Young Writers Society

His voice haunts me. No matter how far I run, how deep I try to hide away, or how hard I push him away from me, he seems to always be there. His words echo in my soul.

"If you were to dust my heart, your fingerprints would be the only ones found."

There was not an ounce of desire in me to be responsible for his heart. If anything, he was the one holding mine. He held it, but then he would let it fall with every glimmer of hope I sparked for him. He would show me a glimpse of something real, a feeling, an emotion other than hatred buried within him. A feeling one could almost mistake as love. But as quickly as it would come, that shimmer of light within his eyes would burn out. His eyes faded and his shadow was drawn, as if he was ashamed of himself for being human.

It is true, I was entranced by his very being. His aura of green, wild and lovely, captured my attention from the minute he walked in the room the night it had rained. But there was no mistaking the anguish in his eyes, the pain he hid away underneath his layers of arrogance and bigotry. He hid his love, his kindness, and his passions underneath his dark curtain of prejudice.

I had no inclination to hold his heart in my hands, but his fingerprints were the ones to grip my heart. And you would not need to dust it in order to see the bruises he has left.