Lacey's Arms

I saw the marks on Lacey’s arms. Those faded, aging scars of torment that never cease. She tried to rub the pain away with a pale hand, but it was no use. They’d bind her to blades forever. She looked at me with tattered eyes that told of murdered dreams and falling courage. Dry blood caked underneath her thin nails.
“This can’t go on,” she whispered hoarsely, as if all motivation to speak was gone.
“Don’t ever say that,” I gripped one of her callused hands, hoping to bring some warmth to their freezing state. “We will find a way.”
Lacey tried to smile, but a grimace filled her lips. The beauty had gone from her long ago, and yet she was more beautiful than ever before. Pain is beautiful, that much she proved.
“I saw the cloaked man,” she said, looking around for anyone who might hear, but no one was there in our isolation.
“Stop this talk. It is not your time,” I tried to reassure myself more than her. I was selfish then. Much too selfish.
“He has come for me,” she closed her tired eyes and wept for salvation that would never come. I knew she was gone, but wanted desperately to deny it. She held out her hand with a hardened heart to me, silently asking for deliverance. I handed her the silver knife, the one she knew all too well. For the first time in our forever, I turned my gaze from her.
And Lacey broke.