She tries not to shiver or scream or shout but her body lets her down
the tiniest amount. A sharp laugh drops leaden from his face and
clatters around the cavernous, claustrophobic space. Everywhere to run,
nowhere to hide.
The knife in his hand drips with her friends'
blood, the ones in his mouth would too, if they could. The yards in
between them inches to her eyes, her half torn clothes a shop window to
his, revealing his prize. A million choices, no way to decide.
“Whatever you do, my love,” he had cried, “don’t show him any fear, keep your pride.”
“Please
don’t leave me,” she had barely replied, before covered in sweat, blood
and tears, in her arms he died. She lifts her gaze, embracing fate.
Maniacal
eyes stare upwards through thick lashes as he stabs her repeatedly,
while from the ashes of an ill-timed murder a once dead man stands to
rescue his love from this mad man’s hands. She returns the favour, he
was too late.
“Please,” he screams, “bring her back too!”
“I
can’t,” the wind groans, “that deal was only for you.” He touches the
already cooling cheek of a girl once beautiful, bright and brilliantly
meek. He cannot give up, not on her.
“I offer you the blood of this man I have slain, he was as bloodthirsty as you, you have much to gain.”
“A
present? For me? Why you sweet little boy.” The God of Death giggles
like a child with a toy. “I brought you back, no transfer.”
“On
this,” his purple lips whisper, “your day of birth, I offer you myself,
and all that I am worth.” Death claims he has no use for a man or morals
and honour, that without embracing evil, his wife is a goner. He sells
his soul, and goes to work.
A high court judge slips out after
dinner with his wife and three kids to lead the life of a sinner. From
the vermin of humankind he takes his cut, before dining again on
designer drugs and underage sluts. In the darkness, a dead man lurks.
“I’ll give you anything.” The marked man mumbles through fat.
“No
you can’t,” the killer says, “only Death can do that.” With the clench
of a hand the judge loses his throat. The dead man cries to the heavens,
that Death may take note. The debt has been paid, the slate clean.
If
you should chance upon a man and a woman pale as ghosts, holding hands
in the darkness, more content than most, then remember the lesson I have
attempted to preach, for this is a rule you do not wish to breach:
Don’t mess with love, on the night of Halloween.
- THE END -
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