(Page 1 of 8) Bullets, Whispers & Plastic Roses by Toys de GuzmanSUMMARY: This is a tale of love transcending life and death. I wrote this with tragedy as company. As with most of my stories, watch out for the subtle surprise at the end.
I
For the first time in his life, he felt alone. Utterly and desperately so.
The four corners of this pallid room in this cheap motel still stank of her perfume, making him gag, making him remember the pain. He tried to stand, the sticky stains of his own coagulated life clinging to his chest, a pool of it washing away the smell of his own vomit on the wooden flooring and creating a carpet of crimson below his broken body. He shook his head, tears mixed with blood and grime and an endless lake of sweat.
He couldn't believe they took her away. She had nothing to do with this. And he could do nothing to protect her. Nothing. The word wasn't as dreary as it should've been for it reminded him of the one great failing that destroyed the thousand promises he made for his love.
And his tears started anew, ridding his face of its dirtied mask, traveling down on a clear line on his cheeks before they fell to the crimson of the floor in sallow and inconsistent drops.
Struggling on his knees, he used the bed as leverage. He groped on its sheets, clawing at them, hungry for the hope it offered. And still he knelt there, his body unwilling to offer an ounce of sympathy for his cause. His breathing ragged, he cried out. It wasn't a cry of pain, not a plea for help either. It was utter frustration that held that cry. They took her away and he could do nothing. It was like a marquee planted before his eyes, taunting him.
And as he knelt at the foot of the bed, with hands on its bloodied surface, he could've been a saint begging for salvation. A saint offering his life for love. Yes, he was willing to do it – barter his life for love. And if the devil stood before him then, he would have gladly offered his soul for a chance to take his love back.
But he didn't need the devil. He didn't need God. All he needed was the .45 below his pillow and he would find her and he would kill them all. His mind told him that it was pure lunacy, that he couldn't do it. But then, he never really trusted himself. Wasn't he insane to begin with? He wouldn't even wait ‘til he recovered. He would just go out into the world the moment his legs could once again bear his weight. And just like his pistol, he would be cold and black-hearted.
His life for love.
Only then did he find peace. He slumped down into his own sanguine bed on the laughing floor, eyes closed and in an instant, he saw each and every single one of them. The ones who took her away. He didn't see their smirks and wild eyes. He saw them lifeless, corpses lying on the black soil of the earth, never to rise again.
Thirteen bullets for thirteen sorry souls.
And as he lost consciousness, he whispered into the ears of the earth the love that he felt for her. The love that was bound to defy the will of Fate and see this tale of love through.
II
Holding the holy bible in his hand, Father Duarte paced his simple, candle-lit chamber. The room itself lacked life, lacked anything that resembled even a morsel of what the world offered.
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