Random story

Well, I was angry about SOMETHING the other day, don't remember now.

And so I sat down and decided to write.

Here is the result after some editing:

Oh, and it has no title.

Acedia could no longer withstand the hatred that had delved into the very core of Balthazar’s backbone. A spine of loathing, a heart of broken passion, and a mind of vengeance led his seemingly hollow body out of his bed without a sound, ensuring that he would not wake his companion, and into the haunting corridor that opened into the kitchen. Charily he perused the assortment of metal and plastic that comprised his arsenal, Balthazar’s eyes settled on their destination: The vase.
Within it was a single white rose, and something seemed unfamiliar about it. Balthazar did not recall this particular flower, but instead found it peculiar; The last time he had brought her flowers was Valentine’s Day, and it would be April in 22 minutes, when the clock struck twelve.

Pleased with his finding, this was more proof to Balthazar that she had been untrue to him. The hickey upon her right breast was enough to confirm his beliefs, but this was only another gas-drenched log thrown into the furnace of Balthazar’s iracund heart. Balthazar plucked the rose from its place, devising plans for its use.

Should it be quick? Slow? Painless? Excruciating? The thoughts raced through his head at a pace competing with that of his eager heartbeat, filled with as much zeal as hesitation. As soon as he came to a decision, Balthazar walked at a snail's pace over the mosaic tiling of the hallway, knowing full well that if he woke her now he would be forced to endure another day of torment.

Taking in a breath, Balthazar opened the bedroom door to see his wife, asleep, on the bed. Relieved, he crept closer to her side of the king-sized pit of emotional turmoil. The only good use the bed ever had was for the best of their sex, and it made plenty of room for it. However, it had seen one person too many fornicate upon its silk sheets and supple mattress.

Focusing, Balthazar moved his gaze to the countenance of his unfaithful lover. Should I give her a final kiss?, he mused to himself. No, her lips have been poisoned with a kiss from another man’s lips…Just continue, this action of your own design will suffice. It is she who has left you manipulated, enslaved. It is she who has too much control. It is she who has kept you at her feet, begging for the grace to wash them. It is she who has prevented you from leaving, lest you lose your mind or your life. You are battered, both physically and emotionally. You have every right to do this.

His unaltered conscience spoke true. It was time to truly cut the ties. Taking another deep breath, Balthazar took the rose in his hands and gripped hard. A few thorns penetrated the skin of his palms, but physical pain is easily set aside. Swiftly, Balthazar’s hands went down on either side of her neck, tearing her beautiful skin with natural barbs.

Startled, her head rose up as she struggled to gather her bearings. This elevation gave Balthazar’s hands, already pressed against the mattress, the space to go behind her neck as much as possible and exchange ends. Now with a tight grasp of his wife’s neck, Balthazar pulled harder than before, and the wounds in her neck bled, with numerous streams of her sweet essence coursing down her neck. One stream got onto the stem running slowly, as if not to lose its fragile grip on the delicate blossom.

Staring wide-eyed, Balthazar watched as his tyrant of a spouse went from white, to pink, and from pink to a faint purple. After about 40 seconds of her panic, her eyes rolled back, denoting life’s escape from her body. Balthazar released his grip, and unwound the stem from her neck, feeling the slightest resistance each time a thorn was removed from her throat. Holding up his weapon, he let the seemingly unharmed petals hang below the stem, and he let out a laugh as a droplet of blood, having heeded gravity’s indisputable call, soaked it’s spirit into the white petals, tainting a symbol of purity with the blood of passion.


Figured this would be the best place to put it other than my blog. I may also e-mail it to my english teacher for review, see if I can round it off enough to make it publishable.

definitly angry and bitter, death to tyrants or so they say. (oh I almost forgot - good luck with the publishing thing)