They call me the gardener. They say I am a murderer, to kill me upon sight. Much good it ever does them. They say I am a criminal. Tell me, when did it become a crime to revel in your art? The way that blood blossoms, a deep crimson flower on pale skin. The way that the sun glints and flashes off a thousand swords, raised in the air, and oh, the screams of terror as they fall is music to my ears. I got none of that when I was in prison, so that is why I left. It made me laugh, those pitiful, puny men that guarded me, their screams as I slaughtered them.
I stand here now, on this sweltering summers night. I remember this city. I used to live here, but that was a long time ago. A slight breeze blows, bringing with it shouts of laughter from a nearby pub, and ........ something else. I sniff the air, and grin. That is a smell that I know well. The smell of blood, just waiting to be spilt.
YOU ARE READING
The gardener
FantasyThis is a story I wrote in English class. The teacher gave us the title but I don't think this was what he expected me to write!! The gardener killed her family. And when she heard he had escaped from prison, adha knew she had to kill him. She had...
