Friday Fiction: Yva, The Formative Years.

By | May 1, 2009

Yva draws a picture of a man she once loved. She hums as she works. Her pencil recaptures the beauty of his face, the hard lines and planes that made him so handsome. It is a good picture; it is detailed, and well shaded. She managed to get his smile right, that half lip tilt that used to make her heart melt. She only wishes she could get some colored chalks to recreate the emerald green of his eyes and the sun sheen of his hair. For now, the black and white would have to suffice.

She stares at the completed work, her pencil tapping against the tabletop. It is funny that she remembers him so well, considering how long it’s been. Considering how poorly their last meeting had gone.

He said he’d love you forever, Yva.

And he’d lied. All people lie, but his betrayal had cut her deeply. It had wounded more than her pride – it had wounded her soul. For that crime he would pay with everything he had to give and more.

Yva remembers, and Yva frowns.

How long had he waited to replace her? How long had he mourned her plague death, if at all? How long had it taken him to find a new love?  There were so many questions he would answer before the end.

Through the drawing, Yva’s fingers trace the curve of his cheek. Her thumb brushes over his full bottom lip, and she suddenly smiles. There is so much left for her to do. Her revenge, her plot, her journey. It is good. It is just. It is perfect.  Patience had never been her strong suit, but when there was a lifetime of undeath before her, what was another few weeks, months, years?

Her smile widens. How gorgeous he will be – screaming and writhing – as he’s forced to watch her murder his bride. Yes, he will watch even if she has to cut his eyelids from his face to make him watch. And when there is nothing – when only bones remain of the one he dared to sing HER song to . . .

Yva closes her eyes.

She longs for the day. She longs for the time when she can cut things from his body. A part of her wants to redden her mouth with his blood because only then will he understand, only then will he see that his death not only nourishes her soul, slacking her lust for vengeance, it nourishes her body, too.

Yva rolls the portrait into a scroll, slipping it into her backpack. Again she hums, the song that is will forever be a part of her, as he will be a part of her. She knows that some would consider what she does monstrous, that some would say she is an abomination, but what better way to express her love? What better way is there for her to keep him with her? Faithful. Bound. Never again will he stray. His soul intertwined with hers for eternity because she’s his murderess.   

Yva pays the innkeeper for her stay, strapping her staff upon her back. The road beckons because it leads her to him, and she sets to traveling, a skip in her step and a song in her head.

There is much left for her to do.

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