lock is turned.

Too late.

I die once more.

(c) Lily Childs May 2010
Lily Childs is a writer of horror, esoteric, mystery and chilling fiction.

If you see her dancing outside in a thunder storm - don't try to bring her in. She's safe.