Friday, February 25, 2011

The Last

I stared out over the cliff. It was beautiful. The rose in my hand glittered with the light of the morning dawn.
Without much regret I tossed it over. The flower slipped slowly from my hand, making it so that it seemed a higher power wanted me to feel the thorns one last time. My hand emerged scratched from its obnoxiously large barbs; and then I went back.
She waited, wondering at the gesture I had made. That rose that left impressions since years gone by; one reason I never kept it far away.
And that's the reason I kept it immortalized, laid in a slab of glass, until the day I cracked it open to reveal the rose emerging out of its fossilized state, still in full bloom.
Nothing's impossible. Which is another way of saying everything is.
I rummaged in the car's compartment for the next item. A gun. A revolver. A long time ago, in a galaxy far away, I had taken a liking to Clint Eastwood's colt, and commissioned a piece exactly like it. It made a hell of a sound, and because of the recoil my hand had steadied considerably.
Maybe I should add both my hands, seeing as there were a pair of revolvers. I gave these to her. In the hope that they'd be locked away somewhere out of sight. They didn't bite as the rose did, but the blood of innocents was damning anyways.
Lastly came the medallion. It was shaped like a single circle, set in gold, too large and too thin to be a ring. It dangled on its heavy steel chain, which was as stained as the revolvers. The use of a garotte is far more personal, and more appealing than the blast of a revolver.
I hurled it over the edge as well. Farewell.
Then the world came crashing back. The flood of memories stopped. Brothers, loves, friends, homes... all now lay immortalized above, out of my reach.
Dante waited for me, calling out from his self-imposed inferno. The bullet in my heart throbbed again, a reminder that death waited, and his time was precious.
Damn death. So was mine.
The final farewell was the hardest. She stood simply staring, an angel. A seraphim, with her sun-kissed hair flaring out in the winds, her hands as bloody as my shirt. She knew as well, and the tear tracts, all dry now, proved that I still had it in me to render one last piece of beauty desecrated.
I lifted my eyes to the heavens. My words sounded muffled to my own ears, the last rasps of a man on the threshold of hell. "Look upon my works, almighty.." I snarled at the corpse lying to the left. He was expensively attired, but that didn't help him none in death. "Because you'll damn well despair."
The last breath fled, and the pain vanished.
I dropped.