Death of a Mermaid

Writing Club
April 3 2012

Prompt: I don't remember the exact prompt for this tale. I know it had to do with using colours to describe details of the story and we probably had 15-20 minutes to work with it….

Into the depths of indigo blue the corpse sank.  From his perch on the slate gray crags above, he watched her sink, swallowed into darkness.  Gray like the colour of her irises once, before the gulls had plucked them out.  Gray like the somber sky reflecting off the churning surface.

Her ivory dress waved round her as the water rocked her to and fro, rolling her round, sending her on her way to her resting place on the bottom.  He had sent her away to the sea.  Better that no one saw her that way.  What good would it do?  The bright red sash rippling along the current like the lifeblood had flowed from her wrists. 

Auburn hair waltzed and washed round and over her pallid face, hiding those hollow eye socks.  She rose once more in the surf almost as if to say goodbye, not wanting to be forgotten. 

He had seen her fall, yes, he hadn’t pushed, not physically anyways.  The stories he would need rolled round his head now.  Suicide, damnation, it wasn’t acceptable.  Better to say she went away, left him.

The fall had been a long time coming.  Many had seen her going, but withdrew their arms instead of holding them outstretched to grasp at her as she passed by.  A few could have helped pull her to safety.  Instead they avoided her darkness like the plague, avoided the fumes of her heartbreak.  Had he not done the same?  Been in the same house, slept in the same bed.   But she was already a ghost to him then, haunting his space with the black cloak of depression until it was almost unbearable.  But then, one day, he had chosen not to drink from the same bitter cup. 

By the time he went back, to unlock the door, key in hand, she was gone.  The windows left wide open, the house empty.  In the backyard, he was greeted with by corpse gracefully dangling over the wicker settee placed among her flowers, roses red and vibrant, scent pungent in the air mingled with the smell of rot. 

A wheelbarrow full of flowers lined her funerary procession to her burial at sea.  The shell of his once doll-faced bride once more burdened in his arms until he set her free for her brief flight.

Now he stood alone, facing the sea.  The sea, with its broil of dark waters, frothing and foaming, it had accepted her willingly.  Claiming her body for food for the crustaceans abiding along its floor.  Unlike the church, it would willingly provide a resting place for her tired bones.

            For a moment, his feet almost took flight to join her.  The draw of the wash of the waves, pitching and rolling, felt like a millstone tied neatly around his neck.  He felt her last kiss upon his lips, rough and sweet, yet stone cold, as the salt air caught his face and ruffled his hair.  She was gone.