Junk Box

The Color of Betrayal

It's the perfect combination of colors. Red staining the gray flagstones that have gone black with ash and age. The stark colors of fallen leaves scattered across the courtyard, a reminder of the fiery death many have suffered here.

Too bad that you can't see the sight. My sword hangs loose in my hand, and your glorious thick curling locks are gripped in my right. I raise up your severed head in triumph, and my men roar with approval.

So many innocents' blood stain my hands, like these stones, that your death is merely another mark on my board. You plead with me, wept, something I had seen countless times.

There was a moment when you thought you saw a spark of mercy in my eyes. You fool! I couldn't wait to kill you. My hands were trembling with the need, moments before my blade cut through your neck.

Even as I walk through the assembled men, your broken body lies crumbled on the ground. I bask in the shouts of my army and the blood lust still running through my veins.

Our Angel of Death! They cry in one voice. Our Lady of Vengeance!

I throw your head into the masses before looking towards the remaining prisoner. Sea-green eyes meet mine, the same shade as mine. You smile at me with those eyes, daring me to slaughter you.

You are beloved among many people, but these are not those people. I yank you to your feet, refusing to look into those eyes again.

Finally, I think, I will be free of you. No longer will you haunt me.

I push you to your knees, the blood of your comrades seeping through the legs of your trousers. Your eyes wander over to where his body has been tossed, hands reaching towards you one last time.

Try to kill me, your posture cries. Do you truly think this will solve anything?

I refuse to give you as quick a death as your fallen comrades. I strike out with my sword, and a slight gasp escapes your lips. I pull it out of your stomach before stabbing it back into your body with all my anger.

Barely a sound leaves you as your blood flows out thick, changing the color of your shirt permanently. You continue to stare at me, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

Once more, this time staring into those condemning eyes, I raise my sword before plunging it down through your neck.

There can only be one Angel of Death, I whisper as your eyes begin to dim.

But you will only be half without me, I see your lips say before you slump forward, face in the congealing blood of your comrades, your family.

I finish severing your head from your neck and hoist it into the air, but as my men shout again, I feel nothing of the victory that came with the deaths before.

I know I will never be able to erase your death from my mind unlike the others. My face turned towards the gray sky, mouth open in a silent scream, I walk through the masses.

There may be no triumph in your death, but it had to end this way.

It had to end this way!
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I know, I know. We're back to somewhat gloomy stories.
This tale came from an idea I had if one of my book character's siblings turned bitter towards her twin (which actually is a part of my Forgotten Journals series) and tried to destroy everything that reminded her of said twin.
Some of you may notice that this collection has been dedicated to a few of friends. Each of these friends have earned an important character in my books, and I am grateful for them putting up with my weird moments and constantly keeping me in line.
As always, please comment.
Until next time,
Abigail