My Version

by Jennifer Michelle N.

In my version of the story, there was less pain.

In my version, he pulled me closer before he whispered those words. Those words that would end my world. His hand on my shoulder, his face buried in my hair, he would say it, and I would gasp. His voice was as soft as the knife he drove through my heart when he said it, but he did say it. I couldn’t deny that he did say it. I wasn’t sure which I felt more, though. The weight of the words, or the cold steel of the knife that had pierced me by his hand. My hands wrapped around the hand he held the knife with, so, so close to the heart he had once claimed as his. He remained close to me in my version, as blood and life faded from my body, and the knife dug in deeper still. He held onto me. Then, just before I thought I’d collapse, he stepped back, releasing his hold on the knife, and on me. Leaving me standing there, a foot or so away from him, clutching the wound in my chest. Clutching the knife he’d all but killed me with. I watched him, silently as the everything I knew shattered.

He stood there for several moments as I fought to remain standing, but in the end I couldn’t. I collapsed to the ground, dropping my gaze as the coolness of the steel knife began to spread through me like food coloring through water. Slowly, and yet quickly. Calmly, and yet like a storm cloud rolling in over the ocean. Promising a hurricane. Promising death. My death. Caused by none other than him. Him.

In my version, only after I’d collapsed did he say what I wanted to hear. Only after I was bleeding to death on the ground by his hand, did he offer me a small smile and whisper the one sentence in existence that could have eased the pain, in my version.

“I didn’t mean it.”

Silence fell for only a second, before my smile flickered back into place, like a light bulb flickering to life. I offered him the brightest, purest smile I had. Purer than innocence. Brighter than snow covered fields on a sunny morning. Brighter, and better, and stronger than the light of a heavenly angel. The knife’s coldness still spread through me, blackening my life, but it couldn’t touch my heart. Despite being lodged into the center of my love for this boy, in the strongest organ of my entire being, I felt no pain there. I felt only the light he brought to my life. The light those words, those four simple words, returned to me, in my version. I didn’t mean it. He’d stabbed me. He’d all but killed me, and he knew it, but in whispering those four words to me, he’d healed me beyond skill. Beyond something as petty and unimportant as physical well being. He’d healed my soul, and given me a reason to deny the pain death was bringing as it dragged me down. He gave me a light to see as I died, with those four words.

In my version.

But fantasy is fantasy for a reason.

I could never forget how it had truly happened.

In real life, he didn’t pull me close. He didn’t whisper anything. He met my eyes blankly, with no warmth or familiarity. No sign that he even knew who I was.

He didn’t stab me. Instead, he shrugged, and said the four words that cost me all love, all light, and strength and will to live. He uttered the four words that would bring me to my knees better than any knife ever could.

“I don’t love you.”

I shuddered, and returned to my fantasy quickly, where he stabbed me and left me for dead. There. Bleeding to death on the floor. Because it was so much easier, dying with the knowledge he loved me, than living with the knowledge that he didn’t.

Back to Archive

Writers Bio

I'm a teenager writer, which can be a bit depressing and even discouraging at times, but hopefully, with the right attitude and dedication, I can one day be more.

Inspirational ImageI thought you were a ghost by Chris  Howardby Chris Howard

Pieces Inspired by this Image

'You Don't Belong'
by Sarah Hendrix

'The Mermaid'
by C. Martinez

'The Natural End of a Clockwork Boy'
by Kelly Stiles

'Phenakistoscopes and House Tocks'
by Catherine Battreal

Follow Us

© Copyright 2012 With Painted Words