The ring. It was always there. A palpitating presence reminding her of his power.
The cold metal encased her ring finger like a viper, sucking the light from her. Sharp fangs dug into her heart, writing his name in blood. This was love.
Her eyes grazed the mantel, where a cracked frame hung. Behind the glass, he knelt, sliding the ring onto her finger. The photograph had been torn in two, then set back in its place. As if the damage were part of the display.
She had once been free. She knew this much.
Her heart tried to beat out of her chest, reaching, yearning for the wildflower-filled hills she used to run through with her dress unbuttoned and her hair blowing freely in the wind. She collapsed, the carpet sucking her knees down into its thickness.
The clock slaved on, ticking the seconds into the past. The sun labored across the sky. Yet she remained still. The ring gripped her finger tighter, squeezing her flesh until her skin turned white. Her tears froze upon contact with the air of the house.
Acrid tendrils seeped in from beneath the bolted door. The cold clicks of the locks echoed in the silence. Her breath clung to her throat, like a spider caught in its own web.
She was a statue again. A hollow statue with a ring glued onto her clammy skin. Each beat of her heart threatened to shatter her entirely.
This was love.
