(Page 1 of 3) The blood of life by Julie VasseurSUMMARY: This is a story about Pain and emotional torture. I won't say anything more, so just go ahead an read it. Darkness. Emptiness. These are the things I am made of. I am alive, yet death
becomes me. This empty vessel of flesh and blood disgusts me, and the thought of
being underground overcomes me. I am everything, yet I am nothing. There is nothing
for me, and I shall resolve this misery. My life's end draws near, as time itself no
longer has meaning. The darkness caresses me, and covers me, like the forgotten love
of a mother's touch. Finally, my death, and I was at utter peace.
" Jewels, this is an amazing piece of work. Yet, it's so dark, and so morbid. Are
you feeling alright? I mean, after everything that has happened in the last little
while..." Mrs. Smith, my English teacher stops her sentence and stares straight at me. I
know what she wants to say. The mere thought of this fills me with rage, and with a burst
of power, I threw my books across the room and crashed out of the school into the cold.
All I hear is the crashing of my footsteps against the cold ground, cracking the ice that
begins the fills the cracks of the sidewalk. I didn't stop until I reached my house, the
place where loved ones have fallen, and rivers of tears have been shed. I walk through
the door and peer into the living room. My aunt is laying there with an ice pack on her
forehead, and she appears to be asleep. This room, where she now slept, had been the
room of tragedy. This was the room where my parents, one month ago, had breathed
their final breath of life. They had been shot to death, holding onto each other until the
very end, until they could no longer move, until they could no longer breathe. I was at
school at the time. So, in turn, I was spared. The killer may as well have shot me too,
as I could almost feel the metal bullet tear a hole through my flesh and burn a hole in
my heart.
I walked clumsily upstairs to where my bedroom rests, becoming a place of
solitude, of heartbreak and destruction. I reach under the bed, to where my only
breach to freedom and salvation lies. My diary. I turn to a new page, and begin to write
the darkened poem that I think about. This one is strange though, as it haunts my
nightmares, and follows my dreams. I need to write it down, to read it aloud, to be free
of this mockery of life. I begin to write, and I know I wont stop until it is complete.
Tearing through the skin, that keeps you away, in my binding crypt , forever I
will lay. These walls of stone are freezing, they've got a skin of ice, I'm playing a losing
game, it's my turn to roll the dice. These dice I roll are special, these dice are why you die.
They tear briskly through the skin, I'll try to tell you why. These dice are dice of death, they
tell you when there's fear. These dice take all you want away, they kill everyone who's
near. Near to you and dear to you, they take all those you love. They may bring you below,
they can take you above. These dice want people with them, one day they will get you, and
what I have discovered, is they have got me too. They'll get you when you're sleeping, or
when you're very weak.
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