The Urge

The Urge

A Story by Amy Couture

A desperate girl wanting one thing.


A golden river flowed from her head. Her usually sweet and soft caramel eyes were hard. Her lips were fixed in a scowl, fingers twitching at her sides. A sword hung from her belt along with twin blades crossing at her back. Three daggers, one gold, one silver, one black, dangled from her left side. She pulled on an all black cloak, throwing on the hood, replacing the spring dresses she usually always wore.

I screamed and punched the mirror at the sudden pulse of anger, he killed her. The always perfect golden strawberry hair and the million little freckles on her little nose was stuck in my mind. That perfect giggle that could make flowers grow, usually echoing down the castle hall as she skipped was silent. The lightest green eyes that used to burst with color whenever she wore that silver crown, lost in a single silver bladed stroke. The way she awed at me while I’d fought ten guards at once, the tiny arms that once shook me awake from my hollow dreams, were no longer there. Hearing her silvery voice from the sidelines doubting the watchers that my brother, Michael, would win the sparring match, all started to blur as the man of the doing, Prince Damian replaced her glass body.

I stormed out of my chamber to the black stallion eagerly dancing in the marble courtyard. She loved this horse. His eagerness to run, his beauty. Michael begged me not to go, his pleads didn’t break through my wall of stubbornness and restlessness. I needed this. I leapt on, paying no attention to him, he doesn’t understand. We surged off. My face hardened as my body surged, wanting to go faster, needing to go faster. My blood lust conquering all. I need to kill, I have to, my father made me into this. I rode the stallion into the ground, not caring, she would’ve, but she’s not here, and it still wasn’t fast enough.

My cloak billowed in the wind as I screamed in frustration. Not fast enough. My blood was boiling, itching for others to spill. The skeleton bleeding trees covered our path. The red and orange leaves swarmed around us, then stopped. We galloped through their gates. People yelling and screaming in horror as I soared past them, looking like living hell. I unravel the string on my cloak and it flies in the wind behind me. My itching hands reach for twin blades. I’ve been waiting for this, been needing this. My little sister was killed by them, by him, right in front of my eyes as I was tied to a post. Punishment they said. For being a child of death, they said. I sliced person after person, child after child as we galloped past. Wasn’t enough. My blood sang for the red water that was now flowing and dripping from my blades. Wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough.

© 2016 Amy Couture

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Added on October 20, 2016
Last Updated on October 21, 2016
Tags: fight, girl, death, sister


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