Blow Out the Stars (con't)
Hullo, It has been awhile since I have shown the world my story I am working on. A few of you have already read it. I posted, awhile back, what I had written. Now I have added to it. And now I post more of it.
Blow Out the Stars ~ By Geoff Howell
The lone figure crouched there, at the peak of the steeple, watching the shifting shadows below. Waiting. Watching. Dreaming for his end to his pained non-existence. It was with great pain and inner torment in which he lingered here, keeping his eye ever searching for his foe.
A light gust of silent dead air stirred his black coat to life. He gripped at the steeple with his scarred hand to steady himself, so as not to fall. He couldn’t fall yet. No, not yet. It wasn’t his time. His time would come, after he redeemed himself. After he avenged his fallen love.
The solitary figure upon the steeple stared out into the cold dark night, watching his breath ascend before him. He closed his eyes and recalled that night his world was torn apart.
He still remembered the smell of her blood, seeping through the broken floor boards. Her echoing screams of pain lingered in his ears and thoughts, constantly reminding him of her last moments alive.
A small tear rolled its way slowly down his pale cheek from the corner of his eye. Not one night passed where he didn’t weep. His torment was slowly tearing him apart.
At nights, he could still feel the warmth of her embrace, like she was still there holding him. He always could hear her soft melancholy voice upon the wind, speaking to him. Asking him to join her. And he would. But he can’t. Not yet. He always tells her, he will join her when it is done; when his foes have been rid of, he tells her, that then can he join her.
Apart of him, though, makes him feel guilty. Makes him feel like he failed her. That he needs to make up for his failure. He had never truly forgiven himself for leaving her when he did. He knew the Amaranth were out. Out looking to hurt him. He never thought that those mad men would sink so low to hurt him as they did.
Men. They aren’t men. They can’t be men. How can they be men? For they don’t feel guilt, or pain or suffering. Well, not yet. He was going to change all that. Once he finds them, he will make them suffer such pain. Pain so unbearable that they will be begging to die.
He crouched there, staring out at the sleeping village, from his vantage point high upon the old, brooding gothic church. His black coat and hair rippled in the silent wind. And he grinned.
* * *
She ran through the darkened streets, panting heavily with beads of sweat dripping off her nose. She could hear them following her still, their footsteps falling heavy on the cobblestones behind her. They were gaining. She thought she’d risk a glance back, to see how far her pursuers were.
She saw the man who had hit her and his stumbling friend with no tongue close behind. She began to get worried; she hadn’t seen the big one, the one with the tattoos…the one she had slapped.
The scarred girl didn’t see the hole in the cobbles. She hadn’t even turned her head back forwards. Her foot sank deep into the gaping hole in the cobblestone road. The sudden softness shocked her and she twisted on the foot in the hole. She twisted with all of her weight and fell. And as she fell she felt a sharp pain in her shin that was preceded by a sickening snap.
She screamed in pain and fear, as she looked down at her leg. She saw her bone jutting out through her soft white skin. Or rather, where her soft white skin should have been, but her leg was bloodied and smeared with mud and dirt.
Gently approaching, she heard footsteps. But they weren’t the fumbling heavy steps of her two pursuers. Anxiety wound its way into her aching stomach. She looked to her left, the direction of her pursuers. They had slowed down and were now walking. But those weren’t the steps she was hearing. These gentle steps were coming closer, and more frequent. She turned her head to her right, and her heart stopped.
Slowly approaching her, were a pair of black boots. These boots were the foreground to a long black coat, which dragged along the ground behind them. Beside the legs, but still in front of the dragging coat, there was a wooden bat with its blunt end covered with dry blood.
Her eyes shot open in fear. She recognized the face of the man approaching. But it couldn’t be possible. He was with the other two stumbling buffoons. She had fled from him. He shouldn’t be a head of her. An evil grin flickered across his evil pale face that still glowed red from where she slapped him.
“So you think you can run from the Amaranth do you ma cheri?” He snickered. She stared up into his red eyes, fearful for her life. She heard the other foot steps stop and knew that they had reached her. She wept. “I’m sorry ma cheri, but one does not simply get away with it.” He tsked.
“Aha yeah, you tell the wench Pierre you tells her good!” The man who had hit her laughed. The tongue less one also voiced his opinion. The two of them laughed and snickered together.
