INEFABBLE - Short Stories Collection #2

Figures of Speech

Hello, it's me again.

The one who wrote you countless of poems and stories. The one who made you the lead character of every novel. The one who wrote along with you of our love story. It's me, your writer, your love, the one you claimed to be your everything.

As of writing, the cuts your sword made is still fresh. You didn't have to do it even, as I could do it on my own. And you knew that. But you still did. You knew yet you still did. You've drawn out your sword to me and lashed it upon my merciful being who pleaded for you to throw that weapon away and come with me. Yet you didn't.

My hero, you are the greatest villain of my life right now. You made countless of damaging deeds to my heart and even made me spill ink-like tears down to the pages of my book that I have made again just for you. I crafted our story and carefully tried to write it to make it shine better than my previous works. I used to say our love story should be written to let the world know about how beautiful it was to be loved by you. How mesmerizing the atmosphere had gotten when we were both staring at each other's eyes. How lovely our love blossomed like a newly bloomed rose in springtime. My love, I was delighted and honored to have planned to write this story for you and for the generation we planned on taking part of in the future.

But there you go, my love, choosing a mere person who gave you nothing but empty words.

It's funny how I expected that you could be the person I feared of becoming. The person who would force me to rip off the pages of my story. The character who would kill the author instead. You let yourself be saved from agony not knowing that you had pulled me down there when you reached out a different hand other than mine.

You brought out the rains I tried hard not to let it come out. You hid the sun away from my face as the rain came falling down on my being, mixing with my ink tears. The sparkling nightsky turned into a thunderstorm you knew I hated. How could you do this to me?

The pain you gave me was unmatchable. The writer in me felt the need to tell you the antagonizing oxymoron you are. A beautiful disaster. You are the nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. It's killing me. And you know that.

You know that. Yet you still did.

I picked up the courage to write once more just to ease this pain I will carry for God knows how long. A story about a writer who fell in love with her character in her story that killed her with his sword of indecisiveness.