The Making of a Madwoman

The woman watched her lover slip into the icy arms of Death, his life draining from the hole in his chest and spilling out, wasted, to the thirsty ground beneath them. Through the stinging fuzziness of her tears, it seemed that the wound gaped at her, laughing at her feeble attempts to close it. She looked down at her hands, stained red with his blood. A wash of ruby over ivory. She closed her eyes as she raised her face to the silent stars and the accusatory sphere of the full moon. When she opened them, they were no longer glistening with tears. They were, instead, glittering coldly with anger.

"I will have my revenge," she whispered softly. The moon did not answer her, nor did the stars pause in their twinkling. "I will!" she said, more loudly, but Death did not hesitate. She cradled her loverís head in her arms as his heart managed one last weak beat--and then he was gone.

Copyright Sara Fawbush 1998.
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