For Life

February 28, 2012
By Anonymous

A bright light flashes and my finger tips begin to tingle slowly like millions of needles lightly piercing my skin. The image of her face appears in my flashback. She is broken but courageous, beautiful but weak disgusted and immortalized. The dim light shines against her weary teared eyes and she explained with anger that love was not enough and that should could not take my unhinged life style any more. Who knew that losing someone you loved would change your life so greatly, from being unhinged to completely demented.

Each day and each night I sit in this white condensed room. The pale walls stare at me blankly. Over the years my mind has mended to mesh and reality is no longer real to me. Nothing but a metal bed, a thin blue leather pad and a light white sheet stained yellow. Once a night I receive a short dull pencil and a crumpled piece of paper to write to family or friends. I’ve never really had a family or a whole lot of friends. The only person there ever was, was Jes, my only love. But she would never forgive me for what I had done. Not like she even could.

Every night for the past two years I write, with my dry cracked hands and my twisted mind. I write to her, Jes. I know that I would never send them because she would never get them, but the thought of it comforts me. 730 letters that have never been sent or read. I have given up, grief is stronger than ever. Which is why my story starts here.

Two years ago the ice between us was getting thinner, a day together agenda was suicide to her. She knew she could do better. No faith, no love, just emptiness. She abandoned all hope. I was enraged I love her to much to lose her. Blood pumping through my purple, plump veins and hands clenching to a fist. Teeth griding, grating down to the bit. Frustration growing, my screams being held in the gutter of my throat begging to be unleashed.

My actions that night are something that I will never forget. Regret continues to flood my body every hour of the day, making me choke, making me hope it will flush my existence way . You would think I would stop, but it was impossible to not. My anger thriving off my body like a fetish, using me as its puppet. As her pain grew and body went weak I became stronger and more powerful.

Her beautiful body bruised beneath the rough brittle ropes. Mended tightly she whimpers is disbelief. Squeaking wooden chair rubbing against the scratched bamboo flooring, for a desperate escape. Satisfied I started at what I knew was a broken soul. She should have loved me the way I was, but we both knew it was to late to ever turn back. This would be the beginning of the end and I knew that she would be mine forever now.

After I harnessed her tightly into the chair making it impossible escape. My mind was running circles, my voice was thick and shuttered, my eyes were sunken and dark, my body showed weakness but my heart was pumping strong. It knew what it utterly most desired, pain. See pain, hear pain, feel pain. It thrived for pain.

My house was nearly a mess, and not much supplies to work with but I can not let her leave my sight, She will attempt to escape. I quickly scrape up all I can. I am left with a needle with black shining thread, a dull serrated knife and a drawer filled with rusty unused forks.

I look at her one last time, the last night I would see her, the last time we would be together. I have never really thought of doing such a horrific thing and I only know what I do from sappy, gruesome hostage movies, but I guess there is always a first for everything.

I threaded the needle with the thin soft thread and the slim silver needle, I wouldn’t want her to see everything that would be lost. I calmly walk to her to prevent her from startling. Looking into her mint green, pupils big and eyes that ran glossy I pressed my lips upon her damp cheek for the very last time. She was trying to look strong but I knew her to well, she was doubtful.

I stood up let my hand out then it all began.

Eyes drooped shut and purple, lips laying still, body lay limp. This was the end, she was gone forever and there was nothing I could do to take that back.

My name is Brenden Holt, I am 19 years old and two years ago on January 16, 2012 I was committed of first degree murder.

The author's comments:
A Romance/Horror.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!