Malory
and then she spoke to me, taking a sledgehammer to the already aching cocoon of my heart, from which erupted millions of tiny butterflies, each fighting for control of their own territory within me. a legion of them remained in my chest, tickling my very soul with the Eskimo kisses of their wings, but some of the more adventurous found their way into my throat, preventing me from answering her when she asked my name, although I’m sure she already knew what it was. the fabric of time had split open and I remained in the moment I had first seen her face, frozen to my chair by the millions of tiny freckles which stood out in sharp relief upon its milky pallor, accentuating the contours directly below her eyes and complementing their warm, glowing radiance in a manner which had assuredly been orchestrated by the stars themselves. she continued to speak to me, but my ears no longer registered her words and my eyes refused to follow hers. then Malory bent down toward me and placed her hand on my forehead, breaking my trance, and I just heard her mention something about “fever” before I died.
