My Anathema - My last goodbye

He watches her, eyes lowered, rims reddened by the sanguine tears threatening to fall. He is confident they won’t though – he never cries. He takes a step closer to her, and bows his head. His hands are clasped in front of him; his face is the perfect picture of remorse.

Looking at her, he can almost convince himself that she is merely sleeping. Never in his life has he seen her looking this peaceful, for she was not a peaceful person - callous, vindictive, sadistic yes, but not peaceful, never peaceful…a trait which made her all the more endearing to him.

It surprises him how natural she looks. With a demure smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she looks as though she will sit up at any moment. But that would never happen, could never happen.

His gaze sweeps down the length of her body, from the loose ringlets of her long chestnut hair, to the bouquet of roses clasped at her front, and further down to her feet, where her silk slippers are just visible beneath the frothy organza of her skirt.

He feels his chest tighten, his breath catch in his throat. Forcing himself to breathe, he is almost overcome by the heady, powerful aroma of the roses. His eyes take in the bouquet. The twelve scarlet blooms, with the one perfect ivory head mixed in. It looks like a mistake, as though the florist had run out of red, but it isn’t. It’s exactly how he’d ordered it.

He almost cannot bring himself to look at her face again, but he knows that he must. He slowly brings his gaze back upwards. The harsh, cold expression she once wore has been erased, replaced with an expression he cannot fathom.

Her once blue eyes are now a dull gray, hidden beneath her lowered lids. The milky skin of her face has been meticulously made up, flawless once more. A pale pink has been added to her cheeks, adding to the illusion of life. The mocking, sardonic smirk he knows so well no longer plays at the corners of her lips, replaced instead by a serene smile.

As he hears the bell of a nearby clock chime, he knows that he is running out of time. As he takes in the full length of her body again, he notices several petals have fallen from the roses, resting gently on the bodice of her dress. He feels his breath catch once more – fallen petals for his fallen angel.

He steps closer still to her. His chest has tightened once again, his breathing has become shallow.
“My anathema,” he whispers, his voice cracking with every syllable, “my beautiful anathema.”

He bends closer, allowing his lips to brush against hers ever so gently. As he says his final goodbye, he is overwhelmed by his sorrow. Standing straight again, he cannot believe - does not want to believe - that this is it, the last chance he will ever have to see her, to touch her, to feel her presence.

He is unaccustomed to an emotion such as this; never before has he had to deal with this maelstrom of love, and loss, and despair. At last his façade of apathy has been broken, but now there is no-one who can tell him what to do.

He bends to kiss her once more, savoring the feel of her smooth, cool skin against his chapped lips. He closes his eyes, desperate to make his final moment with her last.

As he stands and begins to leave, he is unaware of the veil of red which has dropped before his eyes. Almost blinded by his grief, he doesn’t notice the single tear snaking its red path down his cheek. Nor does he notice its iridescent twin, slowly trickling its way down hers.