Defective

"Lucid hearts are defective products in this world.
That's why I want you to taint mine."

-- "Bad" by Tablo ft. Jinsil

Their lives crossed once more at a neighborhood gathering during the winter lull between Christmas and New Year's. It had been four years since they had stood within the same ten-foot radius, back when they had sat side-by-side in alphabetical order, soaking in their sweat-drenched graduation gowns in the high school football stadium. In the flurry of flash photography that followed the ceremony's commencement, they had sauntered off in their separate directions without sparing the other a second glance.

The first winter, her wounds were still raw. She had tried to distract herself with the new and fresh offerings of college but found herself picking at her old scabs, too impatient to see the smooth healed skin beneath that she was left instead with an obstinate laceration too grotesque for public viewing.

The second winter, her habit of picking at her old wounds in moments of distress and loneliness had decreased but the scar remained etched in her flesh. A reminder. She had begun to change -- her style had gotten softer and her disarming eye-smile revealed itself more readily -- but she wasn't ready just yet. Her transformation was still incomplete.

The third winter, the scar was there, but its jagged outline had begun to fade. Yet she was still susceptible. Her heart simultaneously raced in anticipation and hardened in defense at the very mention of that name. The neighbors had organized another winter gathering, but she had been bedridden with a sudden onset of fever, left at home in a haze of hallucinations -- each depicting one of the million scenes she had painted in her head of the moment they would meet again.

The fourth winter, she was nearly unrecognizable. Skin that had once been a dewy bronze now crinkled around her bones like paper. But though her body had begun to deteriorate under its own assault, her mind remained clearer than ever. Her body was caged by weakness but her thoughts could wander untethered. Tracing the elevated scarred edges with her fingertips, she remembered. The hot flush of hypersensitivity towards her target, the object of her lazy eye. The memory of euphoria stirred. But then, she forced herself to recall the sting of the blade sinking through unblemished skin, the bubble of blood gasping from her body -- and then she knew, that it still wasn't over for her.

The last winter, she slipped on her red dress and high heels, perfume puffs alighting here and there. The final touch -- concealer to mask the jagged memory she carried, to pretend that nothing had happened that day five years ago. But forgetting about mistakes is not enough to make them disappear.

The neighborhood party had started an hour ago, but that sort of time no longer mattered. Veronica had six months left to live, and now her sole existence boiled down to only one thing. She would make him fall in love with her, poison his thoughts until he could find no refuge from becoming consumed, the way she had suffered for him. Use him to quench her curiosity and famished desire -- and leave him to collect the smashed pieces of a broken heart in the wake of her imminent death.