by Nadia Rausa
Watercolor, gouache, ink, and color pencil.
I feel the shivers up my back again. A tremor between the shoulders. A cold spot at the base of my neck. It seems to happen often now, when I am alone. And I am so often alone. A memory traces its fingertips up my spine, caresses the loose tendrils of hair that spill past my ear. A memory only. There has been no one. Not since you. I sit and stare sometimes into the darkness, watching the frail light of the candle tremble against the wall. I feel your warm breath against my neck, watch it drift into the cold room. Then I remember that you left, left long ago. I am alone. I have been alone. I told Mother that I think you are near. That I sometimes feel as though you are once again beside me, running your fingers through my hair. She tells me not to dwell on it. "Dead man's hands," she whispers. She wants me to move in with her. It's not proper for me to live alone. "It's not safe." I can't leave though. This house is all I have left of you. Of us. Dear, is that your palm that grazes my neck even as I write this? Are you here with me now? The chill hangs ever colder in the air. Move closer to me, my love. Hold me again. That cool touch, that warm breath. I will not leave, ever. I will wait for you, my love. Propriety be hanged. I shall have you again. Hold me closer, dead man's hands or no.
Short story by J.L. Chabotte
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from EatSleepDraw http://eatsleepdraw.com/post/167478466219