May 1, 2011
By Jena.Ez SILVER, Beirut, Other
Jena.Ez SILVER, Beirut, Other
6 articles 0 photos 1 comment

Tonight you will visit her, you will go to her home and ask her how she is, how is her life doing. Like usual, you will make her fall inevitably in love with you. Her heart will beat faster as you lean in to kiss her soft, tender lips. As you feel the beats under your hand, your heart starts to accelerate as well. She stares into your eyes and as you gaze back, you pull out your blade…
You take the knife and as your heart beats faster, you notice your reflection in the steel. It looks horrendous, ugly, frightening. Like a monster. This makes you angry, quite angry that you lift the knife and stab. You stab and stab and stab. The blood gushes out, oozing into your shoes. Screams. Shrieks. Pleas. An aura of pain surrounds her. The girl you are killing. The girl you caused love to dwell upon, every night. Love for you. But did she actually know you? She didn’t, so as is, you did not know her. Endingly, who exactly are you causing death to creep upon? You stop for a second and think, but the adrenalin in your body is too high for your mind to manage correctly. High enough for you to keep stabbing, high enough for you to love the feeling of bones, crunching under the pressure of your sharp, now blood covered knife, the knife that has ended numerous lives. The knife that you keep with you everywhere you go. The knife that has killed each one of your lovers. The knife that makes up your masterpiece, your whole life’s centerpiece. But before, you need the heart of the woman lying under your hand. You cut around her left chest, carefully and meticulously. Ripping open the skin, you start to cry. Not of remorse, not of shame for your actions. But of self-pity and anger and all those nights you lay awake, planning the homicides. You cry because you enjoy last heart beats. You enjoy stopping them, and taking them. You are a psychopath, a murderer.
The heart, enveloped in blood lies lightly in your hand. A rather small one for such an affectionate woman. You caress it, sliding your finger up and down its muscles. Leaving the body, you carry the engine of your lover to your dungeon.
Under your home, there is a tree. A tree only significant because of its capability to survive underground. This is because of all the hearts, hanging from every branch. This will be your last time with your stunning success. Why? Because as you hang the last heart, they all start to beat. They beat with such a force that it flows through your whole body, sending blood in torrents through your vessels. You’ve gone insane, maniacal rage takes over your mind. The souls of the victims you’ve killed surround you, whispering long gone memories of their love. They ask you to join them, telling you that your heart belongs on the tree. But how? How will you take out your own life-keeper? Before you could answer, a sharp tingle starts up your right arm. You get a feeling of impending doom, and as your head starts feeling light and weightless, you die of a heart attack.

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