Mask Off

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

You, my love, will die.

You smile with sparks,

Heal with a touch,

But cut with the sword.

I love you but,

You are just a masquerade.

Andre squeezed his hand tighter against the whiskey glass. It would crush in his hand with just a little more force. He bit his lip hard before taking another gulp down. A drink should ease the pain—they say—but it doesn't. A gulp should drown the pain further into profound depths but it doesn't. Rather, he recounted all his aches down till the break. The accident, the rejections. His eyes stung from the tears he fought. Trying to hold his visible pain from the further display, gradually became more of a Herculean task. Red blazing stream of pain, boiling agitation and regrets. Was it anger, grieve or hurt he felt, either way, it wasn't a new feeling. He swirled his hand into the air, releasing the glass into a shattering journey, one he himself had embarked on. 

The debris was an exact replica of his heart. 

Pain, no, anguish. 

He moved closer to the portrait hung blissfully on the wall. Her blazing blue eyes staring back at him, her angelic—sorry, demonic—smile once melting his soul, cuts even deeper into him. His finger trailed the image before him. How could she have done it? He closed his eyes, letting her image sink in with all the emotions. The image of their faded love flashes through his mind. The tears he fought so hard to resist finally came running down almost immediately.

"Beck? What the?" His eyes sprung out of their sockets, jaw dropped in bitter aw, but she only smirked as her naked body ground down on the dark huge man. Their lips were locked but somehow she used her hands to gesture on Andre to join her. 

How very thoughtful. 

She lets out a gasp, gripping his head closer as their lips locked into even deeper harmonic conflict.

Andre, who had just returned from finishing the office, stood frozen in body, but his heart ripped it's chambers open, bleeding out a four months old love. His eyes gradually became heavy from watching as. Ecstatic moans leaving her mouth.

It was his curse, he loved too easily and deeply. He would give his everything to the wrong person and watch it break over and over again till he lost count.

"No, stop, No..." he pressed both his hands against his ears, attempting to shield them from the memories invading his sanity. He pressed harder, screaming as though the ongoing clip constantly playing within him would stop. "No stop, please, stop please make it stop" he pleaded.

"Babe, come on, join us" Becky stretched her hand calling for him grinning in the most nefarious way he ever imagined. Was she even a demon or was she the devil herself? Her smile tearing into him as she pulled her tongue out to wrap the black shaft.

"No, please... Please stop..." he whimpered. He curled into himself, trying to find solace. Not concerned about the continuous bleeding from his body as he conveniently came in contact with the glass debris, he continuously danced in it. 

He danced and swirled in the mixture of blood and broken glasses until he passed out.

His eyes suddenly went open. His hazel eyes turned totally dark. Darkness maybe. His tears sucked in and his fist tightened against the piece of glass which began cutting deep into him. 

His mind was numb now, empty of all thoughts but filled with cruelty. Vengeance. He no longer felt a thing, just the winds whistling in the night’s atmosphere.

He pulled his black hoodie, dashing into the cold night. His bruised skin brushed against the thick, rough fabric but he felt nothing, only the taste of blood on his lip and the stench of vengeance.

Becky swore she saw something. Someone. She was a little sore and roughed up, but she knew what she'd seen. Andre? No, he wouldn't come back to hurt me. He doesn't have it in him. He was always the weak quiet boy. 

He would not understand her reasons, but it had to be done. Her heart ached on the thoughts of how much she had humiliated herself, most of all, how much she had hurt him. Only if it were easy to say, but whoever had committed treachery before knows to speak of it was much more difficult than the act. Yes, Treachery—that was her crime in her heart, treacherous little heart betrayed the one she loved for what? Was it worth it? It was a question she tried not to ask herself. Was the humiliation and betrayal equal to her career?

She heard a tap on the door, a slow double-tap—again. Pulling another glass of wine, she wrapped her lingerie closer to her body before heading to the door. The wind behind her whistled silent melodies, the air had in it something strange, she couldn't determine what or never noticed. Slowly she reached for the knob, applying a little twist before she pulled. 

"What the fuck?" She screamed. Outside the door stood a mannequin with a wigged hair, covered in blood. The shape of a heart carved from its chest with a note.

Your sins came knocking and now you hope for rescue. 

Run little Becky, run, her mind chirped in.

Becky closed the door, turned the key with shaky hands and the only thoughts in her heart was "911." Her heart began to pound, her hands quivered.  Who could possibly play such a silly game? 

Silly, if that wasn't the smell of blood.

She rushed through the stairs to the call line, pulled the phone out. The real terror kicked in, seeing the wire fall to the ground as she pulled the telephone. Whoever it was, wasn't joking, and like the horror movies, this is goodbye, Becky.

She felt a warm breath brush against her skin, turned around to see but a cold hand covered her mouth. "Help..." the words only came as muffles. She struggled between the hand and rigid body, till her mind gradually gave in to the stench of chloroform she inhaled.

“Help...” she realised she could not open her mouth. A sharp pain rushed in as she tried to force it open. 

Tap, tap, Blood dripped from her mouth into the pool of similar liquid beneath her, the threads cut deep into her sewed lips, tearing it even more except, this time she was awake to feel the stinging pain. She stood wide open sobbing while trying to keep her mouth close. Reflections of earlier that day flooded her mind as the tears rose up to her eyes. Was it worth it now? Was it Becky? Her thoughts queried.

"Dre? Dre, is that you?" only if the sounds didn't come as muffles, she would have been saying those words. The sharp trailing sound of metals scrubbing the floor surface distorts her as the heavy steps sent frightening waves down her hitching throat.

"Dre, I didn't mean to," she knew the words came out as nothing but zero sounds, still she spoke anyways ignoring the sting from the threads bounding her mouth together. The black hoodie covered his face from the even dark night as he stared into her eyes. He turned on the electric cooker, placing carved steel on it. Her eyes went wide as she struggled between the pain as the threads cut deep into her sealed lips. Her body subconsciously fighting against her restraints. 

Without any words, he rubbed the blade on her nipples, drawing the sharp edge from one end to another, enough to sting but not bleed. The cold blade stung slowly as he pressed hard on her nipple. She struggled to scream, but more pain. Tears rolling down her eyes. She could feel her heart fail but somehow it persisted. The blade stung more, he pressed deeper as the blood dripped down her torn nipple. A little further, it came off into the bow of blood. Turned to the other.

Becky knew death was certain, only if it would come easy. 

He pulled the metal from the blue flames holding the rubber end of the long rod. The heat from red hot metal tore her skin just before it rested on her supposed nipple position.