The Story of Blood and Roses

She went through all that face peeling shit and then ended up with the worst of them all—me. What had she done to deserve this punishment? She was always faithful to the organization. She taught her classmates how to take care of sticky situations. She was a master of deception, yet she had failed when she first stepped into my house.

She had been a little minx, flaunting her body like that. Clad in a leather jacket and some worn jeans, I could imagine fighting beside her. She had a sharp tongue that would cut you just as quickly as the mocking expression on her face. Her eyes sparkled as she completed every challenge I threw at her. She surprised me with her skill in hand to hand combat, coming close to besting me several times. Her presence of mind made her a force to be reckoned with. It made her all the more irresistible to me.

She was the Goddess I could never get my hands on. I knew who she was, but she, the woman, beguiled me. The way she spoke to the other members, the way she controlled them, made me wonder... Would she share my glory if she was given the chance? She had the potential to rule by my side. She was not meant to be stepped over, and she hadn't been.

I had done everything in my power to get her out of the situation. I pleaded with her to not follow. I had fallen at her feet and begged her to stay at home and wait for me. She loved me. She loved me until I gave in to my weakness and let her slip through my fingers.

Should I have called off the contract when I realized that I could never let her die? I could have, I had every opportunity to, but her strength... She reassured me.

Certainly, a few hours of torture would not kill my Mia. She was a Valkyrie, soaked in blood and victory. She would come out of it with a smile on her face. She would hate me, I knew, but I never imagined that she would hate me enough to curse me to a life of…

I still have no words to describe where I was. I was certainly not trying to analyze my reason for being, but somewhere inside me, I could hear the screams of defiance growing louder. What I want to defy against, I don't know.

I want her back. She was the Earth, where I was her moon. Gravity beckoned me towards her, yet she remained out of my grasp-forever the unattainable centre of my universe. I'd be the cow and jump over the moon if it meant that I would get even the smallest glimpse of her. I would know she existed, and the evil that was I hadn't erased her from the sands of time.

I should have unloaded the gun before I went to sleep, I decide. It is a wonder that I haven't picked up a gun and gone through the city, killing every living creature in my way. I could do that, I could.

Is there any chance that once and for all, I would see her?

I would point the gun to her head and scream.

I would scream bloody murder.

"Mia Vincent..." I would say. "I promised you."

She would stand still for a moment. And then she would move. Her lips would curve down. There would be no fear on her face.

"Who are you?" she would whisper.

My finger would twitch on the trigger and I would look on in horror.

"How dare you!" I would scream at her. I would wave my gun at her and shout at her until she remembered me. I would feel relief, but I would still point the gun at her. "I promised you that I would kill you the day you betrayed me." I would hear how crazy I sounded. And I would be crazy. I don't even think I would realize it, but I would be so far gone by then, that I would laugh at my own reflection.

I—I would!

"I should shoot you, then," she would say. I can almost imagine the cold expression on her face. She would betray nothing. She is good at it, too. She would give me that soul-shattering stare of hers and say in a level voice, "Anthony, you let me down. You should kill yourself." And a sneer would come over her face.

It might have looked ugly on the face of another being, but on her, it looked like that of a cheetah stalking its prey. She would pin me down under her venomous gaze and convince me to turn the gun on myself.

I would point it at my head because she asked me to. She deserved that much. I never did give her anything she wanted. Maybe I would grant her this—the satisfaction of seeing my life leaving my body. She would enjoy it, too. She doesn't take well to betrayal.

"Shoot yourself," she would beckon. My fingers would twitch and I would try to rationalize. Do I love myself more, or her? The question would be difficult to answer.

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