'Strange Kind of Suicide'

I remember him standing there; blue eyes, dark hair - brooding statue of a man in front of me. Any clue of feeling, any gesture could give me away.

I hated how he watched me, expecting me to shatter. Waiting for some kind of switch to activate my emotions. A switch he believed existed in the deepest, darkest room of my soul.

I remember just the day before we laid on the grass outside the cemetery, in the shade of an enormous chestnut tree. Dreaming of the future with his head next to mine, there was a part of me that knew these were our final moments.

Taking this knowledge, I gave myself to him completely, believing that this way we could never be separated. We were fated to be apart - I knew it as well as he did - but right then, it seemed we were both oblivious.

I remember waking the next morning, proud in the knowledge I had saved us. Putting on my favourite song and turning up the volume, my heart filled with praise for whoever had given that man to me. The impending distance seemed inconsequential.

He called me some three hours later, sniffling down the phone line; despite the fact he had requested me, I couldn’t get him to speak. In the end, I requested his presence, hoping to shed light on his mystery.

So there we were, eying one other, waiting for checkmate. In the end I didn’t need him to say anything, his face said it all. Eyes, once red with wildfire lay cold and empty.

This was the moment I realised I was a murderer. Laying under that chestnut tree, I had torn his heart away, leaving him lifeless. The man I loved was dead and open-chested in front of me.

I remember giving him back his heart, wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Having won it at a fair when I was seven and treasuring it ever since, I deemed it the perfect container. Perfect for the man I shared my first dance with, tripping due to my oversized heels.

Gazing upon the bloody package, he stepped towards the door and I knew. As I slept in the grass that day he had killed me as well, kissing me softly on the cheek.

He never gave me my heart back, instead chose to keep it in a dirty tissue in the back pocket of his jeans - bleeding through for all to see.