I can see the ruby piano from my bed.
Like the velvet keys of carpet, a strange string instrument.
A mountain top covered in red, maroon, and golden leaves, pasty pale trees, splattered and wet with blood.
Papery and peeling bark, dripping, three still beating hearts, nailed to the wood.
Three white bodies, surround the tree, all limp as children's dolls.
"What else can we do?
Besides try to save those around us?"
Inquires Heart.
"Who has spoken?"
Asks Piano.
"We cannot answer,"
Replies Heart.
YOU ARE READING
Psychotic Prolouge
Short StoryThere is no description for what this book will be about. It will be soft. Sharp. Cold. Hot. Insanity and Regret. Pain and Reconcile. Who has time for sanity? I sure don't.
