Blood and Fire

September 11, 2008
By Ikya Kandula, Bellevue, WA

Tortured! Dreadfully tortured! How can I possibly still be alive? No! Impossible! It is not guilt that I feel, but anxiety. I do not wish to wake from my deep sleep. All I wish is to tell you my story. It may seem as if it is not possible to do such a thing as I did. But I did it for love. I loved her with all my heart. Her beauty penetrated my eyes like knives, but her eyes glanced at me with a cold that matched that of the Arctic. Knives—bloody knives pointed at my heart with such dare I do not bother to write. I loved her too much to take notice of those petty problems. Love is a knife itself. Let it pierce your heart. Then we shall know if your love is true.

My love—oh, what love I can give to one who can cherish it—went to waste as that Beauty went to another soul. Revenge I need—yes, I need revenge. That Beauty should not waste her time with a poor lowlife as him. But, if her love is real, we shall see.

You may think me mad. But I assure you that love makes the intellectual seem mad. It is not I who is blinded by the veil of love, but you who is blinded by lack of love. Does that make me mad?

The amusement park was a favorite for “lovers”—silly, fraud lovers who mock the tradition in which I bathe in everyday—and exactly where my beauty went with the lowlife that followed her around like a dog waiting for his slender, juicy bone. I happened to be just following them around trying to make my plans.

With all my heart I asked, “Hi! How are you today?”

My beauty ignores me as her lowlife pulls her away toward the rollercoaster. I follow. Revenge—dead, blood-red revenge—follows right behind them. I had my plan for the revenge.

Tortured—extremely, dreadfully tortured—I am but I must do what I have to. I, but a self-less mere soul, have been grasped by the black shadow of love that controls the identity of those worthy of it. But the one my heart throws itself at “loves”—selfish, childish love unlike the one I have for my beauty—a lowlife. I shall not take such an insult. I love my beauty but she must die. Though I am tortured by the thought of my beauty withering away with only a petty stone to mark her place, I must do my job. Such a self-less soul as mine I cannot imagine. Headstrong I may seem to the loveless. I am headstrong I admit. Headstrong!

As the rollercoaster came back from its orbit, I breathed the scent of flowers emanating from my beauty. Oh how much I am going to miss that smell when she dies. I shall cry right now as I have no time later. The safety bar lifted up and my beauty chose her seat near the back. I chose my seat two rows in front of her. No one else was at the ride. Now I shall prove to you that my beauty should not have wasted her life on such silly play-love.

Make note of my appearance. I was wearing an abnormally long violin string with a hook on my neck just in case I needed it, a gray potato sack, sandals, and a bag behind my back. The ride began with a jolt. I only paid attention to what was coming next. I was waiting for the elongated tunnel to pass. The swerves did not reach my stomach. My beauty was screaming with a beautifully high pitch which rang through my ear—for the last time. Her beauty flashed through my eyes. The kiss of a child would be less delicate than hers. Dreaming does nothing for my plans, though. Revenge, Revenge! Revenge seeks the heads of those we love. Revenge is coming! It is following! Right behind you! I love her but she has to die. That is the way.

You may take me as mad. I am not and I shall prove it. A madman has no heart to love with and no woman to love. A heart to love with is just as strong as a head to trick with. A heart never dies but a head does. A dying head!

The tunnel was coming! Awaiting it would only increase my anxiety. My torture pervades my soul and enters the depths of my head. I shall not regret now. So tortured—so dreadfully, deadly tortured. I can’t stop it! A piercing shriek escaped my mouth as if my head was burning by the hold of fire itself. My scream was not out of place as I was on a rollercoaster 310 feet above the ground pushing me down toward the tunnel. The tunnel! It has come.

I readied myself. It became dark as the roller coaster started through the tunnel. I slipped out of my safety bar as my bag made a gap between the bar and me. I grabbed my violin string and kept the hook in my bag. I took out the bloody knife out of my bag. I left the bag on my seat and I stretched to where my beauty was seated unaware of my presence and screaming in her head. Cautiously—oh so cautiously—I slipped the violin string around her neck. Would a madman be so cautious? Then I moved to the lowlife and took his bag. I dropped the bloody knife in it. I came back to my seat and took the hook out of my bag. I hooked it onto the rollercoaster track and waited. Waited quietly and patiently! I was screaming in my head.

I felt a drop of something on the side of my cheek. Blood. Death. Revenge. Love. I looked behind me. There my beauty was, her body like Aphrodite’s but her head gone. Yet, still I loved her. It didn’t matter, dead or alive. She had no lowlife following her dead. I will be with her in a few minutes. Let it be in Heaven or Hell. At least, I will be with her.

The rollercoaster stopped. The police were right behind. The lowlife and I got out. The police searched both of us. Nothing was found in my bag. The lowlife’s bag, though, had a bloody knife. The police took him away.

Here is my time to cry and laugh. I cry because I have lost my love—my true beauty that flashed through my eyes at night and at day, every minute of the ticking time-bomb. I laugh because my beauty did not love the lowlife. I could feel it. Love is a knife itself. Let it pierce your heart. Then we shall know if your love is true. Her love was not true. It was never true. Mine was.

The police later found the head. I went to see. It was still so beautiful I couldn’t resist touching it. I had one thing in mind. I must take a souvenir home. When the police weren’t looking I took out a knife and chopped off her lilac hair. I needed something, something to remind me of her. Her beauty—sparkling beauty. I couldn’t live another day without part of her presence near me. I ran away with the hair in my jacket. But before I ran, I looked at her face. She was smiling.

I hung her hair in my room. Such beautiful hair! I loved it so much! If anyone were to destroy that hair, their head would be next. But everyday it turned a brighter shade of red. Every night, I was thinking more and more of my Beauty. Why shouldn’t I? I loved her. But every time I saw her in my dreams. She looked different.

One night I went to lie in my bed and fell into a deep sleep. There flashed before me my beauty. But she was different! There was something! I knew there was something! Yes! She was on fire with a blaze of blood! Her face was smeared in red and her lips were curled in the same vicious smile that I saw after I chopped her hair off. Her hair was on fire. Her whole Aphrodite body was smeared in blood! And her hand! Her beautiful, delicate hand was reaching toward me! She beckoned me to come closer. I came closer. Closer. Closer. Her hand was on my face. It burned my skin. Lightly she touched my face and kissed my lips. I could taste blood.

Every night, she beckoned me in my mind to come closer and closer. She would touch my face and kiss me with her bloody lips. Every day I would wake up with the blood on my lips. I can’t take it! Tortured! She taunts me with her leery smile and bloody kiss.

Now I sit here, writing on this parched paper. On my desk there are five empty sleeping pill cases—completely empty. I have eaten my overdose. Now I wait to die. I hope I don’t meet her in Hell.

The author's comments:
I wrote this piece as a Poe Parody for school. I recieved an A.

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