The Story of Blood and Roses

She died alone, in a desolate, unknown cave; her flesh barely covering her bones, her jaws agape, and her eyes bulging out from her sockets.

The cold water felt like sharp needles stabbing the surface of my skin. I clung on to my knees as I let the droplets scar my face. I kept my eyes open and gave myself over to hatred. My body revolted against the darkness, but I clung on, savoring the bitter taste of it at the back of my tongue.

A laugh escaped my lips and I choked on a rush of water that went down my windpipe. I laughed despite of it.

Euphoria seeped in as pain and bitterness turned into pleasure and the deranged jumble of words in my head seemed to coordinate and form some mystical Gregorian chant. I sang along, letting the pleas of Caedmon Sybil wash over me and color me a rebel. I sang to betrayal and to the power to foresee. I sang as I had escaped the inescapable clutches of Death. I sang because I knew that like Charon, I would ferry the dead to the underworld. They would never drink from the Lethe. They would never forget the vice of death.

Wake.

Live.

Destroy.

Repeat.

.

"Do you still want to transfer your estates to Sean Clearwater?" Daisy asked, her voice hard. She meant business, of course. I gave her a prompt nod and then went back to pretending to read.

In my head, I was conjuring thousands of images that would help me conclude every life that plotted against me. They say that the idle mind is the devil\'s workshop, and I can\'t help but agree. It was as if all the demons of Hell had taken possession of my mind. Years of studying medieval torture rituals suddenly made sense.

They must all suffer according to their crimes, I justified.

One would be kept in a cage of needles; another would be tied to horses and ripped from limb to limb.

I could imagine the satisfaction that would rip through my soul. The demons would dance with joy. Satan himself would embrace me and cloak me in his black robe.

"Are you listening to me?" I heard her say. I gave her a passing look and went back to my plotting after giving her a nod. "Think about it. You have options. The boy doesn\'t want to leave Anthony Murray."

I loved the way she referred to Murray as if he were the sole reason that the world was a bad place. She made his name sound like a curse so profound that anyone would gasp in horror.

I didn\'t answer her.

I had already asked her to hand over my estate to the boy, what else could I use all that money for? Nothing would come from using the money that I had made from bedding him.

Maybe I would use it for one last time to put him to bed. He would be in need of rest, and I had pledged to take care of him through every hardship. We had given the other the control of our bodies, minds and souls for a few fleeting moments. Why could I not use the mammoth duty vested in me and use it to help him ease into sleep? It was the best anaesthesia—the countenance of sleep, Death.

I stared at the darkened computer screen across the room. I pulled a chair out and went through my bank details... I could destroy him, or kill him. As the organization\'s page came up, I filled out the forms and waited for the last page to arrive. I clicked the send button and waited patiently for the phone call.

Destroy or Kill?

The dilemma...

When the phone call meant to confirm the hit came, I found Daisy staring at me intently. She made no comment. There was no judgement in her eyes. She waited patiently.

"To confirm the hit-" I pulled the phone away from my ears and threw it against the wall.

Destroy, I decided.

That was the only way.