The Whisper that Ended the World

      Nithaiah crouched down low, arms crossed over his chest, under the morning sunlight. A small ashen bird chirped a lovely song as it wove through the air, chasing a fleeing insect. His dark eyes followed it until a falcon’s claws snatched it from the sky. It was a perfect time for mourning.

     “Nithaiah?” a weak voice rose out of the old man’s throat as he lay on his back near the muddy river bank. “Nithaiah, who am I?”

     Standing up, Nithaiah straightened the black jacket worn over his black and white striped dress shirt. He combed a hand through his shaggy brown hair, releasing a long sigh. Nithaiah had thought the old man would’ve been still and quiet, lying shamefully in his private purgatory until the vultures came to feast on his flesh.

      “Kilian,” he finally said with the voice of a passionate preacher. “You are that ashen bird, grasped by those lethal talons. You are your Father’s creation, led astray by the sinful whims of instinct.”

      “But you, Nithaiah, are my deceitful muse. Was it not you that gave me the inspiration to be that which I am?” Kilian asked, regaining his strength.

       Casting a sidelong glance at the naked, white-haired man, Nithaiah responded in a dark tone, “The muse may inspire creativity, but it is man that uses that inspiration for destruction.”

      “Don your cloak of purity, if you must. But, we are both responsible for that which has come to be. Neither of us have clean hands now, my muse,” Kilian spoke with his raspy accent, while struggling to stand.

     Nithaiah blocked the bright sun from Kilian’s green eyes as he stood over him, offering a helping hand.

     “And now, you tell me, though your trickery led to this, that you are innocent?! Grasped by talons, I may be. However, Nithaiah, they are your talons! What difference is there between us? What difference is there between our actions?” Kilian asked as he rejected the helping hand with an irritated swat and stood upright on his own.

     “Forgiveness, Kilian. Forgiveness.”

     “Bah! One has only to ask to be forgiven. You fear the prospect of rejection, so you lack the courage to pose the question.”

     Walking away from the sun, Nithaiah motioned for Kilian to follow him.

      “And where must our final deed take us, my muse?” Kilian inquired.

     “There is a funeral to attend.”

     Though the light shone bright, Nithaiah’s thoughts remained dark as he began leading the way down a dirt path toward The Funeral. The world had ignored his existence even as his whispers filled countless minds with brilliant innovations throughout the millennia. Yet, here was Kilian, standing naked, as man dominated by his own free will and limited only by his mortality. No other had ever seen Nithaiah. To all the world, he had only been a whisper in the background of some distant dream. For this reason, Nithaiah shared the burden of guilt along with Kilian.

      Nithaiah, the angelic muse, had never experienced emotion before. Now, the feeling of guilt weighed down upon his shoulders. It was a burden Nithaiah held with all his strength, the way the Greeks must have imagined Atlas as he supported the weight of the sky itself.

     Watching Kilian as they both continued along the dirt path, Nithaiah wondered if the calm composure displayed on Kilian’s face was merely a disguise, covering the chaotic emotions within. Man could easily shed their sin. For angels, the task seemed less simple.

     Noticing the look of frustration worn by Nithaiah, Kilian chose to end the silence, “My muse is troubled? Perhaps if you were human you wouldn’t be worrying so?”

      “A natural arrogant assumption for a human; to assume that the angels would be jealous of you. The angels sing safely in heaven while watching the majority of you descend into hell.”

     “Those in hell are there by choice; they are those that can‘t muster the courage to repent. Besides, angels can also commit themselves into hell’s institution of punishment.”

     “Foolishness, Kilian.”

     “I think not. Your wings are shredded, my muse.”

     Nithaiah’s brown eyes went wide as he reached back with trembling fingers and felt the frayed, blood-covered feathers that were once his wings. Fear swelled up inside. There was no pain, only fear. The angel had been cast out of heaven.

     “So now my poor muse knows for certain that we share accountability for what we have done.”

     “A whisper of disastrous destiny was never issued from my lips.”

     “The world was plagued by evil. I asked for a solution to end it.”

     “You used that inspiration to design the scythe of the grim reaper.”

      “I admit that my cure was worse than the disease. Biochemical weapons can be dangerous tools of warfare,” the twisted smile on Kilian’s face almost sickened Nithaiah.

     “The whisper was for a vaccine to cure the innocent.”

      “I had the best of intentions… But, had your talons of inspiration not scratched the surface of my consciousness, I would’ve been as free as that ashen bird. Free of the guilt of this horrid crime.”

