The cold wind swirled just outside the shed where I killed her. Her eyes were so blue.

Her heartbeat raced in her neck. I could feel it against my palm as I clenched her throat and steadied her thrashing. I placed a hand around her mouth, the blade against her throat.

She did not die easily.

I danced all night so I could forget, but she was waiting for me when I came home with her blue eyes and her frantic heartbeat. When the blood stopped gushing, stopped pouring, stopped dripping, she was still watching me with those eyes. They seemed to capture and reflect the endless sky she had seen every day. As long as she stared at me, I knew there was no way she could be dead.

She did not die easily.

I cried, heartbroken, into the crook of my arm. Saying “I’m sorry” wouldn’t bring her back. I tried it enough to know. She would never forgive me, nor stop accusing me with those beautiful eyes.

She did not die easily.

But when she did, we bagged and paid for her. We plucked and cooked her. Then we ate her. Her blue-eyed stare stayed with me. She would never die.

And I would never forget the day I took responsibility for what I ate.

  • Tsukia_flare

    Yay, I can finally comment. I liked your short story, but I felt as if it wasn’t disturbing enough. Maybe that makes me really twisted, but I felt a distance in the narrator from the victim. Also, now I know what you mean by abruptness–that was way too short:P

    • I wrote this three times. The first two were too close to the event and too long, too detailed. I convinced the open mic that I had killed a woman, and my friend thought that I had broken up with someone and wanted to murder her.

      • Tsukia_flare

        Where was the open mic? Hmm, I guess the context matters.

  • Tim Tang

    you started to lose me near the end… either way, is there any way to subscribe to this blog?