Death Do We Part

From the Coffin we Rise

The rain poured down without any sign of hesitation on that gray, solemn afternoon. The clouds refused to clear, for they were pregnant with rain. The high winds, seemingly unbeknownst to the weather forecaster, didn't help with the cluster of people trying to squeeze through the single doorway that led into the funeral home. The smell of handsanitizer and cheap perfume were the only distinctive smells Luke, a rather short man who was previously drowning in the crowd, could recall. Smells were the way he remembered things, making them an important part of life for him. The fact that such a memory of sorrow would be associated with “flower burst” didn't help in the slightest. “Fucking hell…“ he said, complaining about his inability to find a decent spot in the crowded building. He soon grew tired of the constant phrase of “sorry for your loss” being repeated over and over. Choking back tears, he carried on.
Maya, the girl that rest in the silver metal coffin, was Luke's lover. He couldn't bear the thought of her just lying there, lifeless. The hoards of people soon shifted next door, they weren't for Maya. Instead, they were for the dead, more popular, man next door. Though, a few people remained in Maya's room, shifting uncomfortablely in the unbearable silence. Before long, they, too left. Finally, it was just Luke and Maya. Luke shifted his eyes, checking for any unwanted visitors. The coast was clear. “Get up” Luke said in a hushed voice.

Maya then rose like a vampire from a coffin, coughed a bit from the dust, and stepped out, trying not to attract attention to herself. She had just, successfuly, faked her own death.

The two quietly creeped out of the old building, barely managing to go unnoticed. Barely. It was once they were outside in the teaming rain that they rejoiced. Free, they were finally free. See, Maya was immortal however Luke was not. This needed to be changed. So off into the wooded area behind the dingy bulding they crept, seeking the promised water of youth.

Once hidden by the thick layer of brush and trees, Maya pulled her lover boy in for a kiss, but before reaching her lips, she stopped, holding herself back.

“What's wrong?” He said, questioning Maya's sudden withdrawal. Sadly, however, those were his last words. Maya, quick with her actions, pulled out her dagger and slowly sunk the weapon into his chest. The blood oozed from the freshly cut wound. His eyes slowly rolled back into his eye sockets. When Maya could no longer feel a pulse on him, she dropped his lifeless corpse onto the stiff, cold ground. And that was where he would rot until someone curious enough will stumble upon him.

The black widow was her nickname by legend, yet no one quite knew if she truly existed. She remained a question, for all the police knew, she was legally dead. Somehow able to game the system, or so rumor has it. Just as Fran, a rather imaginative 28-year-old believed.