short stories

His Dream

His lover's body laid there, peaceful, limp in his arms. He squeezed her frail, cold body, praying, begging for her eyes to open once more. He never wished to see her beautiful green orbs more than ever.

His heart beat for hers, in which hers, no longer did. He stilled, replaying the memory of him, hand in hand with the woman who had his heart, no longer than ten minutes ago. The trees rustled and birds sang, sympathizing for his loss.

The man's heart ached so, for he dare not live another day without his love. His fingers took the cup from which his beloved's now colorless lips touched, and too, drank what stole his love from him.

The poison had no mercy to spare. The man wheezed, gasping for every breath of air he could manage. He clenched his chest, a tight squeeze in his heart, for which he could not tell if it was the poison or his heart missing its other half that was no longer beating for his.

His vision became weary, head throbbed, and he fell beside his love. He brushed aside her brunette locks from her now white and cold face with his trembling fingers. She was beautiful. Even after she could no longer smile, after her eyes would not open, after her skin was drained of its caramel color. Even after her heart no longer beat for his, his heart still beat for hers.

But alas, his heart began to falter. Time slowed. It seemed as if the world stopped. As if the world was watching.

He mustered the strength to give her one last and final kiss, wishing their lips would never part, just as their hearts had, too, become one.

Before his eyes closed, which would allow him and his wife to fall into eternal sleep with their hearts intertwined, the wise words of his mother echoed in his head, "Always follow your dreams, son."

And indeed he did.