Love Kills
Fiction by Abbey Rain Hanson
A Potted Fuchsia with Children’s Toys by Henri-Joseph Harpignies, Courtesy National Gallery of Art, Washington
My beans spilled all over the floor, and what remained was a hollow polyester shell wearing thin. I haven’t seen in years, as my eyes were slowly scratched out, though the lack of sight made no difference in the humbling feeling of letting my beans drop. I knew she was looking at me. We had seen this coming for months now. I, being three years older, and life dealing me a much smaller stack of cards, knew my end would near far before she was ready to see me go.
It took twenty-one years for her to kill me. I survived every suffocating night as she held my neck with a grip so tight my oxygen was completely cut off. I survived the Caribbean, I survived Florida, and I even survived countless trips to the washing machine, nearly drowning each time. I took numerous journeys to Mom’s sewing room, stitched and patched in an endless cycle. This time, I just couldn’t hold it together; I couldn’t bounce back. I can hear her sobbing, trying to find some way to mend me. I want to tell her that it’s time to let go, but my mouth was unthreaded five years ago.
I use my last two senses to their fullest. I hear her whisper, “I love you, Teddy,” as I feel her stroke what remains of me. She hugs me tight, and my last breath leaves my stuffed body. This is the unfixable time. The irreversible incident. She loved me to death.
Located in Hamilton, Ontario, Abbey Rain Hanson is a student at McMaster University, studying English & Cultural Studies and Theatre & Film. She finds passion in fiction, poetry and scriptwriting, focusing her work in the areas of gruesome horror, coming of age, and tales of female agency.