As if in silent foreshadowing of my actions at the church, it looked at me with hatred dripping from its maw. It loathed me, yet was in love with my memories, and the sins they conceal. The longer it stares, the more my brain screams for escape. Unfortunately for me and my claustrophobic mind, its eyes never blinked.
We had first met on the eve of my wedding day, at the bottom of a flask full of scotch. It had lied to me; it convinced me it was my companion. On that moment, it was a beautiful b****, lean and slender, gifted with a magnificent crimson coat. Its eyes shone glistening cobalt, whispering compassion to all who would dare acknowledge them.
Now a disgusting mess of matted, mangled, dirty fur of black-violet rust, its eyes had melted their refreshing glare for a moldy orange.
It still wanted my companionship. Resuming its nature by lying through smiling, jagged teeth, it attempted to hide its falsehood. Its God-Complex was a fury of needles into my soul, draining my strength. I, just a marionette in its unfathomably sorrowful masquerade of woe.
Tonight, it was tired, as its glare was feeble to stop my sprint. It lurched in tune to my thunderous stomps, screaming and hissing in an increasingly desperate struggle to keep me from her.
I ran over rivers of asphalt and through mountains of hedges, thrusting my body and mind over the perils and howls erupting from its muzzle. It soon caught me, sinking its ebony talons into my gut.
Still, I persist. My flesh shredded like paper, allowing my body’s fuel to ooze through the warm slits.
She and I fought, following its command for me to do so. I daren’t disobey, in full knowledge of its stark power over me. She had postponed our souls’ uniting, and departed from my life. She pushed me back to my flask, and in unison, its frequent visits. She and I met only once more, on unfriendly grounds. She hated me, as did I. It breathed its gist to my psyche, and out my mouth. Unable to recall what it had forced me to speak; I was certain she despised me.
As did I.
Now, on the anniversary of what was once aspired to be our anniversary, she and I arranged to meet at the church where we were once to be one.
It wailed in furious protest upon hearing the news.
It caught me again, its ichor fangs digging into my throat, slowly collapsing my ability to continue.
Still, I persist. It all but kills me, as amber regrets bleed out over my memories of her smile, and memories of her blood.
I stumble into the church atop the mound, while it pants and wails in frustration, refusing to enter. It bellows a threat that it will dissolve my existence into a shadow of what I once was, but I know it can’t repeat what it has already done.
I see her sitting, motionless, decorated in her wedding dress, sobbing. I extend a hand for her before I beg her name, yet my hand passes through her structure like mist.
It trots to her side, matted, dirty fur regaining its cleanse and color, as quickly and vibrantly as blood would cascade down my skin.
Her blood, down her skin...
It finally glares at my presence, its expression solemn, and its eyes a chilling cobalt.
When I blink, she is no longer sobbing in her dress, nor is the church sitting atop its mound. In the building’s place sat a grassy hill, and in her place, a headstone.
Remembering our fight, her desperation, and what venom it had ordered me to speak, I reached for my flask.
Its pelt matts a grim shade.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.