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Updated on August 9, 2014


This is a fantasy short story, of course exagerate, extreme and absolutely invented.

A dark fantasy story, but with psychological implications about life and "sick" loves: about the feelings of pain and the freedom to get out of this suffering.

It maybe looks like a sad story, but if you read more deeply, it's a message of hope.

Killing is just methaphorical, get off from negative things (or people) from our life and start again,be a new person.


Looking to myself in the mirror, I can’t believe that I’m still unharmed.

Still unharmed, even after what I faced. It seems almost impossible, but I’m here.

I can see myself.

I can look very well myself, from the head to the feet.

The mirror reflects my first wrinkles, my gathered hair, my tearing eyes, pencilled with a black eyeliner already worn out, my thin lips, my black large dress that slide inside a skinny body, slimmed down in few months for too many regrets.

Who I am? Can I recognize me? My face is apathetic, lifeless and without any expression.

I try to smile but my smile is fake, I never pretend to be someone different from what I am.

What I will do now? I could never been the same of before, everything I decide to do and everywhere I decide to go.

This is the only thing I know now.

In my gaze there isn’t any sign of be afraid or sorry, neither to be worried or nervous.

I look myself in the mirror again.

In my imagination I hear the sound of bell ringing and someone knock the door: I see two police men enter in the house and carry me to Scotland Yard, and me, in the police station, unable to say a word.

Maybe there, I could stay better. Maybe I will not torment myself with all these thinking, maybe I just have to go there and talk. After, everything it could finish, even in bad, but at least it could end.

It never ends like this, instead.

I can’t escape, but I can’t stay either.

My head is ready to burst, I’m confused, I feel warmness, thirst, weakness, all together in the same time. And instead to run, I stay lie still and I wait.

I continue to stare at mirror, hopening that myself imagine become magic, hopening to understand what I have to do.

But look myself reflected in the mirror isn’t useful. But I can’t stop it, I can’t stay without look at the mirror.

My hand now brushes the reflect of my cheek, like it is of an other person.

My hand goes into the mirror.

I touch something.

I can feel it.

It’s there.

It’s slimmy, soggy, sticky. It beats very strongly and wildly.

It’s his heart.

I bring it out from the mirror. It’s alive and pulsating like never before.

I got it in my hand palm.

It bleeds.

It beats still strongly, so much that I’m scared.

I have to leave him. I have to leave him.

It jumps from my hand. It falls down, I tread on the heart with my foot.

It can’t stop to beat. I see that it’s still moving, I feel its pulsations more stronger and faster now. I try to catch it, but I can’t.

I look in the mirror. I’m here again, but my face express terror, my reflected imagine is transparent, I can see just the heart.

The heart on the floor that bleeds, beats and is moving.

The heart is coming to me.

I can take it, I try to place again my hand into the mirror to put back the heart, but it runs away all the time.

It comes back to me.

Why doesn’t it stop to beat? Why doesn’t it die?

I shoot him some hours ago, before that he hides itself inside the mirror. How can be still alive?

I stool and killed the heart of the person that I loved more of anyone else in my life but that gives me the most excruciating pain.

I would like to feel only satisfaction, not any suffering or any fear.

I would like only that this heart dies and finally leaves me alone.

I take it again on my hand. It struggles now, its beats are more slow, there isn’t blood anymore.

It’s static. It’s tired.

I look at it. Its pulsations are less.

It’s becoming pale.

Maybe it’s arrived its time.

I brush it and it stays inert.

I look it again. It stop to beat.

Far away, I hear the police car alarm. The door opening.

“Madame, Scotland Yard Police. You are under arrest…”

I can’t hear any word, I have the beating of the heart inside my head.

I was so worried about the heart, that I didn’t think that the body was lying in the living room floor.

I cry. I cry a lot, I throw out all my tension and every tear hold back in the last hours, in the last days, in the last years.

And immediately I laugh.

I laugh while they are arresting me, while they are talking and they are bringing me outside of the house and in the car.

Police men don’t understand.

But they don’t know what it means be rid of this heart.

The handcuffs close my wrists, but I’m free.

I’m finally a free soul.


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    • Blanca82 profile image

      Simo 3 years ago from London

      Thank you Lady E!

    • Lady_E profile image

      Elena 3 years ago from London, UK

      Very deep, touching read.