Exit Wounds by James D. Irwin

He stood on the balcony smoking a slim cigarette, and watched her walk away. It was an early morning, typical of Spring, that creates an illusion of warmth and sunshine, but ultimately reveals itself to be bitter and cold.

Appropriate he thought, and then wished he hadn't He still loved her. He thought he probably always would. But he thought that about every girl— the ones who’d left him, the ones who never loved him back, and the ones he’d never met.

He gazed down at the empty streets and cursed silently; it must be Sunday. He’d have to wait. The shop would open tomorrow. He could go then—early. He wouldn't get a fair price, but it didn't matter; he just wanted it out of the house. Even hidden away he’d know it was there, thumping away like the tell-tale heart.

The cigarette was dead and the girl was gone. He stepped back inside. Girls had left him before, and they probably would again. They always left a wound, and some were worse than others. Some were just bite-marks... he smiled at the memory and reached for a bottle.

He was an old hand with wounds like this now. He sat back and sterilised it with alcohol. It wouldn't heal, but the bleeding would stop... for a while, at least.