Until one person remains.

Miss Green stands there, a stoic expression etched in her features. Her hair, drenched by the rain, drips water onto her already soaked clothing. She doesn’t move for a long while, despite the storm, despite the lack of audience.

Her continued stillness draws me, pulls me toward her. I adjust the collar of my coat to shield my face and gradually make my way in her direction. To a passerby I look like someone visiting the deceased. On any other day, that would be true.

I have mourned.

Once.

My steps bring me close enough to see the woman’s bottom lip trembling, now tinged with blue due to the cold. Miss Green wraps her arms around her middle, flower still in hand, and sinks to the ground with a small cry of anguish.

Finally, the tears come.

She tilts her head back, her pale throat an offering, making my fingers twitch. Eyes shut and lips parted, the woman sobs. I don’t possess empathy, but if I did, I’d be gutted at hearing such a forlorn sound.

Even so, there's a strange tightness in my chest.

It intensifies the longer she cries, the more tears she sheds.

There is no audience, no performance to be had. Just a daughter mourning the loss of her parent. In private.

Miss Green waited until she was alone to properly grieve, a revelation I didn’t see coming. Her behavior is a deviation from the norm.

Disappointment surges along with confusion, and my brows furrow. For the first time, the joy I receive from funerals has vanished.

My satisfaction has been thwarted.

And replaced with an uncomfortable sensation that I refuse to name. Something I shouldn’t be capable of.

It’s there nonetheless.

Miss Green is the cause of this.

I run my gaze over the woman as she gets to her feet and slowly makes her way to the casket, grass and mud stains on her clothes and legs. Her perfect image is no more. The lily in her right hand shakes from the tremors wracking her body, dislodging raindrops that are quickly replaced by the storm. And her tears.

She brokenly whispers something I can’t make out and kisses the flower’s petals before placing it on the mahogany surface amongst the other blooms. Then she walks to the vehicle idling by the curb. I watch until she climbs inside and disappears from sight.

Then I head toward the casket. Peering down, I squint in disdain at the man hidden within, my lip curling. “You caused pain before and after your death. If I could kill you again, I would.”

Reaching out, I trail my fingers over the lily that Miss Green held so tightly, the soft texture how I imagine her skin would feel. I pick it up and press my lips to the petal where she did moments ago, inhaling deep. The fragrance of the bloom fills my nostrils, along with the scent of the woman who now invades my thoughts.

She’s a mystery

A problem.

One that I intend to solve and be rid of. No matter the cost. Or else the price I’ll pay will be my sanity—what little still remains.

Once You’re Mine

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Morgan Bridges

A lover of anti-heroes, deep and thought-provoking books with beautifully written words, romance that's sigh-worthy, scenes that are so hot she blushes, and heroines that inspire her to the point Morgan wants to take their place.

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