He loved his Victorian doll, as she loved him.
Her skin porcelain white, nails painted the color of blood.
How couldn't he love her?...
She was his, always his, his little black winged fairy.
Her lips a dark plum, her black hair, straight and simple.
Her tiny fingers, playing the saddest but most beautiful classical pieces.
He watched as each key was touched.
Her face filled with concentration.
She was gone...
He remembered all those nights under the stars.
All the hours spent at that piano.
Her eyes no longer bright but cold and still.
He never got to say how much her loved her.
Or how happy she made him.
He never even got to say goodbye.