When September Ends

She was something beautiful, delicate and inhuman. She was her own hurricane, but all I ever was another stray piece of wreckage, a strip of scrap metal dragged alone in her wake. I met her six times during my life, and each time she tore my entire world apart.

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"Her smile was as cold as the ice I was standing on and twice as cracked, the fissures widening, mutating into gaping chasms of despair and malevolence as I watched. Her lips with as thin as the eggshells she'd surrounded me in, and I was suddenly terrified that they might crack before I did. 

Because I knew- suddenly, with a blinding certainty- that I would either give way beneath the crushing pressure of her offer, or something very, very bad would happen to me. So why was I hesitating?  

Her hair writhed around her head like rainbow halo wound from tortured souls- forgotten and forsaken, abandoned to the pit of torment for all eternity. They reminded me of the painted doves toyed with in Ancient Rome- with ribbons bound to their feet and thrown into the open air, convinced that they were free, fluttering up into the stony grey sky before being dragged back to Earth again by the starving and the poor. Killed and devoured. So desperate for escape, and so, so close to it. 

Despite the freezing temperature, she wasn't even shivering beneath her thin clothing- her tattered t-shirt fluttering feebly as the wind twisted the material the same was she'd wrapped me around her finger- so desperate to escape, but bound to her with a chain leash. Underneath her smooth, porcelain face paint I could see the black blood that was almost leaking through, almost dripping out onto the snow and scarring it the same colour as my thoughts.

Her name was September, but she was as bitter as a snowstorm."

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