Stories From a Might Be Person

Bloody Slave

Softly flowing hair oh so beautiful reflects the beams of moonlight, causing blond to become an ethereal white. Blue eyes that hold shards of ice steadily melt as they look at the small patch of unnoticed black at the corner where the fences meet. So quiet, the breathing seems to be the sound of a jet engine. So warm, dozens of blankets seem to be wrapped around everything in the yard. Blood glistening from the stains on his face, highlight and shadow defining the blade of the knife. The woman's body at odd angles making a contrast to the gentle sway of the grass underneath. So beautiful, it seems impossible. So wrong that it seems to be just perfect.
Bloody Crimson, the most perfect color. The color that calls to him, teases him, makes him fall in love and break. How beautiful and wanted is he, but he seems to be one that no one can call their own. Except blood. Blood, the life force of all living things, the redness of ourselves, the one thing that can drive him mad. The one thing he hates, and the one thing he loves. Oh, how Zephyr desires to be freed from this curse! But this gentle breeze cannot. Blood has taken him for its own, he cannot be bought or sold, he cannot be freed from this unholy prison. He cannot stop what he does. He cannot stop taking victims, he must see the blood course and ebb into the walls and into the ground. He must see it. He is addicted to it.
But finally, finally! He can be freed! This woman, this unlucky person to have been standing before him, has given him a chance to be freed! She hinted at how, seeing her blood flow. After all, he houses that same blood inside him, does he not? Yes, he can see the blood flow from his own wounds on his body, and finally be freed. Just a slit in his wrists and he will be done with this life, this rusted and dirty cell.
It seems he was passed from one master to the other.