Love Hurts

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Love Hurts

The air stream was strong, and the wind whistled through open windows; it was the dead of night and the street looked as lifeless and forlorn as ever. The cobbles still remained unscathed, as if nobody had wanted to pace onto that territory. The dense gardens of boarded up houses lay untouched, whilst houses which were occupied had the same warmth glow that homes have, like the homes where families live in and play in their gardens for the duration of summer. Although this convivial street had lit up windows, only one street light remained operational, all the same it still flickered intermittently, sometimes leaving the street in obscurity for hours, and then there will be that unambiguous buzzing hum and then become ignited once more. Below the unpredictable entity, an overrun decomposing bench rested, planted on all its four legs, plants whirled and twirled in the region of the object, in and out of pavements, and clung to fences which sheltered houses from the hours of darkness. Underneath laid trampled flowers. It appeared that they had been compressed by the mystifying figure who sat there. As a rustling sound occurred and then a rock-strewn clank, as though someone had kicked a stone, the figure looked up. She had delicately chiselled features that sat firmly on an ethereal fair face, and held the most mysterious, passionate eyes, grey and musky, with a distinctive sparkle. Despite this, however, they looked as though they had cried many nights. Looking up further en route for the stars, a tear dropped off her curved chin, her air of mystery gained a murky aura almost like a spirit, like she was, dead. She continued her movement by dropping her head back down towards the floor. As she did so, stunning ashen hair plummeted over her pallid face, shining in the ceaseless light of the moon. Her hair was as white as glistening snow and made her all the more eerie. What clung to her body was a tight fitting, filthy wedding dress, once probably exquisite, but now appeared to be in rags and tears, with immense unpleasant muddy patterns on her knees, in the company of blood seeping through, down her leg and down into a puddle surrounding her foot. The blood contrasted nevertheless with her black toenails, the only thing black on her besides her murky air. Her shoes, or more to the point, one shoe, hung in her unstable hand, destroyed, the heal had been worn right down to a stump and the strap had entirely vanished. What, may you have the sense of hearing people ask, was the blood on her shoe? And why, you could utter, did the tear promenade down her face? Perchance, it might have something to do with the week before hand. There had been an article in the papers, ‘The missing bride’ they called it, the large chunk snippet of text told us how she was meant to be getting married in an ancient English church to her boyfriend of 11 years becoming Mrs Liang. However just before the spectacular wedding, she vanished, leaving no trace of her whereabouts what so ever. The British public came to the ruthless conclusion that the selfish woman had cold heartedly ran away with another man, leaving li-jie at the altar and to bring their 6 month old Cui and 9 year old Summer up all by himself. Except there was one fundamental difference which ruled every belief out; there was no one at the altar either, the whole family was missing. Li-jie, the half Chinese half English male lived in striking countryside with his eye-catching spouse; the day he had proposed to the love of his life had been one he would commit to memory for the rest of his existence. Whilst at their recent home in Sanya, li-jie, out of the blue, took his incredible grace up to the mountains. They stayed all of the sunlight hours with the warm rays glowing down on them, and sipping carelessly from wine glasses. He smiles to himself when he remembers the incredible smile she gave him when he delicately kissed her hand, and the...
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