Hong Kong Young Writers Anthologies Fiction 4567 | Page 10

My fingers ran down to straighten up my collar, and peered down to the sinking heights of Zhou Ning’s enfolded
knees. Her head hanging limply on the curve of her porcelain neck. Her blue modest petals were reduced to a crumpled
mess of constriction. Her knees, greeted by the adorning powder of staining dust, were wobbly, fragile without the frame
of youthful determination. Stained by agonizing blankness, Zhou Ning’s gaze never left, the poisoned spot of that green
eyed woman was washed away with a saddened smile, leaving Zhou Ning in my care.
I stared at her, silent, relishing the fresh peels of hollow wounds in my soul.I reached out a hand and quickly withdrew.
The youth. The dreams. The rush of warmth wrapped between fingertips. I could no longer find them. Nothing was left
but the slick dampness of a similar cold touch of skin, crawling back to my own veins.