Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze as she found the person standing there. Recognition sparked in her eyes, turning their harsh coldness to a soft warmth. Her posture dropped, her shoulders melting into her arms as her muscles loosened from the previous alarm. She became relaxed as a warmth spread to her fingertips, lighting her up as the man’s safety seemed to fill her up. As if he were an old friend—or perhaps something more than that.
“What are you doing here, in my bedroom, this late at night?” The elderly woman, it seemed, had not yet noticed the shining dagger clasped in the figure’s right hand. Though he was at a loss of words, he did not try to stammer an excuse. He had one job tonight, and he intended to do it.
The man swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He closed his eyes briefly, reliving hundreds of memories in a split second as he built up his anger. The memories flooded into his brain, wrapping themselves tightly around him. The anger churned like a fire, building upon his memories like wood. As the flames grew, he could tell that it would not be enough—unless he fully unleashed the sea of memories, giving them full reign over his open mind. So he delved further into his own life, digging deeper into the past world that he had always wanted to forget. He forced himself to be reminded of the pointing fingers belonging to laughing faces, the smirk of a girl with the same black hair and tan skin, the disappointed frown on a woman’s face. When the man opened his eyes again, the dreams and memories floating away and disappearing altogether like smoke, his posture was different. His fists clenched tightly, his eyes narrowing. She had caused him unbelievable pain and humility and she had betrayed him.
In an instant, he was at her bedside, still holding the knife.
“Honey, what is it? Can you not sleep again?” The woman reached out her hand to stroke his cheek in a motherly gesture, but froze when she saw the knife in the man’s shaking hand. Her eyes widened in shock, which quickly morphed into alarm, her hands shaking, her heart stuck in her throat.
Slowly, she drew her arms into the soft sheets and blankets of the bed as though the thin fabric would shield her from the man and his gleaming knife that seemed to grow sharper by the moment. But the longer the two waited, the more the walls seemed to tighten, the more the shadows crawled closer, and the anger on the figure’s face twisted into something cruel.
She drew a shaky breath, her chest compressing itself, her eyes stretched open wide. She didn’t dare blink or breathe, as though she hoped her stillness would pull her from the nightmare of this man. But it wouldn’t work, and, deep down, she seemed to realize that too. Pure fear reflected in this poor old woman’s eyes as she stared at her murderer in dismay.
“Honey, surely. . . you don’t. . . mean to. . . use that?” she asked, her body rigid with shock.
The man said nothing, which almost seemed to say everything.
Her last words were then spoken in a whisper: “Please, have mercy, please.”
So far, neither of them had made any move since she had seen the blade. But now he acted. He brought the dagger up, beautiful yet deadly.
The dagger plunged deep into her heart, killing her in an instant. Her beautiful blue eyes glazed over, yet the fear was still evident in them.
The now-murderer took a small, clear vial out of an inner pocket in his jacket and pulled off the stopper. He scooped up the blood from the woman’s wound and looked at it curiously.
The man closed his eyes in deep concentration. Beads of sweat dribbled down his forehead. The blood turned solid, and it grew out of the bottle, turning black as it did so. Sweat was now pouring down his face and his breathing became slow.
The blood finally took its shape. The man flopped onto the floor, exhausted. For a couple seconds, he just lay there on the cold floor, unmoving. He almost seemed as dead as his victim at first. . . until his arm twitched slightly. Life seemed to seep back into him, and he took ragged breaths to regain his composure from earlier. He picked himself up and looked at the thing in the bottle despite his heavy breaths and shaking legs.
He smiled, showing teeth. It was no ordinary smile—it was a dark smile, one that did not imply good. He was happy, but it was not the kind of happiness to be welcomed into a house; it was the kind of happiness to throw out onto the streets and leave people shivering in its wake. But the murderer didn’t care how his smile looked. All he could think was how much he’d done. One down, two to go.
The light caught on the item in the bottle, showing it in its full glory.
There it was: a black rose. Born of blood, bloomed by betrayal, the black rose emerged from the bottle of death.
