elegy of the roses [thorned hearts: one]

apathetic

The rush I felt as I plunged the axe in a flash, the silence I heard from all around me that afternoon, the ease I had whilst killing her wilfully, they all mean nothing. Nothing to me now.

It was a humid day in June, that day. On the hotter side of humid. The heat still crawled under my skin, slowing the rush down moments after cutting deep into the deed. The subtle breeze remedied the crawls, but not the heat. The fabrics of my worn-out overalls tickled my skin underneath it.

The skies began to darken, and the pleasant smell of petrichor and blood collided together on the thickening atmosphere. Rain started to pour subtly, making soft clatters of sound against the roof of my home.

Our home was modest, a bungalow made of sturdy bamboo for both walls and floor. The roof was thatched of bound and dried anahaw and nipa. And it was enclosed in between miles of rice fields.

The land was wide, enough to invite the whole village for a feast. The fields were colored in an earthly brown and a newly-set green, the farmers finished planting a month after their harvest. With their dull sickles left to set on the fields, the fantasies of slit-open throats excite me so. Slowly... the sickle cutting skin leaving a straight, and distinct line of red. It doesn't surprise me, yet it does satisfy.

The rain became heavier, the drops burn. Yet, I still wonder how it feels to burn other people's flesh. Thunder rolled, wind became colder, rain dripped heavier in one's and two's. The petrichor thickened up the air, making me feel tingly sensations all about.

A heat that I always feel...

A heat that shakes my brain.

A heat that trembles sensations.

I head inside.

***

The streak of white that stained the velvety-scarlet and milky peach colors of blood and bruised skin. It relieves me.

The release, the pressure, the tightness, the heat of the moment, they make me want to do more. The desires led to untimely demises and never-ending lust for blood and sensations.

Petrichor smelled along the sour-sweet and metallic smell of sweat and blood. It wraps around this small bedroom, suffocating us in this heavy atmosphere. I start heaving.

Left arm first...
then right...
the legs...
torso and head.

Far away from our plot of land, I stare at the mountain forest. The trees there were tall and scattered all about.

I will bury her there.

One tree carved on my mind ever since the first time I went there. When I was younger.

Perfect for a burial...

It was a long hike, quite steep, and slippery. My feet were bruised and shedding skin.

Satisfying...

Light beamed on my blood-stained face.

I'm here.

The heaving paid off, and the sack I held on to wore out, exposing severed arms and legs of a woman. It oozed more blood.

Pleases my eye.

A hole was already there.

I buried her by the overgrown tree at the heart of the forest. Its bearing of unworldly-colored leaves and fruits. I rest and took my leave.

I was fourteen when I killed my mother. I have no regrets whatsoever.

Rain showered on me, rinsing the blood off of my sinful hands.