The Raven

The Raven

Why did he have to make me do this? He didn't have to die. I told him not to tell, but he did anyway. As he died, I reminded him just as he had once politely reminded me that crying was a sign of weakness. He cried anyway as the pain went to his heart.

Five years after his death, I have to deal with another one who underestimates my skill. If she wishes to taunt me once more, I shall paint the wall with her blood for all to see how much of an artist I am. Matter of fact, today I will go and personally prepare my greedy canvas and I will wait just as impatiently as he. But until she makes my decision final, I wait.

I imagine her dark black hair as one of a raven. Her eyes were constantly brooding in the silent darkness that now makes my hands shiver and quake as one with a solo. Paintbrush in hand, I made my way to her bedroom where I know that she sleeps. From there I allow my hands to guide me. I let them chop off her fingers and chain her to her fluffy tomb. I let them cover her mouth so that imminent scream that I knew so well would not make me pause in my work, not make me hesitate.

Her eyes stared up at me silently pleading, wishing she could take back the things she said. I knew that she could see me, plain as day, but I didn't care because her artistic corpse would paint me there anyway. Her body itself was a work of art, arcing in just the right way to kiss my blade. Hot silver touched sweaty cold skin, whispered over shivering mirages of Goosebumps. Slightly I lifted up her skin for her to see what it looked like underneath. I was fascinated, she was horrified. Her blood was like butter on pancakes as it slipped off of her dry skin. Her lips were parched, thirsting for the very thing I would not give her, the will to live.

Things used to be different. Before I moved to the old dusty, swampy city, I was different. I guess murder was always my art, but the signs weren't as vivid, matter of fact, the memories of those days are weak themselves just like I used to be. With a blade, comes power, respect, and most importantly fear. The inscription on the blade stuck in my head and I think that's what really changed me. Now, I look down at the woman I've murdered, the teenager whose life I cut short. Her blood is splattered on the wall like bony phalanges. Her body is pale, drained of the blood that once kept her alive. There is no smile on my face this time and I hear sirens in the distance with the buzzing sound. It buzzes so hard that all other noises fade to allow it to step into center stage. With the buzzing comes the darkness, the darkness that moves with a dangerous step. My father called me paranoid, I don't know if that's what this is, but I fall to my knees wishing it would stop. The buzzing grows louder, it controls me now. The color drains from my cheeks, the light in my eyes fade; I feel them going away like her soul when I cut open her body. I am writhing on the floor lost in the buzzing noise and the darkness whose hands clench my throat, stopping my breath...

CHAPTER 1

It's mid-April and it's pouring outside. The water is rolling in, stretching to grasp the tiny crabs that try to scuttle away. Daddy Bear is watching the news intently; he won't even let me get a word in. My surfer Barbies remind me of Mama who is at work right now. I can imagine her, sitting near me, touching my auburn hair. I can smell her, she smells like the ocean and fruits as if she were sitting in the coconut tree next to our home all day. I leave my Barbies to pick up Daffodil, my prized stuffed lion. My Daddy Bear had won it at a fair for me one time.

Why is Daddy Bear weeping while the sun is just peeking through the clouds? Why is Mama on TV, her hair wild, her eyes bloody and puffy, shut? I shout and clap thinking she has won a prize, thinking she is just sick, thinking she is on her way home. My father turns around, raises his hand and backhands me away from him. Daffodil lands in the fish tank, I land on the floor far away, and the room is spinning. There is a slight buzzing noise in the back of my head, hiding in my hair. When I got up, I grabbed Daffodil and scurried to my room, confused by his reaction.