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Great Writing - Home > Short S. > How deep is your love?
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Shorts
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| How deep is your love? | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||
| 23 February 2007 | ||||||||||||||
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Written for the lazy writers subject, though it's not really supernatural. A bit different from what I normally do He adored her. He worshipped her. His every waking thought and sleeping dream was of her. He would spend hours lurking on the street corner so that he might accidentally meet her. He scowled at every man she would honour with a look or a word, and the jealous hatred would gnaw at him like a maggot. She, of course, affected not to notice him. He would bounce around her like a welsh collie bounces around its mistress. Every movement screamed a plea to allow him to run after the stick for her, if only she would please, please throw it for him. Which of course, she hardly ever did. Sometimes she would allow him to open a door, or fetch a coffee (of which she would take two sips then leave). Oh, she was cruel. And very, very clever. She knew the effect she had on men, and how best to keep them interested. How far she could plunge the knife, how deep into their wallets they would be prepared to dig for her. But he was ardent and persistent. She could not ignore him forever. So she gradually allowed him to worship in her presence. He would research into the most extraordinary topics in a desperate bid to remove the look of boredom she persistently wore. He would spend more than he could afford on jewellery. She accepted it as her due, a goddess accepting the libations of her devotee. But still it was not enough. Still she would laugh with other men, or leave him dejected at their rendezvous as she cavorted God knew where with God knew who. He knew what a pathetic creature he was, and yet knowing, continued to abase himself. One day it became too much. “I love you” he cried for the hundredth time. And yet again she shook her head and laughed, “No you don’t.” “How can you say that? Let me prove it. Ask me anything. Anything at all. If it is within my power I will bring it to you.” She smiled, amused at the desperation in his voice. “You don’t mean that. I could ask for a hundred things that you would not be prepared to give me.” “You could ask me a hundred things, and each one I would get for you one way or another.” She sat back, looking at his tortured face and contemplated. “No, I shall ask you just one thing. If you don’t bring it, I never want to see you again. Bring it, and we’ll see where we go from there.” “Sure. Anything you say, my love. Name it, and I’ll have it here within the hour.” “Bring me the heart of your mother” she said, then burst out laughing at her own joke. He laughed nervously. “No, but seriously. Ask me for anything.” She stopped laughing and looked down at him with eyes of ice. “I am serious. You say you love me. Prove it. Bring her heart here now. Do you think I will share you with another woman?” With a heart as heavy as a pound of sin he turned from her and made his way home. His mother was in the living room, ironing the days washing. He went into the kitchen, returning with the large carving knife hanging limply from his hand. “Hello, son. Why so sad? Tell me about it, my child, my only one. What can I do to raise your spirits?” He looked into the eyes of his mother, eyes as warm as cocoa, as warm as his lover’s were cold, and could stand it no more. With a cry he leapt forward, knife held high over his head, and hacked blindly at her chest. When his reason returned he stood there, the heart warm and sticky in his hand. His mother yet stood, holding the ironing board for support, a look of hurt on her face that transcended the feeling of mere pain. Aghast he staggered and fell back, sprawling across the floor. The shell of his mother held out her hand to him. “Did you hurt yourself, my child?”
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