Categories > Original > Fantasy > To Burn My Love, Or To Drown Her...
Chapter One
0 reviewsBreaking news: The execution of Mary Valentine has finally been announced....
0Unrated
“And in other news, today it was decided, after great debate, that Mary Valentine, who was found guilty of murdering her husband and their three children as well as the attempted murder of hundreds of school children, has in fact been given sentenced to death. Her execution is scheduled for Sunday, May 17th. After the sentencing, Ten Tv caught up with family members of the deceased who were almost too distraught for words”
“Mr. Louis! Mr. Louis, do you care to speak on how you feel about the sentencing? Is Mary truly guilty, and enough so to deserve death?”
“Death? Mary Valentine deserves a million deaths, and to burn in the never-ending fires of Hell for what she did to my son!”
He chuckled softly at the old man's words as he sat alone in the darkness, the only light being that of the T.V. Screen before him. He slowly ran his finger about the rim of a glass of whiskey that which sat upon the round wooden coffee table, collecting a small ring of water at its base.
His chuckle quieted as he dipped his middle and index finger into the liquor, causing the two ice cubes to clatter softly against the glass. He slowly brought them to his open lips and allowed a single drop to fall from his black fingernails onto his tongue, and then smiled as he savored the flavor that spread warmly across his tongue, tickling each taste bud as it grew.
“She's only lucky that I didn't get my hands on her. She deserves hell! She deserves to burn while her flesh rots and is devoured by the ghastly flames of hell!” The old man cried as he stared at the camera, fighting back tears.
“And burn she shall. Just another cursed soul to be harvested for my master's cause. And quite the handsome soul indeed. Whoever would have guessed that a descendant of the awesome Saint Valentine, would allow for a soul to grow corrupt and weary and fall prey to my master and all things wicked” he said as as he stood, walking slowly toward the sliding glass door of his presidential suite, thirty-one floors above ground.
“And what a beautiful harvest this night shall be” he whispered as he slid open the door, stepped out onto the balcony and listened to the morbid cries of the city's night life. From the whirring of the speeding cars that polluted the very air that they breathed, to the gunshots ringing throughout the streets, and the tinkling of blood-soaked bullet shells falling just as lifelessly to the ground as the cooling body they just passed through. From the whore screaming 'thief' to the back of the man who just ran out on her, after having fucked her on top a bed that holds a still sniffling child beneath it, to the father who whispers to his little princess a sweet lullaby as his hand traces her thigh in the dead of night. And from the single mother of three who had just left from the last of the three jobs she works in order to feed her children, and happened to walk straight into the macabre clutches of a libidinous lunatic, poised with a knife decorated in the dry blood of yesterday's victim, to the fat bastard sitting on the couch who turns up the T.V. to drown out and ignore her screams of agony as the fucker rapes, repeatedly stabs and leaves the woman to die in the alley. Where the rats come to feed on her before her body goes cold, all the while ignoring the blood that seeps from her wounds, painting the sidewalk in the most brilliant shade of red. Yes, he listened to their cries. And the tears of the night made his entire body tremble with glee, and brought to his face the most grandest of all smiles.
He collected himself by running his hands through his raven-black, silky hair, then inhaled deeply with closed eyes, and released it with a soft, satisfied grin playing at his lips.
“The marvelously delicious stink of death permeates the air,” he says as he walks to the edge of the balcony. He peered over it to the disturbingly, disgusting city beneath him, then looked up to the black abyss, bejeweled by the thousands of diamonds that he hated so much. A particular star, that shone excessively brightly and flickered continuously, caught his interest. He snarled at the sight of it.
“Let us see who wins the prize, shall we, Sraosha?” He questions the sky as he closed his eyes and leaned backwards on the ledge of the balcony, until his feet no longer touched ground, and he plummeted through the air with his arms and legs spread out wide.
Adoring the feeling of his body slicing through the cool air and the sound of the soaring wind that whipped his clothes and hair about passionately, he opened his eyes and flipped his body over into a kneeling position just as he kissed the ground.
“Hmm. Not one of my most graceful landings” he muttered to himself as he shook loose his clothing and cracked his neck, stopping only after hearing glass shatter to the left of him, and looking over to see a crackhead who stared at the man who just fell out of the sky and crashed to the earth before him, with his mouth agape and a match needlessly burning in between his thumb and index finger. Damien smirked at his witness and turned his attention back to the empty sidewalk before him.
