The Last Forgiveness This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

January 2, 2011
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The house was eerily still, as it were on the verge of exhaling a long sigh. Silence muffled outside sounds and compressed the air like a humid fog. Dust particles caught the sunlight from an open window, glittering throughout the hall and gathering along crevices etched into the dark trim. Small runnels swirled throughout the thin layer of dust, the tiny prints of mice prancing around, delighted in their own version of snowfall.

The thick maroon carpet was littered with emerald shards of broken glass that twinkled like menacing stars. Monets, Picassos, and Chippendale armoires stood watch over the hallway, sternly rejecting the impending effects of disuse.

In one corridor the dust lay disturbed, seemingly disgruntled at being so rudely awakened. Footprints littered the hallway, and tiny crimson drops freckled the ornate lamps posing ostentatiously on the bureaus.

A woman lay sprawled on the ground, a hand clutching at her chest, the front of her ivory dress weeping scarlet tears. Pieces of chartreuse glass sprinkled the marble floor around her body. Blood trickled down her limp legs in ribbon-thin rivulets. Diamond pins glittered in her auburn hair as her eyes flickered open in a flash of icy blue. She painstakingly rolled her head towards one end of the hall. A figure slouched against the wall, shrouded in a shadow cast by a statue of a marble angel. A trail of crimson drops speckled the floor right up to the statue, where it congealed into a thick puddle of blood at the shadow’s leather shoes.
The figure staggered into a small patch of light filtering from in between velvet drapes. His glazed eyes roved over the woman lying at the end of the hallway. One of his hands was mutilated beyond recognition, torn into strips of flesh dripping from his outstretched fingers like scarlet ribbons.

The woman in the ivory dress struggled to her bare feet, fiery eyes locked on the man in the dark suit. He stumbled towards her, concern flitting across his stony features for an instant. The stench of alcohol radiated through the air in his wake. He paused, two feet away and sucked in a breath between his teeth. His one whole hand slowly rose as if to touch the mottled bruises on her face, some ripe in their purple glory, some yellowed with age. A single tear spilled from the regret in his eyes to disappear into the scruff on his jaw.
“Stella,” He breathed, the alcohol on his breath whispering through her nose.
Her long, slim fingered hand came up to catch his outstretched one, holding it inches away from the black bruises beneath her cold blue eyes.
“You never loved me,” She whispered, an attempt to justify actions neither of them could.
He shook his head forcefully. “I did. I do. I always have, and I always will.”
His words trailed off, brown eyes still locked on blue. He swayed, whether from drunkenness or loss of blood she would never know. They sank to the floor, heedless of blood gushing from both their various wounds, heads bent together, fingers clasped. The shallow sound of their synchronized breathing echoed through the home until it slowed and then stopped outright, returning the house to its unnaturally silent state once more.

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romancejunkie said...
Jan. 6, 2011 at 6:05 am
different weird but addictive
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