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He was looking at me, smiling. The very same smile that made me fall in love with him more and more every time I saw it. I kept stepping towards him slowly, making sure that he couldn’t escape. The dark alley was lit only by the streetlamp at the open end of it, which was behind me. He stood still, as if he wanted me to get closer. His gaze was steady on me, and mine on him. My hands were trembling slightly, palms sweaty, making it hard for me to hold the knife steadily behind my back.
I took my final step and stood in front of him. His arms rested on his sides and his posture was relaxed. My eyes trailed over him before landing on his. The moment they met his honey ones, I felt exposed. His smile didn’t reach his eyes, unlike all the other times I had seen him smiling. He slowly raised his hand and placed it gently on my shoulder. My breath hitched and I almost flinched at the cold touch. His fingertips lightly ran down my arm and rested at my elbow, making me shiver. He started to lean towards me and I leaned back but was stopped by his grip on my elbow.
“I know what you’re going to do,” he whispered, “and I won’t stop you.” I felt his breath on my ear and his grip tightened slightly. His head dipped further. “You don’t have to feel guilty, I would do the same.” The familiar warmth and comfort in his voice, that I was used to, was gone. His black hair tickled my cheek and the smell of apples lingered. I wanted to step forward and breathe him in, let his lips trace my skin again before I ruthlessly drove the knife right into his heart.
His words and his proximity had a clashing effect on me, but his proximity emerged victorious. Listening to those words gave me some strength but his proximity made me weaker. His fingers traced lines down my arm to my wrist. My breath caught momentarily, my heart beating heavily in my chest. Fingers circled around my wrist, touch still gentle, and he pulled away a little to look me in the eyes again.
“I know you will do it. I know you won’t regret it.” My lips felt numb from his breath fanning them and he rubbed my wrist with him thumb. I swallowed nervously and fought the urge to close my eyes and lean forward. Instead, I tightened my grip on the knife. The force with which he held my wrist increased and he tilted his head a little to the side.
“Do it,” he breathed, his tone challenging. My hand moved from behind me to my side. His eyes dipped to the knife before staring into mine. Just as I was about to bring the weapon up and plunge into his chest, he leant forward and his cold lips met mine.
I gasped and sat up. The familiar darkness of my bedroom swam into my vision. I tried to calm my breaths but the feel of his skin on mine felt too fresh. Frantically, I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table and almost knocked it over. I gulped half of it down and placed it back. I stumbled out of bed and into my bathroom, fumbling with the switches to turn the light on. Grasping the sink tightly, I looked in the mirror.
Why did I want him even after he did that? Even after I murdered him? I didn’t regret stabbing him in the chest, I could do it a hundred times over. Then why did I want to feel him again? He was the one who took away almost everyone I loved. I had loved him, and I had lost him too. Those eyes, his voice, that smile, the apple shampoo scent and his delicate touch were things I missed dearly but would do anything to forget them all. I didn’t want to long for him. I wanted to forget him.