I just did not know what to say whenever he was around. It was as if every word would matter when I knew it never would, for it never did.
I think the words would make more sense if constructed correctly to form a sentence, such as how this one is made.
I remember the short story I read about a gargoyle guarding a human heart. I wondered which would make a better guard: the stone-cold gargoyle or his stone-hard hand.
I could imagine my heart freezing from the statue, adapting with the frigidness to sustain its life.
However, the thought of my heart in his hand made me shiver. I never imagined it breaking.
I guess that’s the price I have to pay for acting like Harlequin when I knew in my mind that he wasn’t my Columbine.
The squishing sound echoed across the room, bouncing from wall to wall.
The blood squirted from my heart, staining the floor as well as his shirt. But he was wearing black which was quite unusual for he always wore white and I always wore black—although it didn’t really matter. Not anymore.
He smiled, wickedly enjoying as he squeezed my heart like a stress ball.
The door knob turned. The ray of lights from the outside raced to enter the room from the open door, giving light to the dark room. Then, the lights went on.
A loud, tingling scream echoed through the room and along the hallway. A man rushed to the side of the horrified woman. He himself was terrified with what he saw.
A maiden in black lay on the crimson-stained floor. Her chest was carefully sliced open. The strongest muscle was missing.