It was the first time I had killed a man.
I did not see how it happened.
Only heard the silence, of death.
I knew it for certain. It was over.
It was over the moment I had said it.
It was the first time I had killed a man – with words.
It’s years later and I still wonder if the words were the only weapon. They couldn’t be, there had to be more.
Months and years of abusive emotions and actions, leading to nothingness.
The perfect plot for a murder, inevitable.
Like all things caused by an emotion – love.
“I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”
It was over.
I had killed him.
His silence haunts me – killing me slowly.
To think of all the times I had died, little by little, inside – for him.
Every scar with every lie.
Every time he crushed my heart with his bare hands.
And my heart still bled for him, every second of every day.
Until I was all bled out, and all that remained was a gangrenous venom.
I had to let it out.
With those words, that fire that burned within died.
The ashes cleansed.
It was the first time I had killed a man.
But it was so much more than that.
It was also the first time I gave life – to me.
Nishita T.
Based on a prompt from 642 Things to Write About
Prompts have a funny way to take you to the corners of your mind, your memories, the ones you hand long buried, maybe suppressed. The feelings – facts or fiction – I guess we’ll never know. The mind is a powerful thing. And a story? It’s the fuel that powers it, this mind.
fluid.world 