     “I was beginning to think that you had derived some sort of pleasure from this. It’s hard to imagine that you have anything near to guilt in that cold heart of yours.”

     “The slight annoyance of guilt will vanquish as I am forgiven. But, yes, I do feel it. How could I not? We are the two that have destroyed the world.”

      The sinful man and the fallen angel walked side-by-side down the sunlit path, towards their destination. Tall, gray, dilapidated buildings gradually rose on the horizon. The further they walked into the decaying city, the darker the sky became as dense fog began to settle. Soft murmurs and low grumbling soon filled the air. Stones crumbled downward into the streets as they dislodged from the buildings. Moments after Nithaiah and Kilian reached the center of the city, strange apparitions emerged from the swirling white mist. The entities coming forth from the fog were the souls of all mankind.

     They had arrived at their destination: The Funeral.

     “A thousand souls await their fate,” Nithaiah whispered.

     It was then that the earth and sky opened wide to pass judgment on the souls. The world around Nithaiah and Kilian rumbled with the sound of thunder and quaking earth. The gateways into heaven and hell opened before them, revealing their previously concealed secrets.

     Wisps of light encircled those that ascended upward into the clouds, dressing them in heavenly garments and comforting their fears. Laughter and pleasant voices enveloped them as they were received by deceased loved ones. However, those were not the souls that caught the attention of the sinful man and the fallen angel.

      The souls of those surrounded by hell’s fire shrieked their terror. A great horned demon opened his mouth wide to swallow them all down into the fiery turmoil deep in the pit of his stomach. Unbearable scenes of torture unfolded as hundred of skinless monsters groped at the naked souls falling into their doom. Red slithering monstrosities stabbed pitchforks at the helpless spirits of murderers and thieves. Men and women alike were impaled by giant shadowed creatures with glowing eyes. Whips cracked against the already burnt flesh of countless victims.

      Amid the chaos of hell sat Satan upon his throne of decayed flesh and exposed bone. Black birdlike wings stretched outward from his frail frame. Two twisting horns protruded from his bulbous head. The pale skin covering his body was pulled tight against his grotesque, bony body. Black fingernails, resembling talons, scratched ruthlessly at the backs of the defenseless souls trapped within his kingdom.

     “A horrid fate that would be,” Kilian mentioned while watching the scene with a disgusting sensation of interest.

      The Lord’s eyes suddenly fell upon the two awestricken bystanders. The time had come for Kilian and Nithaiah to face judgment. Their journey through purgatory had concluded, opening the door to eternity.

      With an air of confidence, Kilian stepped forward into the unfolding pandemonium and said in an overdramatic tone, “Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned. My eyes will forever shed tears over what I’ve done. Forgive me, Lord, and grant me passage into heaven.”

     Instantly, wisps of light whisked around Kilian’s naked body, wrapping a shimmering white robe around him. Kilian closed his eyes and smiled with pleasure as his body was lifted upward by an invisible force. The voices of his ancestors beckoned him to join their heavenly celebration.

     But, he was never engulfed by the light. Kilian’s green eyes went wide with surprise and fear when he realized that he was no longer floating, but instead falling.

     Nithaiah watched as Kilian fell helplessly down toward the mouth of the beast. Kilian’s white robe became gray and torn as he fell further into the horned demon’s stomach. Snarling monsters fought over his flesh, ripping his skin and breaking his bones. Their grotesque, squirming bodies wrapped around Kilian like several hundred snakes devouring their prey. Screams erupted as Kilian fought for freedom. His fiery single-man rebellion was snuffed out like a flame without oxygen. He was but an ashen bird among demonic vultures.

      Kilian soon disappeared into the mass of lost souls. A lonely eternity in the dark and empty world of purgatory would’ve been more pleasant than the suffering he would now have to endure. Kilian had failed to realize that forgiveness cannot be given at a mere request tinged with regret. Forgiveness is granted to a plea saturated with remorse.

     At the demise of Kilian’s soul, tears cascaded down Nithaiah’s cheeks. His subtle whispers had held the magnitude of total destruction. All the bloodshed, the misery, the despair, and now an eternity of torture had come from his own soft words. If only the muse had stopped to consider what immense power they held before he had uttered them.

     Nithaiah looked down upon those twisting and writhing in the depths of hell and felt great despair. He glanced up at the heavens and his depression worsened. It had not been his place to speak the fatal words that doomed their existence. It had not been their time to perish.

