The tears washed down her face, ruining her mascara and creating dark streaks on her powdered cheeks. Her eyes regarded him full of hate, and yet, with an occasional glimmer of question. She wiped her cheeks, creating watery marks that shone in the soft moonlight.
“How could you do this to me?” she stammered.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said, his voice full of sincere sorrow.
He studied her for a minute with intense concentration, as his brow furrowed, and he put his hands on her bare shoulders. She pulled away from his touch, unwilling to listen to the feelings stirring inside her. He looked hurt, but he didn’t try to touch her again. She took another step away from him, and turned around, determined not to let him see her cry again. She hated crying in front of anyone, especially him. She felt to weak, and vulnerable. If he couldn’t see her cry, he wouldn’t know how weak she truly was. How weak he made her. She hated weakness in any form, couldn’t sand it. Her psychologist had told her she had to cry, even if she had to force herself. Crying is natural, and healthy, he’d said. She had told him he was a nutcase and inane. She had only gone when her mother forced her too and even then had been totally unyielding to his hardest effort to get her to feel. She finished sobbing, set her mouth in a firm, straight line, and turned to face him. She pushed long, straight, chocolate hair out of her face and put it behind her ear, out of habit. Her make-up smeared face looked so beautiful to him, he had to fight the urge to reach out and hold her, tell her everything was all right, but he couldn’t, because nothing would ever be all right between them again. Instead he just looked at her, his eyes full of tears, and opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off.
“You enjoyed it, didn’t you? You loved every minute of ripping me to pieces and vandalizing me like that! How could you? I thought you loved me. I thought you were different and caring. I actually trusted you too. I guess I was wrong… You’re no different from the rest of them. I can’t believe I loved you….” She trailed off, her eyes filling with tears again. “I trusted you and you took advantage of me! You betrayed my trust! I actually loved you, and I still love you… But I hate you so much!”
He looked at her, the defeat he felt overcoming his momentary anger at her cynicism and the thought she could hate him. He wanted to reach out and hold her, his porcelain doll with violet eyes and chocolate hair. He needed to feel her close to him, smell her, and kiss away her salty tears. He looked at her forlornly, catching and remembering everything about her, how she walked, her hips swaying softly, making her long flowing skirts to seem to float and sweep across the floor in the apartment they used to share. Suddenly he was overcome with emotion, and fell to his knees, sobbing and throwing his arms around her legs.
“No! Don’t feel like that! Don’t say such things! I love you! I’ve loved you since the moment we met! The way your hair spills over your shoulders and how you’re eyes light up when you mad or excited, the way you walk, say I love you to me! I love it all! I’ve loved every minute I’ve ever spent with you! I hate myself for what I’ve done! But I can’t take it back because it’s already done. I wish I hadn’t hurt you, but I have and I’ve made you cry.”
“I’M NOT CRYING!!! CRYING’S WEAK!!” she screamed at him.
“I’ve hurt you. So I’ll leave now, and let you live your life. I hope it gets better and you’re happy.” He finished.
She looked at him, speechless, she wondered how she could have ever hated the person behind those deep, caring green eyes, then remembered with a jolt what had happened that day. Fighting her instinct to run away, she took a step closer to him, and then another, until she was chest-to-chest with him. She reached down, and clasped his hand, bringing it up to her chest; she pressed it over her heart.
“Do you feel that? That’s a tired, broken, run-down heart. You broke it, can you fix it?” she asked, almost childlike.
“I don’t know, but I want to try, if you’ll let me.”
They stood silent for a moment, looking in each other’s eyes and feeling the beat pulsing through both bodies. For that moment, they thought the same, felt the same and were the same person. He sought forgiveness in those violet eyes that could be so warm and tender, though right now, seemed so cold and confused. He pulled her closer, and leaned her head on his shoulder, his shaking arms encircling her. One free hand absently stroked her hair, trying to calm her. She relaxed in his comforting arms, though every inch of her body screamed run. She looked up at him, tears starting to run down her face again, creating little trails that glimmered in the pale moonlight, and kissed him lightly on the lips. She pulled out of his familiar, now horrifying embrace.
“I’m sorry. I can’t trust you, I love you with all of me, but after what you did, I just can’t trust you. I hope you understand.”
With that, she tearfully turned and walked away from him, stopping only to look back before she was out of sight. It seemed like the end for him. He had lost his most valuable asset, his Chocolate Violet. Feeling the hopelessness and despair of the situation, he sat down on a log and sobbed. Torrents of tears poured out of his red eyes, as he remember everything about her, the way she wore her hair, how she talked, how small her hand had felt in his, all the little things that make love so special.
When he had cried all he could, he stood and walked back along the trail, THEIR trail. The thought depressed him even more, and he felt tears running down his numb cheeks. He hurried along to his car, hoping the feeling would leave him. The feeling of utter emptiness and worthlessness that rested on his shoulders, like a vulture waiting for him to die. When he left the trail he was in a parking lot, he looked around for any signs of life, which told him he was still alive. The sun was just now rising, and in the grayness before the rosy dawn, he could just make out the outline of her car, about 20 feet away. He saw a figure sitting in the front seat, head leaned back, and shoulders relaxed. The body looked limp, and as he watched, tipped over, and landed on the steering wheel, unmoving. He got a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and sprinted over to it as fast as he could, for fear she was dead. He reached the drivers side door and yanked it open, somehow catching her as she fell out of the car, her fragile body limp in his arms. He pulled her all the way out of the car, and laid her head on his lap. She looked up at him, recognition shimmering in her slowly glazing eyes.
“You came,” she whispered softly.
“Of course I came. I love you,” he managed to choke out over the lump in his throat.
“You fixed it. But it’s too late now, I’m sorry.” She said, dropping the bloody knife onto the hard, cold ground with a soft ^ping^.
“It’s never too late.”
“I love you,” she said.
Violet eyes closed, as the last of the air drained from her body and blood from her wrists. Her head fell lolling into his lap, and her body relaxed. The bloody knife looked evil in the pink sunrise, and he picked it up in his free hand. He held her there, as if she was sleeping for a while. Then he felt like he knew what to do. He placed her head gently on the ground and walked back down the trail, to the log and pool. There, he sat on the log, and pressed the knife blade into each wrist, just as she had done not 30 minutes earlier. Tears streaming down his face, he walked back to the parking lot, now illuminated in cheery rosy sunlight, and laid next to her, he took her in his arms and rested her head on his chest. Then he fell asleep, next to his love. His very own private Chocolate Violet.

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