By Richard Cody
Alice stepped into the room, filling the small space with her presence. Her eyes danced blue and beautiful, like waves crashing on a beach. She was vibrant, vivacious, barely contained energy rippling beneath almost luminous skin.
“I will never love you again,” she whispered, soft as gently falling rain. “I will never love you. . .”
I moved as if to catch her, confusion gripping my mind; my blood, replaced by cold fear, pumping through a heart withering toward oblivion. I needed to touch her, to feel the soft warmth that was Alice . It was too late, I knew. She was gone, forever. The air burned my skin, my eyes, with horrible realization. My heart collapsed in upon itself, forming a black hole of infinite density deep within the middle of me.
“I will always love you,” I muttered, the light of the room beginning to bend toward me. “Always.”
Alice stepped out of the room, leaving it completely empty.
Copyright ©2011 Richard Cody. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce in any form, including electronic, without the author’s express permission.
If you like this story, check out Richard’s other story, published on this site: Lisa
Richard Cody has been known to write poetry and fiction. His work has appeared most recently in Kaleidotrope, Red Fez, Askew Poetry, Daily Love and Eclectic Flash (including their best of 2010 anthology). His books are available at Lulu and Amazon.