      Dropping to his knees, a silent prayer escaped his lips. Head bowed, Nithaiah wept. With his face buried in his hands, he did not plead with God to spare him. Instead, he thought of the weight his words had carried and accepted the fate he deserved. Even if his destiny was to be that of Kilian’s, he only cared that his sincere apology was heard.

     Then with a heavy sigh, he rose up and stood at the precipice of destruction. He gazed down upon the flailing, seared limbs of those wailing beneath the brutality of all the demons that their own sins had created. With a solemn expression, he prepared to join the rest who fell below.

     Looking down upon this broken child, a new resolution was found. A breath, like none Nithaiah had ever felt, filled his lungs. The earth and sky closed and the gateways to the other worlds sealed shut. But, Nithaiah did not find himself locked in perpetual purgatory as he expected.

     He was returned to the world of life. Not the world plagued by evil and destroyed by the cruel weapons Killian had devised, but a new world revived by Nithaiah’s own tears. Reaching a trembling hand over his back, he found that shredded wings were no longer there. Nithaiah, the former muse, had been reborn as a human. Once an accomplice in destruction, he was now to be an element of creation.

Smoke and Mirror

     Starving and near death, I lied on my back and open my eyes to stare at the heavens. The dry, cracked earth beneath me was just as thirsty for rain as I was. I lied there and watched the evening sky fade into night, the faint stars beginning to shine bright. And in this purple twilight, my bright spirit was being slowly snuffed out.
     I shut my eyes to welcome Death’s cold embrace. The light of the world quit shining through my eyelids and I readied myself to sleep and to never again wake. It was then that the thick aroma of burning sage came drifting up my nose and into my brain where it sought my curiosity. And my weary eyes, so ready to close forever, opened once more.

(story inspired by:
The Art of John Jude Palencar © 2007 image)

     Above me, hanging there between me and the heavens, billowed clouds of grey smoke. It’s harsh haze pressed against my dry corneas, stinging them slightly. I rolled onto my stomach and, pressing my hands down onto the brittle flakes of dried earth, I pushed myself up to search for its source.
     The smoke came issuing out of a small mound in the distance, barely distinguishable against the flat, brown horizon. The world had been silent and still as I journeyed through this desolate and seemingly endless desert. I wondered what fool would dare test their wits against a land as harsh and unyielding as this. So, I forced my half-dead body up from the earth and made my thin, bony legs carry me toward this growing curiosity.
     Out on this barren plain, I walked, my pale skin clinging to tendons clinging to bone. Skin stretched over my sunken cheeks, wrapping around my jaw in attempt to keep it attached to my skull. Blackened shadows encircled my pale eyes from lack of sleep. I must have looked like a skeleton crossing this foreboding wasteland.
     I was barely more than a corpse being sought by Death and the Devil, and yet this curiosity had more strongly beckoned. The level ground had deceived my mind into believing the little mound was not so far. Though anticipating Death and Hell as I was, I moved ever closer. Despite my weary state.
Such details of my curiosity were exposed as I drew near. It was more than just a mound set apart from the flat terrain. It was a mud-brick dome set directly upon the ground with smoke escaping through a wide oculus in the center of its top. An open doorway revealed darkness in the space within. A tiny cross had been sculpted above the threshold. I took it as a sign of sanctuary or of healing; some kind of merciful symbol. If only I had noticed the human skull, picked clean by vultures, resting outside amongst the debris gathered there.
     But I hadn’t noticed. I had gone right inside. There was a man standing amid the darkness. Shrouded by shadow, he remained unknown to me. Still, the clouds of sage rose up from a burner hidden somewhere in tiny dome. The scent so saturated the air that it nearly overwhelmed me.
     “Your name?” a familiar voice asked.
     “Thomas,” I answered. My dry throat made the words crack with a sound both coarse and weak.
     And then there was a tiny spark. And then flame. The stranger had started a small fire in the center of the dome where a stone pit was arranged. No stock of wood sat near it or anywhere else. No ashes of a previous fire remained. Glancing up from the warmth of the dancing flames I saw that the stranger was not a stranger but a man who looked much like myself. Not the weak, rotting corpse that I had become, but the strong, bold youth I had once been.
     I gasped, barely able to contain my astonishment and fright. His skin was porcelain, ivory and smooth. His lips parted slightly, displaying the faintest hint of a smile with perfectly straight teeth. His sparkling eyes penetrated the depths of my soul.
     “Who can you be?” I cried. “A mere memory triggered by my ailing mind?”
     His smile widened as he spoke, “So much more, Thomas. Gaze into my eyes and see reflected all the phantoms of your past.”
     Without a choice, I did as he commanded. Within his eyes, those that were the same vivid blue as mine had been before the iris had faded to grey, I saw all the most incriminating moments of my life rush past. I cringed at the sight of my most devious deeds.
     Even amid this arid space where no man ventured, I could not escape the heinous crimes I had committed. I had come to die in peace, far from those who spit on my grave. Yet I had never considered there was one person in the world I would never outrun. Myself.
     “Who are you?” I cried as the visions in his eyes finally vanished, leaving only my distorted body reflected in their stead.
     The sage was now completely devoured and only ashy remnants lingered inside the dish of the burner still swinging to and fro from the chain in his hand. Without the heavy smoke from it, the oculus was opened to the heavens, hazed by thin wisps of smoke from the fire in the dome’s center. But it was not the same fire as the other me had started. Inside the stone ring, a great chasm had opened to reveal Hell, the tongues of fire and crimson cinders bursting out of a great Devil’s mouth.
     “I am but a mirror of all that you are and all that you have ever been,” he answered.
     “Smoke and mirrors!” I cried. “You are an illusion!”
     His smile was replaced by a grim expression as he said, “I am consequence.”
     With that he gripped my shoulders and pulled me into the stone-ringed pit. I felt myself fall towards the belly of the beast. My doppelganger stared back only a moment before dissipating into the shadows. Helplessly, I watched Heaven beyond the mud-brick dome’s oculus grow smaller and smaller.

