My Beloved Tragedy

I pictured the crimson liquid dripping with serene consolation to its owner. I felt the droplets fall like the slowest summer rain; warm, each plummet accompanied by its swan song. Every drop falls to its doom, its inevitable end- but never does it falter in its decent for divinity, for fear never grips the perfectly tear-shaped skydiver. The blood embraces the ground with eerie dignity, creating ripples in the growing red sea.

I pictured the waves crashing into one another, rebounding off the other as another source of energy and life. A sweet lullaby played by angels hailed the deluge of blood, sending it on the way to oblivion, as the owner struggled to breathe once more.

One raspy inhale, then a strangled exhale; slowly, the breathing became a rhythm to the madness, to the chaotic life of the droplets. Then, as abruptly as the assault had begun, the agony stopped.

The body seemed to be of porcelain, a face so white that the finest china would shatter in comparison. It held a twisted beauty, containing all the agony, fear, and confusion that life carried, but was cradled lovingly in dripping hands. The liquid stopped its flow, and dripped lazily.

Filled with disgust, the limp corpse was dropped unceremoniously to the painted pavement, and left to rot.

I lived a life that revolved around taking from others that very same treasure. The pleasure of finally watching the torment flood a being’s eyes as the spark drifts away is a sensation unfit for words; a thing that could not be described with a thousand pens and a thousand pages. Eternity is seen in those orbs as they flash and shimmer- and it is an eternity to wait for. It is as if there is an entire universe inside those fluttering, dazed pools as they dilate and contract- but that is enough about them.

I will always remain unforgiven for every act that I have done, and those that I have not done- for there is an eternity of suffering in my eyes. Hellfire and damnation ring echoes inside of my head, where whispers turn into screams as the pounding gets louder and louder, demanding to be realized.

How many lives have I stolen? Countless, countless- so many that the blood fills my vision now, forever dripping from my hands. Temptation steals away my every resolve, and dances like angels of fire in my eyes- so many, so many that I cannot look away.

The blood rises to my head, and I drown within its warm grasp; but, I am released from its hold, floating above the sea, as if it weren’t real and was merely an illusion.

How many lives have I truly stolen? None, it is impossible- for I am already dead.

My end of life was brought upon me before my tongue knew words, or my mind knew memories. I had been nothing more than a growing creature in the womb of my mother. She was a widow, already having three children, and very little income. She wore a grey shawl to protect her face from the terrible coldness of the night, where the stars shone so brightly in the crisp air.

She waddled down the familiar alleyway, where she walked every day to find money, or sell her body to feed her starving, shivering children. Oh, she was a loving person- a lady with an oversized heart, but with very little for intelligence and even less for wit. Her eyes were dull and hopeless, without gleam or spark- even when she died in the arms of the dirt-encrusted man with broad shoulders and no smile.

He had come at her with an icepick and nothing more, but she had been as helpless as I. The man drove the point into her heart, not even noticing the growth in her womb, nor caring. The intent in his eyes screamed for a bloody massacre, but the woman fell without struggle, as if walking to her death. He stared down at her with a killer’s stare, searching for that single shatter in her eyes that signalled that great journey, that shift of dimensions- but there was none.

Lost to consequence, the man had been caught, trialed, and put to death for the murder of six persons. I became the prisoner of twilight, as doctors rushed to save my life vainly. I died two days later, without a soul to lament me or watch me venture.

I dreamed of meeting a Devil, I beheld visions of Godlike beings; but none spoke, none guided. The illusion of a creature with horns and the legs of a goat commanding armies of fire collided with images of colours and ridiculous beauty with a sickening spiral into oblivion. With a child’s curiosity and unrelenting wonder, I plunged into a hell I could not escape. A lake of fire rose before me, and I evolved into something… Different.

Newspapers and reports were handed around the world, as whispers were passed from ear to ear about the penniless mother who died tragically at the hands of a maniac, her son following merely fifty-six hours, twenty-eight minutes, and seventeen seconds later. They pitied the poor babe, and visited the orphanage of the other three children; but they are of no concern, as they grew up, lived in a mediocre world, and died without knowing love or true emotion. None of the people who had pitied them so soulfully mourned their early deaths, for each died before the age of twenty; their funerals were short, and empty. It was as if they never lived at all.

However, the small talk about the poor baby who died never truly faded away. People would sit at cafés, eating cheesecakes or sundaes, and casually wonder out loud to their companion what that babe could have been, whether he could have changed the world or stopped a war.

Oh, I did not die, but I did not live: I existed as per normal, but dreaming forever. I dreamed of killing that man who had murdered my pathetic mother as she waddled dumbly through the trashy streets; I dreamed of tearing out his eyes and replacing them with dirty stones. I would crack his head open with a sickening splatter, and would dance in the morbid mess around me, captured by the insane laughter of revenge. Of course I felt the need to kill this man, and that need would spread towards every person he knew, and then further into the tangled web of names and faces.

I would dream of watching them die, brittle and helpless in my arms, and they would awake in terror. Perhaps many thought of me as a haunting spirit, and maybe some brushed the nightmares off as if they were nothing; but all would tremble in fear at night, as insomnia clutched their hearts with the cruellest chill.

None thought of how that single night, twenty years ago, in some dark alleyway during winter- beginning with the pregnant mother of three and ending with murder- had saved their lives. A dark seed had never been implanted within this mind of mine, nor did any being instigate the terrible temperament of my person; the moment I was conceived I felt the desire to destroy, even as my feet and hands evolved within the walls of flesh and blood. Some say that a being can be born a killer: I would have been as such.

A greater murderer would have been brought into this bleak world if it were not for the twisted fool who had plunged an icepick into the heart of a mother; the death of two paid for the death of dozens.

I pictured the blood dripping from my hands, and tasted the bittersweet harmony of life and death. Flashes of stories untold and a sea of crimson liquid forever mounting created a painting of the cruellest irony. I felt the enmity between the people of the world rise with every nightmare, with every scream of terror in the night. The blood rose to engulf my ears.

I pictured the way millions of lives were wasted by pitiful quarrels every passing moment, as the seas turned from holy transparency to the darkest red. I felt the blood rise up to the ears of each living creature with every word spoken, every gesture made; I heard the desperate cries as they gasped for air, the seas ever rising. I tasted the sweet irony and smelt the putrid fear as the world grew colder and faces more grey; as the world grew old but never wise. I laughed, watching the eyes of a businessman as he lay, his dark essence leaking out onto my hands, surrounding like rain. The spark in his eyes shimmered, and faded away.

Prepare for the holocaust of your beliefs.