"His Name was Jack"

January 6, 2010
By EmelyJ GOLD, Bronx, New York
EmelyJ GOLD, Bronx, New York
10 articles 0 photos 23 comments

Favorite Quote:
"A mistake is not a mistake if you learn from it. If you learn from it, it's not a mistake, it's a lesson."

His name was Jack, and he had a knife in his hand. It glistened and gleamed when he did his work, but afterwards, it would be covered by that red stuff he oh, so loved. He took great pleasure in his work. He’s a man you would only enjoy if you were the bloodthirsty kind, as he was. His hair was pitch black and very soft. His smile was smooth and seductive, as was his voice. That’s how he drew them in.
She was his latest work…that is, she will be. It was strange. Usually, he would flash a wicked grin across his face as he did his work, as he heard scream and plead for their lives as he plunged his beautiful knife into his victims, but this time, he didn’t. Maybe it was because she was asleep. She was in the bed, sleeping. The moonlight shone on her bright red hair and fair skin. She slept silently, having no idea what her fate was, or who would end it.
He loved her. That was the reason he did not smile. He loved her, and she loved him. He wanted her, and she wanted him. He knew this, and she knew, too. So why? Why must he do this? Because he loved her. This emotion, love, it was called, burned inside him, eating him alive. She was his one weakness. A weakness that, he believed, had to go. He didn’t want to kill her; he told her to go, leave him, for her very life would depend on it. But she refused. She would rather, she said, die with him than without him. So he knew this was the way, the only way. If only she knew. But, if she knew, would she, even then, run away? Would she not love him anymore? This thought haunted him as he stared at her in the bed.
He sighed heavily. He knew that life was such a delicate state. He knew, and she knew. But it had to be done. He couldn’t love. He just couldn’t. Slowly, not to wake her, he lied beside her, the knife in his right hand. It glistened and gleamed, but still it had no blood on it. He gathered the woman in his arms and placed her on top of him. He hugged her, knowing that it would be the last time. In this position, the knife was only inches away from her heart, right where it would go. He kissed her, softly on her lips. In her sleep, she kissed and hugged him back.
His heart ached. It hurt so much. Slowly, he placed her beside him once more, very slowly. Right then and there, he knew what he had to do. The pain was too much. He had killed thousands before; he counted them off himself. One more shouldn’t mean anything. Just one more.
He looked at his knife, then at the woman that beside him. Then he gripped the handle tight and with all his might, he thrust it through the chest. He gasped, and then all was silent. He took a deep breath…and stared at the knife. He couldn’t go through it. He loved her too much. He took his last breathes, with his love in his arms. She slept; the noise didn’t wake her.
He loved her, and in the end, it killed him. His name was Jack, and he had a knife through his heart.

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