The Letter's Reader

     The pounding steps of persistent hooves echoed through the trees. The galloping roan mare splashed through puddles of yesterday’s rain, leaving a succession of ripples in her wake. A messenger, adorned in the typical courier’s uniform of a blue suede double-button down vest covering a long-sleeved white shirt with a high ruffled collar and black pants, pulled gently back on the reins to slow his tiring horse. After an exhausting three day journey, the messenger and his mare had finally come within sight of their destination.
     A colossal brick-layered mansion facing east along the dirt road rose before the traveling pair. The architectural Tudor style, being foreign to this region, allocates an even more prestigious appearance to the estate. Large windows, covered on the interior by expensive silk drapes, portray the grace and elegance of a fine home, while the two robust oak doors form an entrance defining the strength of the estate’s owner. Beautiful trimmed and kept landscaping surrounds the estate, providing the most delicate and pronounced garden that the eyes of the messenger have ever beheld. Behind the mansion, a smaller, yet still noticeably grand, guesthouse appeared a short distance to the left and beyond a quaint courtyard area.
     After passing through the estate’s grand opening gates, the messenger leapt down from his mare and lead the way up the familiar gravel path, towards the mansion. Upon reaching the enormous front doors, the messenger knocked furiously without hesitation. At the end of the last knock, just as the messenger was lifting his fist away, the right door opened to reveal an attractive, young woman. He had seen her many times before. So often had he delivered messages and notes to this house that it had become a regular occurrence to see her. They had even had a conversation once, about how sweet and gentle his beloved mare was. Her name was Darcy and he knew everything about her.
The messenger could not help but to notice the perfect way Darcy’s long, free-flowing blond hair with its wondrous curls caught the rising sun’s light, reflecting hints of red tint. Nor could he help but revel in the mere presence of her light brown eyes falling upon his now seemingly worthless self.
     “Is it for my husband?” She said in a tone that was more telling than asking.
     “Huh?” The messenger fumbled momentarily, realizing that he had almost forgotten his purpose. The woman obviously knew him only by his attire and nothing else. She repeated her question.
Finally finding his words and retrieving the envelope from its hiding place, the messenger prepared for the usual courier’s arrival announcement and began, “My name-”.
     She interrupted him before he could finish, “It must be for my husband.”
     “On this morning I carry urgent news to the master of this estate,” the messenger responded timidly, still capturing every detail of her.
     “I will be sure that it finds him,” Darcy said, confidently reaching for the envelope.
Quickly, the messenger pulled away and eyed the woman untrustingly. Noticing that her expression had changed from confidence to confusion, the messenger explained, “Forgive me, my lady, but I was given strict orders to place this envelope directly into the hands of the master of the estate and into the hands of no one else.”
     “And what of the master’s wife?” She spoke casually.
     “The master only,” the messenger said without his previous nervousness.
As the conversation had progressed, the messenger found himself to be increasingly less fond of the beautiful Darcy‘s attitude. Anyone attempting to interfere with his purpose posed an immediate threat. Beautiful Darcy didn’t recognize him and the same messenger that she had spoken with about his mare. Beautiful Darcy didn’t even know his name.
     “The master is out. No other time have I been denied when asking to take his messages to him,” she said, changing the expression on her face, removing her smile and allowing her eyes to ask him once more for the envelope.
     The messenger brushed his free hand through the wavy dark hair atop his head while stepping forward. He smiled as he watched her sway to one side and rest her hand on the brass doorknob of the open oak door. His plan could change, and he could still have his purpose. Beautiful Darcy was no threat.
Deciding to let Beautiful Darcy win this tiny battle, the messenger said, “I shouldn’t, though I could…” He paused to see her smile return, then continued. “I mean to say that it isn’t completely unreasonable for a wife to accept her husband’s message. Can I trust that the master of the estate will receive this, without having being torn open by your curious fingers?”
     With her smile ever widening, she said, “Yes, of course.”
     The messenger, returning the smile, held out the envelope to her. Darcy took it from him and turn away. The messenger also turned to leave the conversation at an end. Many women love a good scandal and wouldn’t hesitate to tear that envelope to shreds to find out its contents. Not Darcy. No, not beautiful Darcy. She was honest and loyal; above anyone who was just dependable. He knew he could trust her.
After lovely assuring his roan mare an easy next few days, he rode away from the estate. The messenger had delivered his note.