“Would you two bumbling fools shut up?!” Pierre ordered his two henchmen. He turned his evil gaze back down to the weeping girl. Her tears mixing in with her sweat and dried blood. “Now I must do something with you mustn’t I?”
She lay there, and stared up into the night sky. She thought she saw a figure dart across the roofs of the surrounding buildings, but she couldn’t tell. Her vision was blurry due to her tears.
He crouched there, at the apex of the shingled roof. He stared down at the events unfolding before him. It was all too familiar. Witnessing his loves death all over again, though this girl wasn’t his love. He knew not who she was. He was going to do something, but he couldn’t. His pain was being brought back. His tears streamed down his face. And he did nothing.
The girl lying there, weak, helpless. Screaming as the leader beat her with the bat. Each swing growing more and fiercer. Each hit, sending more and more blood onto the cobblestones. Her bones shattered beneathe the force behind the bat.
He sat there. Watching the death of his love again. He couldn’t do anything. He just sat there and watched. Tears swelling in his eyes. Tears streaming down his pale face. He was sat there and watched, as the leader walked away with his bloodied bat, and told his followers to have their way with her.
He looked up into the night sky, and let the spitting rain fall down his face, to wash away the tears. The rain began to fall heavier and steadier. The sound of the two dirty men taking their way with the dead girl was drowned out with the rain. He let them do their thing, before sliding down off the wet roof to the ground below.
His feet splashed into a puddle on the cobble ground. He wiped his wet hair out of his eyes and slowly wandered over to the girl. His boots squished in the wet, with each step.
The men had already stumbled off into the night, just leaving the girl lying there. Her skirt ripped and torn, her shirt bloodied and muddied. Head bashed in. Her bone still jutting through her skin.
The rain slowly rinsing her body clean of the dirt and blood; pools of blood slowly turned into streams with the down pour of rain. The water splashed gently with each soft foot fall of him. His jet black hair, sticking to his white chin and pale lips.
His soft lips quivered in the cold. The two studs at either side of his lower lips glistened with the wet. His ice cold blue eyes held a far away look, though he looked upon the crumbled heap of this girl. He felt the cool rain run off his nose and felt the drip gently land against his black gloved hand.
He wore a black glove, with the finger tips cut off on his left hand. His other hand, his scarred hand, he left free for the world to see. It was this hand that broke the glass so he could get into his dying love. It was this hand, that held her bloodied head that on last time. He let it go free, as a reminder to the hurt and pain he was going to inflict upon the Amaranth.
They were pigs. Chasing and killing innocent girls and women. It sickened him greatly. Looking down at this battered girl, lying in the streets.
He crouched over her bashed skull, letting his tears drop onto the bloody mess. It was time for the Amaranth to begin to learn their place. He had waited long for this moment, he moment they reappeared. The moment, he would take his vengeance.
The puddles splashed as he fell to his knees and reached to touch the girl’s body. His hand fell short and he couldn’t do it. His pain came back and he threw his head back, griping his soaking wet hair with his hands, and screamed out in pain. He felt the fresh water trinkle down his throat.
Long minutes passed since he screamed, and now he sat on the wet ground starring at her body. Images of his love drifted in and out of his mind and thoughts. Her voice haunted him, telling him what he should do. He was afraid. He didn’t want to touch the broken shell of this girl. He felt the comforting warmth of love’s warm embrace, easing his fear. He leaned forwards with his gloved hand out stretched and dabbed his fingers in the fallen girl’s blood.
* * *
The sun was being shy this day. Rising slowly out of the horizon, bringing a dull orange light into the world. It’s rays of light breaking past the shadowed gothic church. Dull shadows extended out to the bustling little town.
The crowds swarmed around the building, all curious to read what it read. The mob growing scarred as they stood there silently. Looking on at the horrific sight, though they were intrigued. Women wept, and fathers covered their childrens eyes. They all knew what this sign meant and feared that word wouldn’t reach their ears. But it was too late.
The big, bald man with tattoos riddled over his skull slowly made his way to the front of the crowd with his followers. His red eyes stared down those who dared to look up at him. His black coat dragged behind him, as did his followers coats. They were like a tide of black, parting their way to the front. Pierre’s eyes grew wide with shock and anger as he broke free of the mob and stood staring at the horrific sight.
