Brother. I thought the word meant something. It holds beautiful qualities for some, love, loyalty, trust. But for me, it's meaning is far different. Betrayal, a burning hatred, an unforgivable deed.
He was in love, my brother. With MY dearest Isabelle, and sadly, she with him. He tried to reason with me, but I would not listen. He had betrayed me! He planned to marry her! She was not his. I would NEVER allow it.
He came by my house to tell me the news, and I would not seal my beloved with such a horrific fate. I was angry. I couldn't help it. You can't blame me for what I did. I threw my painting through the window, the glass shattered and I took a shard, a single shard, and drove it through my brothers heart.
Crimson liquid stained my clothes, my face, my hands. I went to wash the blood, but then the moon reflected off of the scarlet stains. I had never noticed the beauty such pain could portray. It made me think of the beautiful love of my life, Isabelle. I took my paintbrush, dipped it in the crimson pool, and began to paint. A single rose.
The next morning, the painting had dried, and I wrote a letter to my beloved, containing the painting inside, and left it on her doorstep. It read:
"My dearest Isabelle,
I love you. And while you do not feel the same, I believe it is your right to know my feelings for you. So to prove my love, I have painted you a crimson rose. A single blood red rose."
And so the deed was done. Finished. Complete with a kiss, sealed with a rose, painted in the blood of my brother.
YOU ARE READING
Letters, Short Stories, and Poetry
PoetryThis is just a small collection of poetry and very short, short stories I've written over the years. Of course I'm only fourteen so it will probably build and grow into more than a small collections but we will see.
