The Eve of Éire

Olive green. No, honey brown. Hazel. The hue of your eyes is as indecisive as a child. And like your eyes, your mindset is youthful and lively. Youthful and lively.
Oh, how blessed I am that the stars chose you. That if I closed my eyes and counted the days I’ve lived, and opened them again, that you would still be lying next to me.
And on occasion, as I do this eve, the night after which we wed, wonder to myself. A boy so fair to love me so must be but an apparition, only a figure of my own malady.
The long, waning days of courting have ceased. Now Phillip, you lie to my left, clothed in the comfort of our linens. The evening hovers upon us, with its midnight shades. Its sweet, lackadaisical aromas put me in a pleasant comatose state. I can only writhe from anxiety of your presence, as you stroke my willowy tresses, virgin blonde.
I grin. You echo my action, but even more graceful. I study your laugh, well, rather not the laugh. The laugh is simply the noise that occurs because of the smile. I study your smile. Intently, longingly.
It is most fascinating. The way your chin wriggles up, the method of which your lips purse, the beaming sense of sincerity that radiates forth from the crease of your jowl. Your lips are a dry, rosy color.
I now know the expression of your face like the back of my own hand. Timeless.
Or is it timeless?
Really, my dear, I could never be so sure. At the moment, Phillip, you are my true love. I need not, nor desire another. But also, my dear, the question that causes my ears to ring, my senses to tingle, is a question of doubt. In my short life, I’ve found that people change drastically as the years surpass. Not in appearance, that is tattooed in the wrinkles of our hardships. No, the change I speak of is anything but slight. It is in our own worldly persona, our gestures and ways alter. Our aura shifts chronologically, in order to remain contemporary.
I mustn’t lose you. I would not be at a loss of the physical Phillip, a live, breathing, you. I would be at the stake of my emotions. I would have fallen out of love.
It is because of this that I am forced to rid myself of you.
You have been ever so quiet. Not ignorant, but attempting to read me. The likes of you being able to peruse my thoughts are a dark horse at best, and I am a riddle at least. I do commend you for trying.
“Amaline.”
I tense as my own name grazes my shoulder, sends chills up my spine.
“Yes Phillip?”
“What plagues you?” his brow furrows.
“Insanity.” I answer simply.
“Insanity of-“
“Not of. For. Insanity for you.”
We kiss, impetuously, before the moment is gone. But passionately so. Drops of his soul disperse into mine. His warmth enshrouds my own emaciated frame in a tapestry of comfort and allure.
I won’t allow it to end.
And that, is the reasoning for why I must kill him.
If I am to love him, to adore him, to appreciate him for all eternity, he must die by the bound of my admiration for him. And on an eve ever so enchanting, it shall commence tonight.
He bids me goodnight.
By midnight’s pass I’ve plotted the mortality of my match. It will be done precisely, gently, and mercifully. It will be done now.
I twist off of the canopied bed, possessed and fragile, a demoniacal angel. I mesh with the wooden panels of the floor. The Celtic knot fastened on a rosary around my neck reflects the moonlight, a last warning, a chance at second thoughts.
I slip through the murk, a serpent. Dagger in hand, my nerves in a fit of ague. I twitch. I quiver.
I strike.
A second ticks by. Phillip is no longer. A minute. Phillip is extinct. One breath. Phillip haunts me.
His memory clutches at my heart like an unfinished painting. Our passionate love chaps my lips.
I do not feel guilt. I am not drenched in lies, nor hot from fear.
I am cold. My complexion is pallid. I am ill. I am wretched.
Tear each lock of hair out of my scalp. Claw my tongue so that I may taste the blood of a witch. Make me feel some semblance of regret. Clench my throat and mime me chanting a dirge. Kill me. Or I may do it myself. I will do it myself.
And, with the same knife that Phillip’s earthly being doth bear, I shall replicate within me.
Swiftly, I unsheathe the blade from my former darling, and proceed to plunge it in an ill woman’s skull.  I am not a girl. I am not youthful and lively. Youthful and lively. I lilt the weapon. I strike.