the emptiness :: l.s.

Part Four: My Thirst For Blood Turns Me On

"Louis William Tomlinson." I say, knelt down on a knee. The tears from his eyes slide against his tanning cheek, the palm of his hands swiping them away. "Will you be mine? Forever?"

Sniffles fill the empty room as I unfasten the small velvet box, revealing a diamond ring inside, the colour matching the puritans upon his face. He closes his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, a nod coming forth. "Yes. Definitely yes."

And the moment the Sapphire-coloured ring slides onto his finger, I know he will be mine to love.

~*~

There's no way of remembering how I've ended up here, but the soles of my shoes have gathered me to an unknown town that is filled with tiny homes and shops. And no sounds grasp my ears, except the pouring rain that has soaked my white button up, an opening at my chest, where the love birds are etched, from the first year of being married to him. It's hard to let go, when I have anger wadding myself into a frustrated ball. And it's only the split second that I hear the bubbly laughter, clinking bottles, and piano playing that a smug smile forces upon my mouth for once in hours. This feeling has been tugging at me the entire run. A fill of anger, yet sadness is forcing at me, penetrating my heart and clenching for dear life.

The two doors swing from the grip of my sweaty palms, the pub not silencing once as I sit upon the cheaply made stool with splinters enveloping the wood. I order a whiskey, but don't allow myself to come to drink it, my finger lining the rim of the glass. My eyes avert around the room, no eyes sighting me, as I count the number of people. Seven.

The thought of seven being a lucky number has always pondered upon my brain, as to why it is a lucky number. And that almost makes me laugh even louder than the peoples' vocal chords could produce, knowing that these seven aren't going to be so lucky, after all.

It only takes a good five minutes before I can allow myself to stand up from the stool and think of approaching the first victim. It's already making me wonder why this new man with the mind of a psychopath has been allowed to pass through the doors of this innocent pub. No sense is being made, but that never stopped me. And if this is going to aid me with figuring everything out, so be it. And before this man with red rimmed eyes, the colour of Louis', anger filling me even more, could ask why I am interrupting his good time, the blade that has been stashed in my back pocket was being pulled out and carving his throat as I watched the life drain from his eyes and face. Laughter was only being produced from my mouth, as screams from others.

And it was after my horrid deed, that I had decided to sit down and chug my whiskey from the tiredness as a flash of a reflection from the nearby mirror had frightened my very eyes, a man appareled in a bloody dress shirt, but not any man. The man that I cannot handle to see, the man that has caused my ways.

And if it weren't for that last chug, I wouldn't have seen the unfamiliar figure of a person watch the scene, as well as flee it, leaving the threshold, and the pub alone.