The dresser was cluttered. Hairbands, lip balms, and pencil stubs sat amidst ear worn, tightly folded notes and those squashed oblong pennies that you got from fun fairs. It all creating a debris that was uniquely her. I turned from the dresser to the window, greasy and smudged, the weak light of a northerly sun barely made it through.
My stomach churned and bile rose up. A cold cup of tea was sitting in front of me, chilled by the room, as I had lingered too long over her things. I opened my mouth to call for her, but no sound came out and instead I turned slowly, the ache in my hip deepening, to head down the hallway to the kitchen. I remember the sound of her nails, her claws, clicking on the wood floors. I had tried to trap her here, but the force of her limbs had thrown me back and left me so unbelievably confused.
The wooden floors of the kitchen, once a deliberate rustic wood, were littered with food crumbs, old leaves and muddy streaks. Some faint fragrance of spearmint and vanilla wafted from the recesses of the living room, and I opened my mouth to call for her. A strange strangled sound filled my kitchen and I hoped for a moment. I coughed and went back to making another cup of tea. The sound had stopped. The sink was filled with tea stained mugs and thumb-printed water glasses. I dug one out and dumped in a tea bag then wandered into the minimalist living room.
She had decorated it slowly. With care. With few, beloved things. A tiny splatter of blood trailed from the wooden floors up the arm of the grey merle sofa. She had cursed as the knife sliced through her finger, bolting towards the bathroom, the blood had spurted out. She must’ve missed it as she cleaned up. I remembered it so vividly. Her messy bun and small tendrils of honey blonde framing her face. All gone now. Her full lips streaming a range of vibrant inane curses. She came back grinning, a hello kitty plaster circled her pointer finger. She aimed it at my chest and came to curl up beside me on the sofa. I opened my mouth to reply to her, I could almost smell her faint musk she was so close to me, but only that strange strangled sound came out. She wouldn’t mind the blood now. Maybe she would.
She had turned already. How she had turned before me I didn’t know. I looked around the house, so uselessly cared for now she was gone. Her transformation had been painful, she had fled into the night, the screaming, screeching, scratching of it all grating trough the house. I begged her to stay, hurrying after her, but I could almost see the future, see her fleeing into the night. The door slammed back. The cracks and splinters still there and I stared at them. She turned to look at me once, the blackness spilling over from her pupils and flooding the clear azure and bright white of her eyeballs.
I wanted to tell her I loved her still, I love her still. I wanted to tell her I would hold her warping form forever, but instead I watched inert. The dogs were already gathering at her heels, ready to flee with her. She opened her mouth to say something to me, some last words that would help me, comfort me, but instead a strangled screech came out, and then…then she was gone.