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The Color of Empty Eyes
You had the most beautiful eyes.
Whenever I think of you, I remember your eyes, and I smile.
I remember those days. It was how I’d always dreamed, those days of you and me. We were perfect together.
So many memories.
I remember the music, playing softly in the background as we danced around the drawing room. I remember the way you would hold me, the way you would trace your finger down my neck, look into my eyes, and tell me I was beautiful. And that you loved me. I remember the warmth of your hands when they covered my eyes, the smile on your face when you showed me my wedding gift, our piano. There it was, lovely, smooth, but unpainted. Unfinished, you said. So we could choose our own color of wooden finish to paint it together, you said. To make it our own. Our piano.
I remember that slit of doorway, where you stood with her, your hands on her neck, the same way you place them on mine, one kiss, two kisses, a touch, a whisper.
I remember my heart pounding in protest, all the breath leaving my body, all the warmth leaving the air, leaving me feeling cold, so cold.
I remember, that was when I decided I had to keep you mine. That was when I began to imagine caressing your face, lovingly, with my nails. I’d imagine stroking your cheek, adoring, and then until the blood ran. You were so dear to me, and yet I wanted to crush you. You had to belong to me, and only me. From that moment, everything about you betrayed you. Especially your eyes. Your beautiful eyes. You tried to conceal it, when you laughed and teased, and looked past my shoulder at something that wasn't there. I would ask you, if anything was wrong, though I knew. No, darling, you said. Nothing is wrong, you said. Your treacherous fingers still stroked my face, your tainted mouth still smiled a smile. And I still dreamed your death. I lay nights thinking about it, thinking about you. How I would do it. Where I would put you.
I found the perfect place. I kept it ready.
We sat in the drawing room that night, by the piano, your head in my lap, murmuring, laughing. You soon fell asleep, as still as death, as I knew you would. As the lethium in your wine told me you would.
And that was when I kissed you with my knife.
A sharp, deep kiss. One kiss. Two kisses. Three, four, five, again and again and again until your blood pooled on the floor. Your blood, soaking warm into my dress and painting it a brilliant, beloved red. Your blood, spreading like the smile across my face when I found the perfect shade of finish to paint the piano. Our piano. And I felt complete, for I knew the moment that your open eyes became empty, that you were mine. And of course I had to take a bit of that blood for my own. I even found the perfect little vial to hold it in. I was always one for keepsakes, you knew that. You were always giving me small gifts here and there, that necklace, that little doll, that photograph. That silver locket. That trinket box.
I watched the blood drip into the glass vial, watched it fill slowly, rising, swelling. It was beautiful. Like your eyes. Like the piano will be, once I paint it, the perfect color of dark bloody crimson, sealed under a wooden furnish. There was plenty of the paint. I opened the piano, that opening in the back, just enough for a body to fit, as I knew it would be. As I made sure it would be.
I marveled, how even in death having your head in my lap could give me such a contented feeling inside, how it still overwhelmed me with love. I still had the urge to stroke your hair, trace your jaw line, hold my face close to yours, give you one last quick kiss before setting you inside. There was still a fondness when I arranged your arms to fit, and wrapped your fingers together around the trinket box. I wrote you a letter, in that trinket box. Of why I did this to you. You had a faint smile frozen on your lips, and you looked at me with your beautiful eyes, your beautiful empty eyes. See, darling? I knew you’d understand, that this was for the best. That you could only be mine.
And that was when I closed the back board, hearing it creak and shut with soft finality. Sweet dreams, my love. I am yours. I will always be yours. And you will be mine. Forever. I made sure of that. Whenever I see our piano, when I run a finger across the painted wood, my heart swells, my breath catches, and I remember. That in it, there is you. In more ways than one. And whenever I open that top drawer and take the vial out, when I dip my finger in and watch the blood smudge and settle in the wrinkles and lines, I remember your eyes.
Your beautiful, empty eyes.