Desolate, she rocked back and forth in her armchair,
Staring at the fir trees silhouetted against the moonlit sky
Her thoughts scarpering before reason, like the wavering tendrils of her hair,
Picking through the ruins of a life left low, dry.
Memories, old and new, dull, bright, and wistful,
Flashed before her eyes with raw emotion in tow.
Time had erased her shallow scars, leaving deeper ones in its wake
Hope ceased to throb her veins,
Deserting her amidst the ruins – a sad excuse for a life.
She barely heard the rustling behind her,
Barely registered the faint smell of the outdoors;
Filth and mud, fresh from the evening shower,
She had no reason to suspect that anything was amiss.
Taken by surprise, her scream died in her throat
As she felt the cold, sharp blade press into her throat,
The blade sliced her throat,
Before she realized the fate that had befallen her,
“Murder!”, she breathed in a raspy voice,
Her voice, barely audible.
Blood seeped through her dress,
The warm red spread in bold patches,
Deep, dark blotches against her white blouse.
It lay in pools, beneath her chair
In stark contrast to her white pallor.
Little did her murderer realize,
That he had released a soul.
© 2015 Shweta Suresh. All rights reserved.
Image courtesy: Pixabay