The Requiem

-To My Beautiful One

 

The expression on your face when you walked into the room was perfect. The way it went from bewilderment to repulsion to terror. The way your mouth, the one I had so often admired, fell open and a scream that seemed as if it would make your larynx bleed emerged from it. Those eyes that I had stared into so many times, those empty eyes that held so many false promises, began to leak tears. But not for me. No, you didn’t cry for me did you? Those tears that fell from your eyes, first when you discovered me in your room and then later as they put me into the ground, they were for yourself weren’t they. What would people think? I’d ruined your life. I’d stripped the wall bare then stripped your character as if it were made of the cheapest of cloth. The message was scrawled in the blood that use to flow through my veins, making my heart beat. I used the blood because you always said red was your favorite color. I wrote everything I had felt out, using the old fashioned pen you had gotten me as a gift. It was almost poetic. It took a while but I had no fear. I knew it would all be done before you came back home. After all you were out on that lovely little date, you had so sadistically told me about over and over again. I dug the sharp tip of the pen into my wrist, waiting gleefully as the blood fell it into the little ink bottle, soon filling it. It left me a bit woozy and I’m terribly sorry that the words were smeared in some places. I kept having to put my hand out to steady myself. But I finished and that’s all that matters. I wrote my own epitaph on your wall. My requiem was your breathtaking sobs, screams, retches, and exclamations. I lost track of how many times I had to dig the pen into my flesh but I was very careful not to do it too many times. That’s not what I wanted you to walk into me. Me, lying in a pool of blood on the plush carpet of your bedroom, would not have gotten that wonderful reaction. Sure you would have been shocked. But not repulsed. I wanted you to be physically and mentally sick. Nothing was more satisfying than watching you empty the contents of your stomach onto the floor. You’d always prided yourself on how clean your room was. I bet they had to tear the carpet up after that. No. I bet you moved instead. Mere soap and water would not have been enough to erase me permanently from your room. I bet you still dream of me, even though I’m long gone.

 

The worms have made themselves a new home in my flesh. It took them a while to break into the cheap coffin my parents had bought, but they still made it. Tough little creatures those worms. They burrowed into my flesh creating a lattice work of tunnels. Occasionally I hear hollow footsteps resounding on the ground. Someone is visiting a loved one. No one ever kneels at my grave. No tears are shed for me anymore. The only tears I’ve ever received were empty replicas. Merely for show. No true emotions were ever expressed for me.

 

Once my elegy was finished it took some work to tie the rope around the beam. Fate must have been on my side for it was easy to cut into your ceiling and expose the inner skeleton of the building. My fingers, usually nimble, fumbled with the rope for a while but I finally managed to affix it to the beam. Maybe it took so long because the feeling was rapidly leaving my fingers due to the lack of blood. Or maybe I was just so wound up. After all my heart was beating as fast as possible in anticipation.

                 

After that the rest was easy. I had spent three nights practicing on my noose. I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted it to look exactly like it did in the books. I could tell I had succeeded in my ultimate goal when you came in. I was hung in your room. Back and forth I swayed. And the person I’d hoped would see it, you did. My love, I did this to show my devotion. It’s all for you, you dirty w***e. How could you hurt me so horrible and laugh about it? Your slender fingers dug into my chest. You had a tight hold on my heart and I was willing. I offered it to you. I offered you everything. And you took it only to stomp on it. You spit on me as I knelt in submission. You scorned my affections. My gifts you excepted without second thought as if they were the most worthless of things. You. You tortured me with your cool indifference. You brought me to tears with your biting sarcasm. But even though you were cruel to me. Vindictive and spiteful. I still loved you. My last gift to you was my life and you cast that aside like everything else. You were the most apathetic of people. My lover. My master. And finally my murderer.

 

         -With Love-

 

Reviews

[Dawn Jones]

I have so been there. Am there in fact. Scary place to be. Well written.

[Amy Hamilton]

I was entralled by this story, i couldn't stop reading it once i began... well done! Your imagery was perfect, so realistic, i felt as though i was in the room and in the grave with you... the way brilliant writing is supposed to make you feel. It is so relatable also, unbelievably so. I had a boyfriend who treated me the same way, exactly the same way. I could feel every emotion the girl was feeling, as though i was experiencing the pain all over again. Simply fantastic!

[R J Askew]

I have read this a second time now.
I note the mockery in the title and the word No... 'No, you didn't cry for me, did you?' And towards the end, 'To show my devotion.'
A couple of dabs I missed ydy...'cheapest of cloth' and 'empty replicas'...like both. Don't think you need 'almost' in 'It was almost poetic.' And the word 'affix' sounded a little old...and the word 'stomp' jarred a bit, as it sounded too low-brow for high-goth.
The fact he had bought the pen and was on a date and the carpet obsession all cranked up the sinister joy of the revenge.
The heart beating wildly contrasted to the deliberation in the planning and practicing of the noose.
One thing occurs to me...What message did she write in her own blood? One line might do.
But I still think its a cracking little piece of darkness.

[R J Askew]

Not a word wasted here. I particularly liked 'Tough little creatures those worms' as it seems archly wry. What was Shakespeare's term 'worm meat'? Ach, those worms! I feel them in my head now! I confess I was also taken with the idea of writing a poem in blood. This would seem singularly Byronic in some dark way. Your skull avatar also made me think of Byron's macabre drinking cup. I was drawn into this piece by the title. Having read it I will certainly read the other pieces on your page. And send you a friend request, o'dark one.

[Katherine Wallace Bryan..]

I have to agree, this is very well executed I really like how it's some what A-sexual you never really say if it's a man or a woman, you really leave it up to the reader
I'm not sure if that was intended but it really dose go either way
very nice and I love this!

~Kat

[Pauline Ramsey]

WOW!!!! This story is an exceptional piece. There are a few spelling and grammer mistakes but overall I found this piece to be truly disturbing and exquisite at the same time! Such devotion she showed for him, the anger, the pain and the raw emotions were conveyed so well. I loved the imagery, I could picture the whole deed in my head. KUDOS to you!!! I hope that you have more stuff like this to post and I look forward to reading more.