Nailed to the yellow brick wall of this building, was a girl. But this girls head had been bashed in and her clothes ripped and torn in the crotch area. Her one leg dangled where it had snapped. Beside her on the wall, were words written in red. No, smeared on with blood. The words read,
“Sing the Amaranth’s elegy.” Pierre turned angered at the crowd and bellowed,
“Who’s responsible for this?! Who has the nerve to do such atrocious acts?! Have we, the Amaranth, not protected you?! Speak up! Will none confess?!” A woman gasped in shock as the sun reached the highest most steeple of the old, abandoned church. Pierre, his followers and the crowds turned and stared.
There, perched upon the steeple, was a shadow of a man. This man’s coat was billowing in the gentle morning breeze. He looked down at the town, as they looked up at him. Pierre grew puzzled. He didn’t know what to make of it. He let his red eyes take in this lone shadow, and thought.
“Aha, lookit Pierre! There’s a wacko up there on that…um…that…church? Yeah, church!” Hollered one of his men from the other night, with a huge grin on his face. He thought that that man up on the church was the most humourus things ever.
“Yes, I see that you fool!” Pierre yelled at him. Pierre looked around at the villagers who were all still starring at this shadow. They seemed pleased. Like he was some sort of guardian angel. This aggravated Pierre.
He reached behind his back, underneath his coat and pulled out his pistol. He fired three rounds into the air to get the crowds attention. They all turned, frightened and stared at the towering seven foot bald man with red eyes. He stared everyone of them down, hand still holding the pistol above his head.
Up on the steeple he watched. The crowds turned back and faced the big man. Crows and ravens fluttered in the air around him because of the gun shot. Their fluttering wings, and falling feathers blocking his sight, he decided to go back into the church. He let his grip of the steeple go and let himself fall backwards into the old building.
Pierre ordered the people back to their homes, there was nothing left to see. The crowd reluctantly and silently. Pierre had his men escort each of the families back to their homes. He remained there, staring at the girl’s body. It was the girl that slapped him the night before. Or, rather, what was left of her. He read over the words again and again, growing more and more confused and upset.
He grew tired of looking at the dead and turned to look back at the shadow upon the church. Now he was really puzzled. For the shadow of the man in the black coat was gone. His brain began to hurt so Pierre staggered back to his home to rest his now troubled mind.
* * *
The street was dark and wet. Everyone was indoors, watching, waiting as the screams echoed. The wet cobbles slipped under his rushing feet, as he made his way back home. His flowing black coat disappeared into the night, his black hair clung to his face with sweat.
How could He have been so nieve? He knew better then to cross Pierre. But it wasn’t his fault, it was Pierre’s. If Pierre hadn’t set into motion such grotesque acts, he surely wouldn’t have had to hit Pierre. The look in Pierre’s eyes fore told him the pain and sffering that would come, but he had not expected like this. Not like this.
Her screams rang through out the night air. He ran faster, hoping not to slip on the wet ground. The people watched, hesitant to move. He just kept running. Around corners he ran, his flight growing more and more fierce. They better not hurt her. Though, He already knew she was being slowly tortured. The screams stopped as he finally reached his house.
To look at the house, one would not even fathom a guess at what was being commited inside. The windows glowed yello, sending a faint shimmering light into the darkened streets. It had a very homely feel to it. The streets were silent.
He slowly approached the large front window, that peered into the living room, glancing at his love. Or, was it really his love? He couldn’t tell, she was surrounded by fellow members of the Amaranth, men that were once friends. He could see her arm, naked and white amongst the black coated men. Anger swelled inside of him. Her fingers tw\witched, meaning she was still alive. He could feel tears running down his cheeks.
With out thinking, he clenched his right hand into a fist and punched the window. Glass sprayed inwards and down, cutting and gashing his hand. But he didn’t feel it, or have time to feel it. For he lunged in through the gaping hole.
The men of the Amaranth stopped what they were doing and turned to face him. He wasted no time. He charged at the nearest man, whose tongue was too large for his mouth and dangled limply on his chin. His eyes shot wide as a strong grip tugged at his tongue, and a flicker of a small blade darted in front of his face.
The man hollered in pain as his muscle fell to the floor in a bloody mess. The man brought his hands to his bleeding mouth and ran out of the house into the cold night.