     The letter contained information that had the potential to bring more than slight uneasiness to its recipient. A small white envelope had been lying on the oak desk for more hours than it ought to have. Its innocent appearance had given the master of the estate no reason to believe in its urgency. In the late evening, the letter finally had received the reader’s undivided attention. The torn parchment removed from the envelope was held with hands that began to tremble with each increasing word. At the signature, a dark blue handkerchief was lifted to wipe the sweat from the master’s brow.
     He had remained in his study, hunched over his desk, for many hours. By the time the flames in the fireplace began to dissipate, chaotic thoughts had seized control. The knowledge presented in that letter could destroy him. His mighty reign would be brought to a sudden shameful halt. He could not imagine how the letter’s writer had come to know of the presented facts. He only knew that the magnificent empire he had built was about to crumble brick by brick and the details of his immoral actions were revealed.
     At the moment when insanity was sure to grip him, a gentle knock came from the other side of the locked door. Quickly composing himself, he rushed to the door and opened it just enough to see who would present themselves. Within a moment his eyes beheld the lady of the house. His wife was indeed a remarkable woman. Deep in his heart, he knew that she was the only woman in the world that would not fear leaving her husband upon discovering his infidelity.
     As they stood, separated by a partially closed door, the master of the estate looked deeply into the eyes of his lovely wife. His heart heaved upward in his chest, but only because he knew what hand fate had dealt him. Even with the near perfection that The Divine had blessed her with, her husband could only recognize her faults. His life was dedicated only to himself and his estate. He did not love her.
     Without speaking any words, the letter’s reader shut the door and returned to the wooden chair at his desk. A lamp on the corner of the desk was lit. Seconds later, the scratch of his quill upon fresh parchment was the only other sound, next to his heavy breathing, that filled the room. His hand worked fast to completely fill the parchment. Afterward, he stuffed the parchment into an envelope and placed it carefully, nervously, into the top drawer of the desk.
     The sun had long since set and the time for his late night rendezvous was soon to arrive. Standing now, the master of the estate stroked a thumb and finger down the short black beard that covered his strong jaw-line. He wore the years well and though he was now in his late forties, not a strand of gray had ever plagued his black hair. The master of the estate pulled an overcoat made of dark expensive fabric over his fancy white shirt. Wrinkleless black pants and shined shoes gave him a business-like appearance. He often had late meetings and his wife wouldn’t suspect anything out of the ordinary.
     Tonight was anything but ordinary. That letter had the capacity to bring disaster, forcing him to attend to it immediately. The master wasn’t entirely sure that this matter couldn’t be settled with a bribe. His millions had made countless troubles disappear in the past.
Within the hour, he was riding his white steed and trotting down the dirt road and toward rendezvous meeting point: the old wooden bridge. It wasn’t long before the bridge was reached and he dismounted his horse. Whoever had sent that letter was due to appear at any moment. The weather began to take a turn for the worse and the tardiness of his enemy started wearing the master’s nervousness into anger.
     Finally, another’s approach became evident with the sound of persistent hooves. Though it sounded close, it had become too dark a night to see much farther beyond the bridge. Sudden silence followed as the thundering hooves ceased their movement. The master of the estate waited. Nothing happened.
     “Show yourself!” the master called out, hoping secretly that he had sounded more dominant and less frightened than he thought.
     The small clip-clap of a slow moving horse reached his ears and he turned to see an unfamiliar horse walking away down the road. Upon first sight, he believed his enemy to have turned coward and retreating from the scene. However, upon further inspection, he realized that no rider accompanied the horse.
