Wear your best Victorian dress. Latch the white pearls your great Grandmother wrapped [in an old, white cloth] for you since your Mother has become too old to wear it. Hold your thick, brown hair with the wood crafted pin your beloved Father handed—he would have loved the view of his daughter’s beauty.
If the sunset passes, walk to the old mansion with fear. Trust the light of your heart when you guide your fingers in the dark. In the small, rat-filled dining room, you meet me. I am dressed with a deceitful smile, which you forget to know through the fleet of your veins.
After the mild dinner, we drink the vintage wine I found in my poisoned basket. The lone, lit candle moves with love and plays with our shadows. My Mother told me there are two forms of darkness: emptiness and filled.
I am still waiting for the day my laughter starts to sound whole. You have been the 35th attempt to cure my disease—still, we fail.
I blow out the candle’s fire, just so I can leave you alone in the dark.
Check out this week’s prompt:
Sunday Photo Fiction
WORD COUNT: 188
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.