29 años. Soñadora. Creativa. Parlanchina. (makeiri) wrote,
29 años. Soñadora. Creativa. Parlanchina.

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Her ragged breathing became more and more pronounced. Fighting with all her might, she pushed her legs farther, running with all the speed her slender body could provide. She was not able to change to her original form, and even if she could, she would never. She had decided she could only run for a little while longer, and if she was going to die (again), she would die beautiful, just like her very essence was.

But more scared than being dead, she was afraid of living. She was afraid of living because that would mean she had lost to fear and had changed form and he would have seen her. So disgusting, so sick… no, she would die beautiful. He would find her beautiful body and probably put the remains of the machine that pretended to be a human body in a beautiful tomb, where he would visit and leave roses every night, still under the illusion that she was human, still under the illusion that the  love he had pledged was NOT to a liar.

She would rather die again than letting him known he had been lied to.

 That the only person he believed trusted him had lied to him since the very moment that they had met.

And yet… not everything was a lie. The sweet words, the soft murmurs, the tender rain and the soft skin of his lips against her own… yes, she would die with this memory, and she would die happy.

With a soft cry of fear that surprised even her, she came to a sudden stop and slowly, turned to meet her fate.


My feelings for this are more like "bluh?"

Weird things happen when you have writer's block OTL


Tags: escritos, unfinished
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