PUNK PROSE: Love's Death by Brennan Thomas
This was what it looked like.
Eve had known grief. She knew loss, a hollowness in her chest. She was well-acquainted with despair. This was something else. This was what would kill her in the end. Not bullet holes, or knife wounds, or even the rope.
This was the fatal blow: her lover's blood mingling like paint with the water above her.
She sank below as Villanelle's body floated above. She looked almost like a painting, an ethereal image, the light from the boat illuminating her. The picture of an angel spreading out her wings.
She remembered the first kiss on the bus. Fighting. Chasing. Catching. How her hands had stroked her hair, how Villanelle preferred her hair down instead of up. The cat and mouse game finally played out where they realised they didn't want to keep playing predator and prey. They wanted more.
Then driving in the caravan they stole, the intense kiss in the road that Eve felt all the way down to her toes. Heat and lust swirling like heady smoke around her. Villanelle had led her back to the van. They were happy.
And now…
Nothing.
There was only the stillness in Eve's tightening chest as she held her breath. She swam up to the surface, kicking and pushing her way out.
The words Villanelle had said echoed in Eve's mind like a warning siren.
If I get shot it will be your fault.
As Eve broke free of the water, she let out a feral scream. It was a scream retched from her very soul, burrowed deep from all the feelings she chose to ignore. It sounded strange and far away.
There would be no life after this. They were supposed to talk it out at least, try to figure out a way they could be together. She would have run away with her. She would have followed her anywhere.
Loss was something familiar, but Eve had never lost like this.
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