Painting White Roses Red

Blood. Full of life. Pours out as death. My hands are covered with it. I feel my blood course through my veins. Pumping the horror from my heart. Spreading through my body.

Pure, white magic is tainted with the blood from my sins So much blood spilled to achieve my desires, Purity tainted with blood.

The blood seemed to be spurting out endlessly as I watched and I began to feel faint. Tears stained my face, but I cried not for myself. I could feel the life of the child draining as quickly as my blood.

I tried desperately to push some of my ebbing life into the body joined to mine but it responded little. A being that I loved the moment I was aware of its mind alive within me. My heart broke as a last touch from the being's mind to mine made a gesture of a final farewell. The hurt harboured in my heart was too much, and I cried out as I felt the being leave my body, wracked with pain, and leave it's own body not long after.

The room was silent, save for the harsh sound of my pained sobs. I did not remember closing my eyes, but when I opened them, the sight that I beheld was one I would never forget. The nurse held a bloody form in her arms, and by the ways she looked so sadly at it, I knew it was dead. She saw me looking at her, and tried to turn away, but I commanded her to me with my mind, and she came, bringing the corpse with her. She wiped the blood, my blood, off the child as if in a trance, because she was.

'It is a girl, my lady,' she said tentatively, as she laid the child in my arms. I reached out with my mind to touch the form with my mind to touch the soul within, but found none. The body was but an empty shell. I looked at the corpse with my physical mind and saw in her perfection, untainted by the world. Her skin was pale, I touched the perfect skin of what was once my child, but found it could. She had a wisp of my jet-black hair on her head, she would have been perfect, my perfect child, had she not died. I looked at the nurse, and replied her, 'no, she was a girl.' And then I fainted from lack of blood.

I had buried her next to my dead beloved. She was buried beneath a headstone that said 'child', but in my heart of hearts I had named her Perfection.

I had lost the legacy of my dead beloved, out child. I grieved for both of them, but I grieved for myself, for they had left me behind. The witch within me arose and engulfed my being. I paced in the darkness of my room late at night, weeping for my lost love and lost child. It was a month since her death when at last did I realise what I had to do, I flung open my shutters and shouted with passion to the heavens, 'If Mother Nature will not let me have a child, then I shall defy the bitch and create a child for myself. She will be perfect!'

I had give up on magic for so long, since I had unintentionally caused the death of my beloved. He was mortal, but I was not. As long as the source of my power thrived where I had hidden it, I would survive forever. I could have destroyed it, and went on to join my loved ones, but I feared Death as much as I feared being alone. Now I was glad that I had not sworn never to use it, for to defy Nature, I had to use magic.

I studied my book of shadows, and that of witches before me, in hopes of finding the spells needed to make my child. Many of the books I had only contained white magic, and not designed to defy nature, so I had to delve into the unknown and take on that which many of my kind would rather say did not exist. Black magic, the dark arts. The skills that had earned many, of my kind, death by burning and drowning during the thirteenth century, among the other things. The skies cried with me in my grief, though I did not make it so, and in my work. Nature tried to sympathise with me, tried to turn me from my quest, but I would not be deterred. I was a woman on a mission, and I would fulfil my heart's desire.

The spells I created required the talents of others, the talents I wanted my child to have. There was no other way to acquire these, other than to remove the body part and I was determined for my child to be perfect. The night was dark, when I came across a man in the forest, the moonlight showing the most magnificent scene that he had just painted. How could a man create such beauty? I wondered, how could he see the plain forest in such a way that it seemed magical? And then I knew. His eyes. I crept up to him; he was too engrossed in his work to notice that I had come up behind him. I laid a hand upon his shoulder and he turned quickly, startled by my intrusion. I saw his eyes, they were blue, beautiful blue and confused, until horror took over. The man's scream was silenced when I cut his throat with a dagger that I carry by my side. I looked down at my hands, which held his beautiful blue eyes, covered in gore and blood, but they were still entrancing. My daughter would have the eyes of the painter; she would create perfect masterpieces. It was the first talent that I had collected for my child.

I set out on finding a voice for my child, and found one in the church, a sweet little girl, who sang on the Sabbath. She had a voice of an angel, but she was arrogant, her head inflated by all the praise she received from the churchgoers. All left, but the child, and she sang for herself, because she sounded of heaven, and selfishly sang the best she could only when she was alone. I watched her, and was disgusted at her selfishness. When I came forth from the shadows of the church she stopped singing. "Why do you cease child?" I asked and she answered, "Because my voice is too good for you," and she smiled smugly. I smirked at her also, and walked up to her, she, in her arrogance was not afraid. "I believe that your voice is too good for you too," I replied, and she is afraid for a second, before my sharp nails tore out her throat. I could see her pain in her eyes, but her eyes were ugly, evil, the soul within was twisted with pride. My daughter was far more worthy of her talent than she.

There were so many other talents I stole before the month was done, a favourite of mine were the fingers of a flautist, he had been so innocent, so young and his blood was clean, something about his blood made me feel cleaner.

The moon was full; Nature was giving, the night that I performed my spell, the body parts were arranged in a desired fashion. A blinding flash of light, and I looked down in wonder at my creation, as she opened her beautiful blue eyes. So beautiful, and then I noticed her face. Horror filled my body and I screamed, my voice

The blood that covers my hands, the knife, it will not come off. I am mortified at what I have done. Tears of guilt and remorse take me and I cry. I look at the monstrosity that I have created from death and sorrows, as it reaches out to me. I cannot bear to be touched by such a monster, but it persists. I understand, understand that I have brought this thing into being, and so I must be the one to contain her. My tears stop as I comprehend and accept my penance. I help her to stand and walk back to my sanctuary.
"Born of sorrows you are, and so you shall be named Trista, which means sorrows." I tell her. She is not my Perfection.