Dusk

She descended from the west, a nasty flurry tearing in her wake as if to flee the coming darkness. She stepped down the slope of the rising road like a furious angel, a presence that crunched and cracked the snow beneath her feet like she were cracking silence. Her hues were sunset, dark and deep and full of shadow. I felt helpless before the coming wave of shades.

The pale golden white of her hair was thoroughly empty of color of its own, the same way that mane's lion had no passion in roar. It was beautiful, sure, but the feelings evoked from that hair was merely a reflection: a desire, a dream, a season refracted and distorted and never truly hers. She wore it well, with all the rest of her lies.

Her face of porcelain was chipped and cracked from the dry air, thick marring pocks of red and purple rising up like the welts and bruises those eyes had made me bring. The hate in those eyes and the petty bitterness made less of a man of me, and twice the beast. Her face was framed by nature to make animals of men, and had all the beauty of a bloody, snapping feast.

Her lips were painted thickly like the evening air, a bruise purple, sharp like a plum that had never ripened. I felt sick in those lips, numb from the taste of the poison – the kisses, the lies, a year of abuse and pain and hurt. Those lips parted and I felt myself breath out, trying to spit away the burning heat that had infected me.

“What the fuck do you still want?” she asked me. She snarled.

The sun fell.