Fire and ice, burning on your lonely mind—
Melpomene throws herself in front of the shining porcelain, panting, face pale, shining with an unhealthy green sheen. She kneels, moaning into the echo of the toilet, and waits for the memories to come spouting up through her mouth. Burning—on—your—
She remembers their faces, now, recurring fragmented dreams of everyone and everything she’s lost. Marching in a grim parade across her broken arm, bleeding face. All the days and nights when she waited up for him and he never came back, not that one or the next one, or the one that came after, not even when the mirror broke and she looked through and—she remembers—Lonely mind—
—and he, not suspecting he would be dead in a moment, head through the windshield, eyes thrown back, crying, lecturing instead of saying goodbye, begging please. Please. Green light, red light, blue in the rain—let’s go— why does it always turn out this way? Like contagious ruthless blood. Pitching in, never letting go, hands gripped tightly on the edge of white porcelain sanity. Cold patterned tile beneath bare knees. Leave the holy imprint on you—
The bile comes up, bringing with it the acidic taste of fear, and sadness, and anger. It’s all there. A hundred years of solitude, hands gripped tightly on the steering wheel edge, waiting for whatever comes next. It’s not enough to love, it must be pure and true and—
You have to be willing to die, take the extra step and put that dagger in your hand, plunge it in and carve out your still-beating heart. Lay it on the windshield, baby. She loved him so much, gone in a heartbeat an instant. Melpomene grips tightly to the firm toilet seat, tears streaming down pale face.
I’d trade immortality for any price, she thinks, reflection rippling in the foul water. Wait—then—go—Distorted by questionable (colorful) content. Melpomene moans, and leans forward again, mind falling into a million shards of stained glass that cut like fire and ice into her skin.