|Glenda asked me to post this here for her, I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
If I could tell you something, I think I would like to whisper the words that make you smile.
That way I could bask in the sun rising on your face.
Each crease would be a ray of warmth that has been placed there just for me as if to say “Thank you, my world is brighter with you in it.”
But then I think, perhaps it would be better if I gathered my strength and spoke the words that made you laugh.
That way I could remember the sound of your joy as it washes over my weary heart, the rhythm of it a beautiful dance that transforms your face into that of a now lost childhood.
Maybe then some of our innocence would be returned.
Sadly though, before I can decide whether to whisper or speak, my careless mind screams the words that make you cry.
I watch as they cruelly strip the light from your eyes, crashing both our worlds into a bleak darkness.
Frantically I scramble, a near blind man desperate to catch his last glimpse of sunlight, but it is too late.
The beat of your tears wash the last hope from my soul and broken, I turn to leave.
Silence follows me, there is nothing left to say.
The refrain of a Mozart symphony began to soothe Vlad’s anger. He needed to calm his mind. Ivan’s stupidity would arouse more suspicion. There were two things Vlad despised; stupidity and disobedience. Anyone guilty of either crime had to be punished.
Opening a heavy wooden door, Vlad descended the stone stairs that led to his private dining room. The room an eclectic mix of antique furniture, ancient weapons and dark tapestries.
He was suitably attired for the occasion; charcoal Armani suit, black silk shirt, thin black leather belt and black patent leather shoes. His dark hair neatly combed to the left, revealing a small circular scar just below the temple.
Removing the silver cloche off a porcelain plate, he was pleased to see that Chef Renee had prepared an appropriate meal. Just perfect, he thought.
He sat down at his dining table and pressed a button on the wall next to him with a manicured hand. Heavy velvet drapes opened, revealing a thick glass wall. Beyond the glass was the room that housed Vlad’s most prized collection.
Ivan, lying spread-eagled on a specially designed stainless steel table, was bound with worn leather straps. He was confused to see what seemed to be a stage set appear next to him. As his brain slowly processed this surreal scene; his confusion turned to horror.
Raising a glass of 1997 Romanee-Conti, Vlad nodded a curt salute of farewell to Ivan. Chewing slowly on a piece tender rare fillet, he watched as Ivan’s muscular body was prepared for impalement.
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