a gigantic thing, it weighs heavily on the soul

Her en Death
10:19 PM - 7/9/2010

"Mariposa," he said, diligently tugging at the soft flesh of her arm.
"Mariposa, I think you're going to die." Her dark eyebrows furrowed against her face.

Her grimace was such a great one, the brows nearly meeting, her nose scrunched and sun-fed freckles, light pigmented colors, flashing new skin. Her cheeks swelled and her fingers trembled on the covers. She turned over. She didn't want to face him. She didn't want to face death. The speaker touched his skull face, bare bone rattling against his risen cheekbones. All of a sudden he was feeling exposed; she knew too much about him. She made friends with him, and she loved him. When her family was away and they did not understand her, she kept him in company. The ragged wool of his black clothing was pulled closer to himself, the fabric falling into the thin, open caves between his ribs as he stood.

It was known that she did not want him anymore. Like him even. He managed not to get teary, thinking he might have been able to now because he never felt so human. Mariposa turned in her bed, keeping her now healthy, fattened arms above her head as to not let him discover the way she was looking at him. Her eyes blinked, falling to the ball of his knee that poked out the robe as he remained in silence.

Death turned once more and she shut her eyes. She opened them when he had exited the room. The way in which he moved was ghastly and swift, and his air of casualties swayed the last petals of the last flowers her advocates had sent to her for life.