“You should really stop while you can, lest you wish for me at your doorstep” he called over his shoulder, leaving the crackhead stunned and speechless until he howled at the burning pain the match had brought to his fingers. He shoved his appendages into his mouth to soothe away the pain, then looked back to find the mysterious stranger, only to discover that the veil of darkness had concealed him indelibly.
“Mr. Louis! Mr. Louis, do you care to speak on how you feel about the sentencing? Is Mary truly guilty, and enough so to deserve death?”
“Death? Mary Valentine deserves a million deaths, and to burn in the never-ending fires of Hell for what she did to my son!”
He chuckled softly at the old man's words as he sat alone in the darkness, the only light being that of the T.V. Screen before him. He slowly ran his finger about the rim of a glass of whiskey that which sat upon the round wooden coffee table, collecting a small ring of water at its base.
His chuckle quieted as he dipped his middle and index finger into the liquor, causing the two ice cubes to clatter softly against the glass. He slowly brought them to his open lips and allowed a single drop to fall from his black fingernails onto his tongue, and then smiled as he savored the flavor that spread warmly across his tongue, tickling each taste bud as it grew.
“She's only lucky that I didn't get my hands on her. She deserves hell! She deserves to burn while her flesh rots and is devoured by the ghastly flames of hell!” The old man cried as he stared at the camera, fighting back tears.
“And burn she shall. Just another cursed soul to be harvested for my master's cause. And quite the handsome soul indeed. Whoever would have guessed that a descendant of the awesome Saint Valentine, would allow for a soul to grow corrupt and weary and fall prey to my master and all things wicked” he said as as he stood, walking slowly toward the sliding glass door of his presidential suite, thirty-one floors above ground.
“And what a beautiful harvest this night shall be” he whispered as he slid open the door, stepped out onto the balcony and listened to the morbid cries of the city's night life. From the whirring of the speeding cars that polluted the very air that they breathed, to the gunshots ringing throughout the streets, and the tinkling of blood-soaked bullet shells falling just as lifelessly to the ground as the cooling body they just passed through. From the whore screaming 'thief' to the back of the man who just ran out on her, after having fucked her on top a bed that holds a still sniffling child beneath it, to the father who whispers to his little princess a sweet lullaby as his hand traces her thigh in the dead of night. And from the single mother of three who had just left from the last of the three jobs she works in order to feed her children, and happened to walk straight into the macabre clutches of a libidinous lunatic, poised with a knife decorated in the dry blood of yesterday's victim, to the fat bastard sitting on the couch who turns up the T.V. to drown out and ignore her screams of agony as the fucker rapes, repeatedly stabs and leaves the woman to die in the alley. Where the rats come to feed on her before her body goes cold, all the while ignoring the blood that seeps from her wounds, painting the sidewalk in the most brilliant shade of red. Yes, he listened to their cries. And the tears of the night made his entire body tremble with glee, and brought to his face the most grandest of all smiles.
He collected himself by running his hands through his raven-black, silky hair, then inhaled deeply with closed eyes, and released it with a soft, satisfied grin playing at his lips.
“The marvelously delicious stink of death permeates the air,” he says as he walks to the edge of the balcony. He peered over it to the disturbingly, disgusting city beneath him, then looked up to the black abyss, bejeweled by the thousands of diamonds that he hated so much. A particular star, that shone excessively brightly and flickered continuously, caught his interest. He snarled at the sight of it.
“Let us see who wins the prize, shall we, Sraosha?” He questions the sky as he closed his eyes and leaned backwards on the ledge of the balcony, until his feet no longer touched ground, and he plummeted through the air with his arms and legs spread out wide.
Adoring the feeling of his body slicing through the cool air and the sound of the soaring wind that whipped his clothes and hair about passionately, he opened his eyes and flipped his body over into a kneeling position just as he kissed the ground.
“Hmm. Not one of my most graceful landings” he muttered to himself as he shook loose his clothing and cracked his neck, stopping only after hearing glass shatter to the left of him, and looking over to see a crackhead who stared at the man who just fell out of the sky and crashed to the earth before him, with his mouth agape and a match needlessly burning in between his thumb and index finger. Damien smirked at his witness and turned his attention back to the empty sidewalk before him.
“You should really stop while you can, lest you wish for me at your doorstep” he called over his shoulder, leaving the crackhead stunned and speechless until he howled at the burning pain the match had brought to his fingers. He shoved his appendages into his mouth to soothe away the pain, then looked back to find the mysterious stranger, only to discover that the veil of darkness had concealed him indelibly.
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