I'd always loved her. Even before meeting her, before even being aware of her existence, I was already willing to die for her. Alas, though death was imminent, it was not to be for me. Even before meeting her, before even being aware of her existence, she was dying.
The thing is, everywhere we see death, we see life too. Death and life are like two unwilling, fateful lovers; they despise each other when far away, but when their paths eventually meet (and believe me, they do), they cannot help but dance the night away in each other's sweet and lustful embrace.
That's how I felt about her, ever since the first meeting. We met almost by accident, but the truth is I had it planned all along. She reeked of death already, though I focused on the life that must be before it.
Her shirt matched her doom-colored hair. That, together with the pale skin should have been enough. I even ignored the bony touch of her hand. I wanted life so bad, I didn't care for the fate at hand. I focused on her lively, green eyes.
The second meeting was when I began to nice her dying. Instead of telling her, instead of asking, I held her bony hand tighter.
I recall a certain time when she started talking of killing and dying in such a way that they seemed to attract her more than any other thing. But she never stopped staring. As she got closer, she got paler. The more I caressed her skin, the thinner it felt, as if wasting away after my every touch.
The day came when she confessed. She warned me. I needed not ask. She probably saw the question in my eyes, for the dead see all. Perhaps she was even then walking in the Netherworld. She said she was dying, always had been. There would come a day when she would most probably leave life behind, and I needn't mourn.
"You see," she told me, "I love dying. Dying is the reason I love life so much, for what is a story without an end but a waste of time?"
She never asked for an answer, but I knew she wanted one, so I gave her one. I wanted to enjoy every single moment till death arrived in her chariot. She never promised to stay alive, did not even say she'd try to live long. I could have said something, told her I could help, but instead chose to cling to my hope that death would come slowly or that she'd love life so much she'd change her mind. A fool's hope. I damn this moment to oblivion.
It was after this that I began regarding time its due importance, for time is the official measurement for life. I filled my bedroom with clocks, and their ticking became our song, though I could not afford to tell her. It felt as if that would somehow accelerate her death. This is a turning point. Everything went downwards after this.
We went walking together this one time when people stared at us constantly. I think she found out about the clocks; I was moving to the rythm of a clock's ticking.
I looked behind us and saw it. The trail extended from the door we came in through, to every place we'd been in, up till our current standing place. It was a trail of skin. It was the trail of her death, following us everywhere we went.
"Follow me, I'll take you home," I told her as I held her hand.
She stared at me with her eyes, green as a forest, so full of life and possibilities. I never loved her more as I peered into here soul for the last time.
"No," she answered.
"Do not let go," I begged, receiving no answer.
She just wouldn't run. I do not think I've ever held on so tightly to something as to her weakened, skinless hand in that moment.
The trail kept on growing behind us, now consisting of not only skin, but also muscles and other tissues, but never did I see blood. No wonder she'd always felt so cold to my touch!
I took her to my room and as I laid her on my bed, realized bones were all that was left. Her eyes, gone with her life. She was dead.
But something did not make any sense. The clocks, they kept on ticking. That could not be, for time measures life, and I saw only death.
Every once in a while, when walking in the streets, I think I see her next to someone else, but then I remember it cannot be here, for her bones are on my bed. You see, I kept them, and I lay with her each night.
There is a bookshelf in my room. Sometimes, I get the feeling she reads books; if she reads them, she has eyes, and if she has her green eyes somewhere, she must be alive.