Haruki and Anna

I’m dying.

The wind is severe. It bites my body like cuts of knife. The world is wrapped in thick, gray fog and I could hardly see anything more than thirty centimeters before me. June Gloom at its best. My ribs ache like a second heartbeat, and I figure out that some of them might have been broken after the hard falling against the land. My nose is bombarded with smell of fresh earth – soil and muck and grass. It is weird to see the world in fetal position, especially since I could hardly move even the slightest of my fingers.

Maybe Haruki will think that I have died.

It would be great if I actually died.

I heard that good girls die pretty easily. My vision spins and no sound goes through my left ear. What smell like grass in front of my eyes look like blurs of green and brown with some shades of yellow. Beautiful California summer grass.

I’m dying, but I’m obviously not dead yet.

If my head doesn’t throb so badly, the scenery before my eyes would look like one of the panoramas in Thomas Kinkade’s paintings. Haruki would like my description. He loves the artist’s works.

I hope Haruki is dead. I hope he is lying on the grass with crackled skin, red blood oozing out of his body, and blank gray eyes staring at nothing. I hope the blade is attached deeply into his heart, creating angry black spot of blood on his chest and staining his black shirt into deep rose red color. I hope he died, died, died.

I hope my best friend wouldn’t realize that I have tried to kill him.

Hilda

Hilda is a reader, a writer, and a learner. Her stories are partially inspired by the books she read and her warped imagination. You can almost always encounter a demon, ghosts, or characters with twisted personalities in her stories. She loves comfort drink, good conversations, and traveling. If you are interested to get in touch with her, please visit her in her book blog www.catcthelune.blogspot.com or mention her in Twitter @hey__hilda.