Blood: A Short Story


There was blood everywhere. Blood on my hands. Blood in my hair. Bloody all over the floor, pooling around my knees, soaking into my jeans. Bloody handprints adorned my pure white shirt. The stench began to sting my nose; the metallic tang hit the back of my throat, almost chocking me. I held my shaking hands out in front of me.

What had I done?

Blood was dripping off of my fingers in delicate droplets, further adding to the ever-growing stain of the seeping blood on the floor that saturated my jeans. Beside my knees I saw it.

That weapon.

That weapon that had haunted my dreams for so long. Its silver curvature was soft against the ruby red blood that was covering it. A light was hitting the thorn of the weapon; the light it casted was ethereal and comforting from the horrors of the events before. The calm after the storm.

Well, what more could you expect from a silver rose?

Time seemed to still.

The silence was deafening. It seemed like an eternity had passed. The fine coating of blood had almost disappeared by the time I plucked up the courage to pick it up. I had newfound strength. I got to my feet; falling over the long skirts of my dress.


Why was I wearing a dress? The satin gown was speckled red. The hem drenched and stained red from the blood, which was seeping slowly up the fabric of the skirt. I turned to look behind me. The heavy dark door was finally open. Light spilled into the dark prison that I was trapped in.

“Free. Free. Free.” A cooling wind whispered, luring me forward, encapsulating my thoughts and actions.

Turning on my heel, I stepped over the blood-spattered corpse of my lover and headed for that newfound freedom, the silver rose rotating in my bloody hands.