He stood there, his right hand dripping blood from where the glass cut him, and a bloodied knife in his left. His breath was long and heavy, waiting for the Amaranth too make their move. And move they did.
The group of them, all dressed in similar black coats, encircled him; they smiled gleefully as they tightened a circle around him.
* * *
When he woke, he was laying on the wood floor of his house. His entire body ached from the beating he took. The two Amaranth he took down were missing and his love still lay on the floor barely alive.
His right hand burned with pain as he dragged himself over to her body. She let out an exasperated gasp as he gently lifted her head onto his lap; using his left hand, he gently placed her head onto his cut hand which was laying loosely on his lap.
She gently moaned as his tears splashed against her bruised face. His pierced lip quivered violently as he tried to find words to speak to her. He hated not knowing what to say to her. This was all his fault. Pierre’s fault. The world’s fault. His mind raced, striving to find words to comfort her.
He sat there, with her head on his bloodied hand, for hours until she finally had the strength to talk.
“Why…?” He didn’t know what to say. He looked her up and down, taking in the bloody mess of his love. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t bear the thought of telling his love that he is…or…was a member of the Amaranth. He couldn’t tell her, it would kill her knowing he was in the group she despised. His gaze returned to her eyes.
Her sweet, honey brown eyes, now filling with tears. She knew. She screamed out in pain, her heart shattering. She tried to push him away from her, but she was too weak. She just wept.
After minutes of her weeping, her breaths became short. Her life was ending. He wept now. Not wanting her to go. Not like this. Through his sobbing, he heard her faintly say in her last short gasping breaths;
“I’m sorry…for bleeding on…your coat…I…Love…You…” Her body fell limp before she could say his name. He pulled her head into his chest and he hollered out in pain.
* * *
The crows were squaking loudly in the cathedrals sanctuary. The odd one would flutter through the dusty rays of sun that broke the darkness. Dust and wood chips fell gracefully from the rafters, landing gently on the cold stone floor far below.
He woke with a fright. His black hair, sticky with sweat, stuck to his face and the varnished pew he was laying on. He dreamt that night again. There wasn’t a time he didn’t dream that night. It was like his curse, until his job was finished.
Blow Out the Stars ~ By Geoff Howell
The lone figure crouched there, at the peak of the steeple, watching the shifting shadows below. Waiting. Watching. Dreaming for his end to his pained non-existence. It was with great pain and inner torment in which he lingered here, keeping his eye ever searching for his foe.
A light gust of silent dead air stirred his black coat to life. He gripped at the steeple with his scarred hand to steady himself, so as not to fall. He couldn’t fall yet. No, not yet. It wasn’t his time. His time would come, after he redeemed himself. After he avenged his fallen love.
The solitary figure upon the steeple stared out into the cold dark night, watching his breath ascend before him. He closed his eyes and recalled that night his world was torn apart.
He still remembered the smell of her blood, seeping through the broken floor boards. Her echoing screams of pain lingered in his ears and thoughts, constantly reminding him of her last moments alive.
A small tear rolled its way slowly down his pale cheek from the corner of his eye. Not one night passed where he didn’t weep. His torment was slowly tearing him apart.
At nights, he could still feel the warmth of her embrace, like she was still there holding him. He always could hear her soft melancholy voice upon the wind, speaking to him. Asking him to join her. And he would. But he can’t. Not yet. He always tells her, he will join her when it is done; when his foes have been rid of, he tells her, that then can he join her.
Apart of him, though, makes him feel guilty. Makes him feel like he failed her. That he needs to make up for his failure. He had never truly forgiven himself for leaving her when he did. He knew the Amaranth were out. Out looking to hurt him. He never thought that those mad men would sink so low to hurt him as they did.
Men. They aren’t men. They can’t be men. How can they be men? For they don’t feel guilt, or pain or suffering. Well, not yet. He was going to change all that. Once he finds them, he will make them suffer such pain. Pain so unbearable that they will be begging to die.
He crouched there, staring out at the sleeping village, from his vantage point high upon the old, brooding gothic church. His black coat and hair rippled in the silent wind. And he grinned.
