I've been putting this piece off for a very long time. I however don't think that there'll be a better day than All Hallow's Eve to post it. This is the kind of story I wouldn't read to my kids at their early age, not because it's scary, but because it was written by my darkest self. Nevertheless, the emotions through which it was written still are sinfully yet guiltlessly delicious.
This piece could be considered a parallel dimension to my first When Time Smiles, or a different persona for the same realm. Either way, I'm in love with it.
Another crumpled up paper landed on a pile of similar ones in the trash can next to his desk. He has thus far failed to come up with an ending that satisfied him. He gazed at the empty strips in disappointment and couldn't for the life of him think of anything that would decorate them to his liking. With a loud groan he stretched and lay back on his chair placing his legs up on the desk.
Some say old age teaches people unforgettable lessons, but it seems that this old man has done the exact opposite. This aged chap has conversed thoroughly with time, challenged the discourse of old age, and taught them both lessons that they should pass on. He wore rectangular framed glasses that seemed to make his narrow blue eyes even more squinted. He scratched his bald head thinking, and then rearranged the few patches of gray hair on the sides and the back of his head. He looked fine for a man his age.
After looking at the ceiling for a while, the wise man closed his eyes attempting to visualize the last page of the final installment of his world famous comic book. Many awaited this last chapter anxiously, counting on the renowned artist's power to amaze and surprise. He would hate to disappoint.
To many, inspiration has a mind of its own. It hits you like a bolt of lightning on a sunny day. It comes at the strangest of times, when you're least prepared. To him however, it was awfully different. He summoned inspiration; he beckoned it to his service. This was a man who commanded inspiration.
In a moment of sheer brilliance, the images lined up in front of his intellect each waiting its turn to be drawn on paper. He saw the end.
He picked up his pencil.
A dark moonless night engulfed the globe, its wind howled and screamed at him like a cursed banshee. The sea never sounded angrier and the sand under his feet never felt colder. He staggered across the vicious darkness looking for her. He was looking for his angel.
A sturdy mountain line stood tall in the middle of this madness, its power reinforced his dark faith and fed his demons.
A golden shimmer caught his eye, and he instantly knew that he'd found her. As he approached the glistening light he saw the beautiful golden curls that were emitting it. Her hair danced beautifully with the storm. He found his angel.
She stood in a strapless long white dress that seemed to blend with her folded wings and looked at him with beautiful blue eyes. He walked silently towards her.
Moments later, they were standing face to face. He almost smiled, but held it in, for it was not the time to smile. Not yet.
Her eyes spoke their usual beguiling charm, charm that had always enchanted him.
Not this time.
She felt sharp pain in her left side, and looked down to see a knife sticking out of it. He twisted it violently inside her, and that is when he smiled. If a smile could ever be heard, it would be his. A toothy grin looked her in the eyes, probing down to her very soul. He could hear her screaming on the inside, and it made him happy. He savored every moment of sweet pain she was enduring.
Blood streamed down her dress as her eyes widened with horror. Using his free hand he pulled her towards him. This was his final hug. She pushed him away frantically, and spread her wings to escape his wrath.
In a split second the knife had sliced her neck, and a fountain of blood sprayed his face.
Her blood was freezing cold.
He was not the least bit surprised.
She collapsed to the ground and squirmed in pain. He stood above her still smiling, for this was his angel's final descent. Her anguish was his bliss.
He laughed and she cried but neither was heard.
Silent onomatopoeias.
As she approached her demise she looked at him and spread a hand towards him, trying to hold his for the last time. He stepped on her hand crushing it in the sand.
"Rot in hell"
He put his pencil down, lit his pipe and paused for a few moments to relish his masterpiece.
"So, you killed her" a soft hand held his right shoulder
"You can't kill those whose souls are dead"
His life partner smiled. She kissed him on the cheek and left as silently as she'd come.
The old man eyed the last comic strip.
Her eyes turned stone cold. He knelt down and gently pushed her head to face the rising sun. He plucked a feather from her wings, while his creator picked up his pencil again.
In a rare moment where fiction intersects with reality, in cold blood, they both drew a smiling face on the angel's cheek.
Her cold blood.
Tonight, I Take my Demoness Out on a Date
The Song: The Undertaker – Puscifer
