Bloody Ink

If you are reading this, I can tell you two things about yourself. One, you’re young. Two, you are either dying or about to take your first step in that direction.

It’s too late to stop. Others have tried. Banish the idea from your head. Don’t look over your shoulder, it doesn’t do any good. Just continue as you are. Clutching the book tightly, sitting somewhere, and reading.

I made this book, formed it with my last flicker of breathe. I was on my deathbed, lying so still and cold they thought me already gone.Let me tell you my story, as your life force begins to drain from your soul. As the warmth leaves your body, fingers stiffening. Let me tell you why.

I was a young girl, not over eighteen years of age. Something happened, something I swore not to name. It involved another girl. And the man I had fixed my eyes on. He was perfect. Except for the fact that he never looked at me.

They are dead. They lived not a day over one year after it occurred. I killed them. I sent them this book. But it came with a price, and a high one at that. Death can only be bought with death. To kill another, you must destroy yourself.

The poison was gentle. Or so they said. I commanded my servants to give to me at a time I would not expect. I knew I didn’t have the strength of purpose or mind that was needed. So they did. And may the devil take them.

When the fire first consumed my insides, I cursed them, wishing them to hell and beyond. They did not come to my call. They knew better. I had a knife, hidden beneath my pillow. The moment they answered would be the moment they died.

At the last, death began to scare me. But I remembered them. I remembered the smile she had on her face, the white veil that clothed her being on that day. And I grit my teeth, plunging forward into the abyss.

I had the book, pages clean and unmarked. The demon devouring me from within, I lay my hand against the cover. And I gave myself up to it’s pages. Words began to appear, spreading from my finger like water. My life, my heart, the hatred inside… it all flowed out, appearing on the paper.

My hair whitened, turning brittle. The red left my face, the white cracking. Beautiful flesh that was once pure and fresh, it faded. And my life continued to flow. Within mere moments, all that was left was ashes, spread upon my pillow. My hatred had consumed me.

They read the book. My faithless servants saw to that. And their dust is scattered in the breeze. Their story is beneath mine, lining the clean paper. And now, so is yours.

I know you are no longer reading. You have released the book. Your eyes are dead, body stretched out upon the floor. Already the color in your face is turning to chalk. There is nothing left. Only the words lining the paper. And sitting there untended, fallen from the hand of its latest victim, is the book.

Such a small thing. So plain. It’s brown cover bears no inscription, I did not order one made. It is only a book that is written as time goes on. It will continue, finding its way into every home. And every young person will fall.

It will not stop. It cannot be burned. For it is fire. My fire. The raging envy in my heart. And so it will go on. Until there are no more stories. Until my book is filled, my hunger sated. But until then, the words shall continue to stream. The pages will still be stained… with bloody ink.