* * *
She ran through the darkened streets, panting heavily with beads of sweat dripping off her nose. She could hear them following her still, their footsteps falling heavy on the cobblestones behind her. They were gaining. She thought she’d risk a glance back, to see how far her pursuers were.
She saw the man who had hit her and his stumbling friend with no tongue close behind. She began to get worried; she hadn’t seen the big one, the one with the tattoos…the one she had slapped.
The scarred girl didn’t see the hole in the cobbles. She hadn’t even turned her head back forwards. Her foot sank deep into the gaping hole in the cobblestone road. The sudden softness shocked her and she twisted on the foot in the hole. She twisted with all of her weight and fell. And as she fell she felt a sharp pain in her shin that was preceded by a sickening snap.
She screamed in pain and fear, as she looked down at her leg. She saw her bone jutting out through her soft white skin. Or rather, where her soft white skin should have been, but her leg was bloodied and smeared with mud and dirt.
Gently approaching, she heard footsteps. But they weren’t the fumbling heavy steps of her two pursuers. Anxiety wound its way into her aching stomach. She looked to her left, the direction of her pursuers. They had slowed down and were now walking. But those weren’t the steps she was hearing. These gentle steps were coming closer, and more frequent. She turned her head to her right, and her heart stopped.
Slowly approaching her, were a pair of black boots. These boots were the foreground to a long black coat, which dragged along the ground behind them. Beside the legs, but still in front of the dragging coat, there was a wooden bat with its blunt end covered with dry blood.
Her eyes shot open in fear. She recognized the face of the man approaching. But it couldn’t be possible. He was with the other two stumbling buffoons. She had fled from him. He shouldn’t be a head of her. An evil grin flickered across his evil pale face that still glowed red from where she slapped him.
“So you think you can run from the Amaranth do you ma cheri?” He snickered. She stared up into his red eyes, fearful for her life. She heard the other foot steps stop and knew that they had reached her. She wept. “I’m sorry ma cheri, but one does not simply get away with it.” He tsked.
“Aha yeah, you tell the wench Pierre you tells her good!” The man who had hit her laughed. The tongue less one also voiced his opinion. The two of them laughed and snickered together.
“Would you two bumbling fools shut up?!” Pierre ordered his two henchmen. He turned his evil gaze back down to the weeping girl. Her tears mixing in with her sweat and dried blood. “Now I must do something with you mustn’t I?”
She lay there, and stared up into the night sky. She thought she saw a figure dart across the roofs of the surrounding buildings, but she couldn’t tell. Her vision was blurry due to her tears.
He crouched there, at the apex of the shingled roof. He stared down at the events unfolding before him. It was all too familiar. Witnessing his loves death all over again, though this girl wasn’t his love. He knew not who she was. He was going to do something, but he couldn’t. His pain was being brought back. His tears streamed down his face. And he did nothing.
The girl lying there, weak, helpless. Screaming as the leader beat her with the bat. Each swing growing more and fiercer. Each hit, sending more and more blood onto the cobblestones. Her bones shattered beneathe the force behind the bat.
He sat there. Watching the death of his love again. He couldn’t do anything. He just sat there and watched. Tears swelling in his eyes. Tears streaming down his pale face. He was sat there and watched, as the leader walked away with his bloodied bat, and told his followers to have their way with her.
He looked up into the night sky, and let the spitting rain fall down his face, to wash away the tears. The rain began to fall heavier and steadier. The sound of the two dirty men taking their way with the dead girl was drowned out with the rain. He let them do their thing, before sliding down off the wet roof to the ground below.
His feet splashed into a puddle on the cobble ground. He wiped his wet hair out of his eyes and slowly wandered over to the girl. His boots squished in the wet, with each step.
The men had already stumbled off into the night, just leaving the girl lying there. Her skirt ripped and torn, her shirt bloodied and muddied. Head bashed in. Her bone still jutting through her skin.
The rain slowly rinsing her body clean of the dirt and blood; pools of blood slowly turned into streams with the down pour of rain. The water splashed gently with each soft foot fall of him. His jet black hair, sticking to his white chin and pale lips.
His soft lips quivered in the cold. The two studs at either side of his lower lips glistened with the wet. His ice cold blue eyes held a far away look, though he looked upon the crumbled heap of this girl. He felt the cool rain run off his nose and felt the drip gently land against his black gloved hand.
