Heart's teardrops

There's nothing much to note between the birth of my concerns and the events that unfolded as expected.
A handful of banter, much more strained and reserved, probably obviously so, tumbled hastily out.

But I wasn't good at hiding suspiciousness. 
Deceit wasn't a strong point of mine, for better or mostly for worse.
"I suppose I can see what appeal could be found in a pretty boy with a scar" slipped almost naturally from my lips, beginning to crack with nervous dehydration.
"Yes yes, many women prefer tough men who've been through battle. It gives them hope that they'll be protected and loved with just as much ferocity."
"I suppose men aren't the only superficial ones."
Again, her expression sharpened a little. Her eyes took on the contracting form of a discernment, their subtle hues seemed to whir alongside the cogs of her mind, like her neurons toiled away behind her irises.
"What's superficial about that? I'm not saying they would like him because of his looks, but because of what his looks signify. Don't you get that?"
"I get that. What I don't get is how that's any different. You're still basing your feelings on superficial conceptions."
"No, it's going beneath that."
"Tch. You're the kind of people my school was filled with" I whispered out to the fluttering dust of the tangerine-soaked room.
I must have hit some kind of nerve with her, because she could no longer content herself with laying snugly beneath the covers. As she raised herself like she was rising out of a coffin at the exit of a century-long slumber, scarlet eyes locked against mine with a flowering of discontent. She seemed dreadfully fed up with my words.
To an extent, I was too.
I had gotten nervous and fallen back on the crutches of my prejudices, spit out more venom than I had intended.
Awkward people tend to have their words overpowered by jealousy or spite, if only because those emotions are the most forceful and readily available, especially when you're too anxious to formulate anything else.
But this time, I really would pay the price. It's pathetic, but I'm just not cut out for these situations. I hoped it wouldn't be something I would have to learn to contend with, that these mistakes would be insulated within solely these events, and I would never have to find myself here again. I didn't have the time or attention to spare, and so her movements were a blur, faint rustles of her clothes trailing beside me, and before the marble-white sheets she had thrown off deflated against the rough olive carpet, tears had unconsciously welled from beneath my eyelashes. Catching on their long curve, I felt them plaster themselves against the bottom of my eyelids.
Where my heart had beat so fervently with embarrassment, with anxiety, with desire, with fear, with a long-atrophied love, life had ceased.
A gaping whale's mouth exposed my cavernous soul to this abandoned world, my exposure at the hands of the woman whose shoulders rose and mouth split maniacally in gargles of sound. Senses began to dip in and out, waves lapping over and over on the sandy beach, taking more and more grains every time. For a moment it felt like I was a boat anchored in stormy waters, a bird in twirling descent to the earth after being shot in the breast, a deer tumbling across mossy, sharp stones, condensation slipping in unison with blood, my body smacking lifelessly across the river of rock.
Her laughter began to sound like the rustle of verdant foliage and hums of willow birds, before distorting into the guttural triumph of a hunter, then the gargled despair of a drowned animal.
No.
It was my head pushed under the gleaming waves.
Waterfalls of crimson soaked my skin, and my clothes gripped my body tirelessly.
It felt heavy.
My body.
What a cliche, huh?
Ah hahaha... Oh man, clouds of rumbling darkness and thunder had begun to clutch at my neck and shoulders, and I felt wet from their scarlet rain.
I was losing my grip on reality. My vision was fading. I would die just like everybody who had ever died before, and everybody who will die in the coming year.
Maybe there's something special in being one of the last people to die a death that wasn't some shared apocalypse?
Hehe... What a stupid thing to think.
Am I thinking?
Maybe I'm still alive... But what does it matter.
I slipped graciously into the embrace of a woman with multiple heads, each set of eyes a different splatter of colour, cordial in my greetings and farewells.