The master of the estate stood there, perplexed, in the dark. In that instant, he had made the fatal mistake of letting his guard down. A sharp pain tore through his back. He reach at his side for the knife he had hidden there. It was gone. His assailant had used a quiet hand to snatch the weapon without notice. Without hesitation, the knife furiously stabbed through his flesh again and again.
     Before the master could defend himself, his enemy twisted his arm behind him. His enemy twisted it further back until the sickening snap of bone was heard. The master of the estate cried out. He was helpless. His enemy had a youthful strength that the master seemed to have lost years ago. The heavy breathing from his enemy filled the master’s ears. This wasn’t what the master of the estate had expected. His new enemy wasn’t some thief of money. His new enemy was a thief of life.
     “Please! Anything, Anything!” The master of the estate begged to end the madness of intense pain he was feeling.
     His enemy answered with angry thrusts of the knife. His enemy answered with the snapping of bones. His enemy answered with the kind of heavy breathing only known to determination.
     He couldn’t stop now; he was committed. Committed to his purpose. Even if he wanted to, the blood loss was already too great. For the victim, it seems like horrifying hours. For the murderer, it seems like blissful seconds. The body of the master dropped to the ground, his spirit clinging desperately to a single shred of life.
     “With your end, comes my beginning,” the master’s enemy spoke his first words in a familiar voice.
A storm erupted in the skies. Lightening glinted off the blade of the knife as his enemy raised it for the final strike.
     “No! Please no!” a woman’s voice halted the murderer’s actions.
     The woman ran with the speed of the wind, at once falling to the side of the master of the estate. The murderer stumbled back, flashed of lightening now revealing the desperation and panic on his face.
     “My husband. My love.” It was Beautiful Darcy.
     The master of the estate at least was allowed by fate to behold the wonderful woman before he shut his eyes to the world forever. Even with her hair matted by the rain and mud, and even with her pretty dress covered by her husband’s blood, Darcy was still that: A beautiful, wonderful woman.
     It wasn’t long before she pried her crying eyes from her dead husband’s form and glared at the murderous man holding the knife. Even with the rain, the blood had stained the front of his blue suede double-button down vest and the long sleeves of his white shirt with the high ruffled collar.
     He had thought he knew everything about her, but he had never before seen the look of hatred that now filled her light brown eyes. He couldn’t understand it. That man had deserved to die. That man had betrayed her love with countless other women. The messenger, turned murderer, couldn’t understand it.
     “Why?!” she screamed. She ran towards him and pounded her furious fists into his chest and against his face. Her desire for revenge was evident.
     “I love you,” he cried in confusion.
     It only enraged her more. She cursed at him. Fear coursed through his veins. Beautiful Darcy wouldn’t understand his reasons. Her insistence that he was a murderous monster was making him angry. He didn’t deliver himself to the crime of murder. He only delivered his message: sweet justice.
     She continued pounding her fists against him, causing his skin to begin to bruise. His confused rage couldn’t be contained. Before he knew what he was doing, he lifted the husband’s knife to Beautiful Darcy’s throat and sliced it open. Both their fury ended as she fell down onto the wood planks of the bridge, one hand grasping her neck as blood oozed out between her fingers and the other hand dangling over the edge of the bridge. Beautiful Darcy was dead. His mare had walked off somewhere and he had killed Darcy. His only two loves were long gone. His actions came at a heavy price: loneliness and guilt. He knelt next to Darcy, cradling her in his arms.
     Rain poured down as he kissed her cold, lifeless forehead and begged for her forgiveness. Then, blood-soaked and worthless, the messenger, turned murderer, climbed onto the top wooden rail and dove into the ravine below.