He wore a black glove, with the finger tips cut off on his left hand. His other hand, his scarred hand, he left free for the world to see. It was this hand that broke the glass so he could get into his dying love. It was this hand, that held her bloodied head that on last time. He let it go free, as a reminder to the hurt and pain he was going to inflict upon the Amaranth.
They were pigs. Chasing and killing innocent girls and women. It sickened him greatly. Looking down at this battered girl, lying in the streets.
He crouched over her bashed skull, letting his tears drop onto the bloody mess. It was time for the Amaranth to begin to learn their place. He had waited long for this moment, he moment they reappeared. The moment, he would take his vengeance.
The puddles splashed as he fell to his knees and reached to touch the girl’s body. His hand fell short and he couldn’t do it. His pain came back and he threw his head back, griping his soaking wet hair with his hands, and screamed out in pain. He felt the fresh water trinkle down his throat.
Long minutes passed since he screamed, and now he sat on the wet ground starring at her body. Images of his love drifted in and out of his mind and thoughts. Her voice haunted him, telling him what he should do. He was afraid. He didn’t want to touch the broken shell of this girl. He felt the comforting warmth of love’s warm embrace, easing his fear. He leaned forwards with his gloved hand out stretched and dabbed his fingers in the fallen girl’s blood.
* * *
The sun was being shy this day. Rising slowly out of the horizon, bringing a dull orange light into the world. It’s rays of light breaking past the shadowed gothic church. Dull shadows extended out to the bustling little town.
The crowds swarmed around the building, all curious to read what it read. The mob growing scarred as they stood there silently. Looking on at the horrific sight, though they were intrigued. Women wept, and fathers covered their childrens eyes. They all knew what this sign meant and feared that word wouldn’t reach their ears. But it was too late.
The big, bald man with tattoos riddled over his skull slowly made his way to the front of the crowd with his followers. His red eyes stared down those who dared to look up at him. His black coat dragged behind him, as did his followers coats. They were like a tide of black, parting their way to the front. Pierre’s eyes grew wide with shock and anger as he broke free of the mob and stood staring at the horrific sight.
Nailed to the yellow brick wall of this building, was a girl. But this girls head had been bashed in and her clothes ripped and torn in the crotch area. Her one leg dangled where it had snapped. Beside her on the wall, were words written in red. No, smeared on with blood. The words read,
“Sing the Amaranth’s elegy.” Pierre turned angered at the crowd and bellowed,
“Who’s responsible for this?! Who has the nerve to do such atrocious acts?! Have we, the Amaranth, not protected you?! Speak up! Will none confess?!” A woman gasped in shock as the sun reached the highest most steeple of the old, abandoned church. Pierre, his followers and the crowds turned and stared.
There, perched upon the steeple, was a shadow of a man. This man’s coat was billowing in the gentle morning breeze. He looked down at the town, as they looked up at him. Pierre grew puzzled. He didn’t know what to make of it. He let his red eyes take in this lone shadow, and thought.
“Aha, lookit Pierre! There’s a wacko up there on that…um…that…church? Yeah, church!” Hollered one of his men from the other night, with a huge grin on his face. He thought that that man up on the church was the most humourus things ever.
“Yes, I see that you fool!” Pierre yelled at him. Pierre looked around at the villagers who were all still starring at this shadow. They seemed pleased. Like he was some sort of guardian angel. This aggravated Pierre.
He reached behind his back, underneath his coat and pulled out his pistol. He fired three rounds into the air to get the crowds attention. They all turned, frightened and stared at the towering seven foot bald man with red eyes. He stared everyone of them down, hand still holding the pistol above his head.
Up on the steeple he watched. The crowds turned back and faced the big man. Crows and ravens fluttered in the air around him because of the gun shot. Their fluttering wings, and falling feathers blocking his sight, he decided to go back into the church. He let his grip of the steeple go and let himself fall backwards into the old building.
Pierre ordered the people back to their homes, there was nothing left to see. The crowd reluctantly and silently. Pierre had his men escort each of the families back to their homes. He remained there, staring at the girl’s body. It was the girl that slapped him the night before. Or, rather, what was left of her. He read over the words again and again, growing more and more confused and upset.
