Never Kill a Writer


The knife gleamed in the moonlight.
If one didn't know better, it could be mistaken for a shimmering jewel,
A precious treasure being offered to his lady love.

Until they drew closer;
Until they witnessed the battered and bruised body on the ground, 
The weapon of destruction held in his trembling hand, 
And two pairs of eyes, one of extreme fear and the other of determination; 
Though you would never anticipate which eyes belonged to whom.

Maybe he would have put an end to the madness himself, 
But then she foolishly spoke, attempting to reason:
"Everyone will know what you have done tonight." 
Her words were clear even in the face of death,
But he laughed like a hyena, focusing on his target once more:
No one will know.
No one will save you.
No one will care.
No one will remember you. 


A dark liquid soaked the girl's ivory dress as the knife pierced her.
As she bleeds.
"Everyone will know." 
Her last words are barely audible. 
The dark liquid kept pouring, pouring out of her,
But it was not blood.
The more he stared, the more shadowy it became. 
Black blood.
"A demon?!?" 
Black blood.
No.
Ink.

As if controlled by some supernatural scribe, the ink began to form letters.
Words,
Sentences.
A story.
With two characters,
With a name,
A weapon,
A reason.
Like a malignant Clue game, only ten times more real.

Horrified, he tried to wipe away the words,
Wash them away,
Cover them.
Something.
Anything.
But the words would not erase, and they bled through anything placed over it. 
The words were written in blood from a writer's soul.
Indelible.
He fled.

As the police reached the scene, the writing stopped, though the words remained:
About a girl,
And a name,
And a weapon,
And a reason,
And the truth.
Everyone knew
Because of the elegant inscription that read, "My Story".
Her last.
"A demon!?" 
No.
Just a writer.

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