Chapter 1 : Little Heart, born to die
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His hands, damp with blood, cradle her withering heart as it throbs. He has done this misdeed, he has taken everything from her and now he has condemned her to death. Blood drips from his hands onto his robes and he makes no move to cleanse either; the stains will remain there, always.
Tears cling to his hooked nose briefly before mixing with the betrayal in his palms. It is silent in his mind, except for the thud-thudding of her heart.
He closes his eyes and listens to the sound, wishing the world away so that they can be alone again. His heart begins thud-thudding with hers and he quietly mourns for the future he destroyed. He made her into the very thing he despised, he drove her into another's arms and he hates her for faults that are his own.
His grasp on her heart tightens and she is stifled briefly, distant and cold. Wanting her isn't enough to bring her to life in his arms. The tighter he holds her little heart, the more she dies.
She creates life, he drains it. Her baby, whose heart resolutely thud-thuds inside his tiny chest, provides his bitterness. Such an innocent creature does not deserve his loathing but he cannot help but blame him for the father's misdeeds. He can picture her green eyes now, residing in this infant tainted with the father's image. His fingers press into her warm flesh and he knows that he lost her years before now.
Has she ever loved him? Or has she always known the sinister strings of his heart? Perhaps she saw her demise in his intensity and dependency; perhaps she realised that he was always going to watch her die.
As his eyes open and fingers relax, her heart resumes its regular thud-thudding. It is only a matter of time before it stills for eternity, a fate sealed. No matter how desperately he tries to cling to her, he can only harm her. He is not a healer.
She is ingrained into the grooves in his palms. With every beat she overwhelms him. She drives him to the darkest corners of his essence and leaves him there, stranded, with nothing but silence and the echoes of her heartbeat. It's a struggle to escape her when he sees her in every breath of wind, in every straggling sunbeam. She is as much a part of him as his own heart.
Thud-thud. Thud-thud. His hands grow heavy under the weight of her heart and he tires of his dragging conscience. How he wishes he is cold and indifferent, how he longs for the feelings of non-feeling but whilst he cradles her in his hands he'll never be free of hatred. He hates himself for loving her and he hates her for how simple she made it to be loved.
Emotions are not as easy to fling as a living, beating, breaking heart. Even in silence they are there, thud-thudding away as though keeping time. And as time passes, she presses more and more on his mind and fights back against his grip. She cannot fight forever and he will both win and lose her.
He holds his breath and counts every thud-thud with his eyes closed, hoping that he can preserve her. Then, quite suddenly, her heart stops, limp and still in his blood stained hands. He will never let her go.
All is silent except for the thud-thudding of his own heart against his ribs, alone. Clutching her last echoes, the blood seeps into his clothes with his loathing. It was always at his hands that she was destined to die.