He grew tired of looking at the dead and turned to look back at the shadow upon the church. Now he was really puzzled. For the shadow of the man in the black coat was gone. His brain began to hurt so Pierre staggered back to his home to rest his now troubled mind.
* * *
The street was dark and wet. Everyone was indoors, watching, waiting as the screams echoed. The wet cobbles slipped under his rushing feet, as he made his way back home. His flowing black coat disappeared into the night, his black hair clung to his face with sweat.
How could He have been so nieve? He knew better then to cross Pierre. But it wasn’t his fault, it was Pierre’s. If Pierre hadn’t set into motion such grotesque acts, he surely wouldn’t have had to hit Pierre. The look in Pierre’s eyes fore told him the pain and sffering that would come, but he had not expected like this. Not like this.
Her screams rang through out the night air. He ran faster, hoping not to slip on the wet ground. The people watched, hesitant to move. He just kept running. Around corners he ran, his flight growing more and more fierce. They better not hurt her. Though, He already knew she was being slowly tortured. The screams stopped as he finally reached his house.
To look at the house, one would not even fathom a guess at what was being commited inside. The windows glowed yello, sending a faint shimmering light into the darkened streets. It had a very homely feel to it. The streets were silent.
He slowly approached the large front window, that peered into the living room, glancing at his love. Or, was it really his love? He couldn’t tell, she was surrounded by fellow members of the Amaranth, men that were once friends. He could see her arm, naked and white amongst the black coated men. Anger swelled inside of him. Her fingers tw\witched, meaning she was still alive. He could feel tears running down his cheeks.
With out thinking, he clenched his right hand into a fist and punched the window. Glass sprayed inwards and down, cutting and gashing his hand. But he didn’t feel it, or have time to feel it. For he lunged in through the gaping hole.
The men of the Amaranth stopped what they were doing and turned to face him. He wasted no time. He charged at the nearest man, whose tongue was too large for his mouth and dangled limply on his chin. His eyes shot wide as a strong grip tugged at his tongue, and a flicker of a small blade darted in front of his face.
The man hollered in pain as his muscle fell to the floor in a bloody mess. The man brought his hands to his bleeding mouth and ran out of the house into the cold night.
He stood there, his right hand dripping blood from where the glass cut him, and a bloodied knife in his left. His breath was long and heavy, waiting for the Amaranth too make their move. And move they did.
The group of them, all dressed in similar black coats, encircled him; they smiled gleefully as they tightened a circle around him.
* * *
When he woke, he was laying on the wood floor of his house. His entire body ached from the beating he took. The two Amaranth he took down were missing and his love still lay on the floor barely alive.
His right hand burned with pain as he dragged himself over to her body. She let out an exasperated gasp as he gently lifted her head onto his lap; using his left hand, he gently placed her head onto his cut hand which was laying loosely on his lap.
She gently moaned as his tears splashed against her bruised face. His pierced lip quivered violently as he tried to find words to speak to her. He hated not knowing what to say to her. This was all his fault. Pierre’s fault. The world’s fault. His mind raced, striving to find words to comfort her.
He sat there, with her head on his bloodied hand, for hours until she finally had the strength to talk.
“Why…?” He didn’t know what to say. He looked her up and down, taking in the bloody mess of his love. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t bear the thought of telling his love that he is…or…was a member of the Amaranth. He couldn’t tell her, it would kill her knowing he was in the group she despised. His gaze returned to her eyes.
Her sweet, honey brown eyes, now filling with tears. She knew. She screamed out in pain, her heart shattering. She tried to push him away from her, but she was too weak. She just wept.
After minutes of her weeping, her breaths became short. Her life was ending. He wept now. Not wanting her to go. Not like this. Through his sobbing, he heard her faintly say in her last short gasping breaths;
“I’m sorry…for bleeding on…your coat…I…Love…You…” Her body fell limp before she could say his name. He pulled her head into his chest and he hollered out in pain.
* * *
The crows were squaking loudly in the cathedrals sanctuary. The odd one would flutter through the dusty rays of sun that broke the darkness. Dust and wood chips fell gracefully from the rafters, landing gently on the cold stone floor far below.
He woke with a fright. His black hair, sticky with sweat, stuck to his face and the varnished pew he was laying on. He dreamt that night again. There wasn’t a time he didn’t dream that night. It was like his curse, until his job was finished.