Love You to Death: A 666 Word Story

Enough time has passed. 

I wrote this piece at a time when I was pleading for the past to come back, and for the prophecy to change. 

I want none of that anymore. 

I leave you with a manuscript and a hope for the future. 

Enjoy. <3

Love You To Death: By Phantom Black

In the middle of October, at the Devil’s hour, a haunting figure in all black, umbrella included, walks through a cemetery in a town somewhere tucked away in The Rockies. The rain is light, but enough to make a distinct smell and to make the gravestones a darker gray than usual. A few aisles in, the figure stops and sees the familiar marker to the right of them. No matter how many times they perform this silent song and dance, it’s still a polarizing, almost magnetic, gravitational pull towards the cold piece of stone. They fall to their knees in front of it, not caring if the wet, patchy grass and dirt gets their pitch black dress dirty. 

They look at the stout, rectangular stone, engraved with a name all too familiar, yet all too distant. The engravement of the years are currently being covered up by a plushie of a white rabbit sitting in front of the grave with a sharp-toothed smile made out of felt, a peachy-pink nose, and one of its little black beady eyes missing, now being replaced by a small “x” made out of white thread. One of its perked up ears is clipped, while the rest of the body is stained by dirt and age. The figure turns their attention back to the grave, seeing the various stickers scattered upon it, such as one of a ghost with a red circle and a line through it, a green mushroom with little black eyes and white spots on its head, a little guy with brown hair with a blonde streak in it, glaring at the person in front of them, a white egg with green spots on it, and lastly, a sticker of a green circle with a green subtraction sign in the middle of it on a black background. 

The figure puts their black nail polished fingers into the cold dirt and grass in front of the stone and plush, closing their eyes as their other hand clutches the handle of the open umbrella tightly. It’s as if they can still see her, her wavy, long, dark brown hair, her pink crewneck sweater, black leggings, navy blue canvas shoes, red lipstick, and most importantly, the natural flush in her cheeks every time she saw her future demise; a thin creature dressed in green with too much pomade in their box dyed black hair. The figure wonders if the creature ever felt guilty for staining her pink sweater red once the knife was inserted into her spine. That, or if the guilt lives inside their life as the creature gets to go on with their subpar routine, while the innocent rot six feet under in their own filth with no one to miss them. Flashbacks of kissing, groping, pining, guilt, manic writing, and crying play in the figure’s mind, making them dig their nails into the dirt in frustration, their jaw clenched. 

They take a shallow deep breath, unclench their fingers and jaw, before getting up one black combat boot at a time. They stare down at the colorfully decorated grave, before bringing themself to manage a weak smile at this cruel reminder of the past. They place three fingers on the cold gravemark. 

“You crack me up, little buddy.”

It’s the only words they mutter for the night, before they’re back on the cementary’s main path, walking along the wet dirt, casually spinning their umbrella to make the trip back to their pit seem quicker. They struggle to remind themselves that what’s gone is gone, and that this story and these memories are no longer theirs, nor are they the creature’s. This two year long metaphorical manuscript is meant for the dirt, the worms, the maggots, and the eighteen-year-old girl in the pink sweater who went from experiencing desire to death in a short span of time, who is now six feet under, hopefully resting peacefully, clutching the damaged rabbit in her arms.