As she stood there with a gun to her head, a tear formed behind her eyes and bile rose through her gut.
‘Dearie, you have to kill them to survive.’ The voice was malicious, cruel, menacing but nevertheless soft. Her hand ached under the weight of the rifle she held as children stood poised in front of her.
‘They aren’t real. This is just a dream. It is just a hallucination. Isn’t it?’ she thought. But they were children! They were someone’s little angels! And what if all of this was real?
Somewhere at the back of her mind a grave voice said, ‘there is no certainity in life apart from death.’ Another exclaimed, ‘What does it matter anyways? You are the bravest when you are the most selfless.’
Those two voices echoed through her mind and travelled through her blood. She shivered as she dropped the rifle from her hands and a loud bang reverberated throughout the dungeon. There was blood but there was no fear.
‘I saw in you such potential, and well you did not disappoint.’
Those words still echo through her head. For the first time, it felt like someone had believed in her.
Is it my fault that Fate is working against me?
Before you, there was Doubt.
Apart from a momentary bout
of cursory resistance,
there was no promise of existence.
After you, there was Hope.
My soul did elope
with ideas dangerously close
to Trust’s ballad, “La Danse de Morose.”
A knight on the road to Avalon
travelling on a stallion bold.
His armor shone bright,
unending valor printed in gold.
Swords raised up high,
many followed him a blind,
but he hath no sword to carry nigh.
His weapon was not of the hand,
his arms were his tongue-
an orator with a power so grand,
many a people he did move.
Faeries plenty, trolls abound,
Ogars so ugly, mermaids tempting,
little green goblins with their magical sparks,
even demonic princes followed him around.
His mind was clear, a direction known,
his wisdom plenty to win hearts so cold.
Fearless he was in his ventures many,
daring enough to take the dreaded plunge.
But those times were dark,
bad magic in the air suffocated his people,
so the King of Avalon called upon the knight.
But as all knights have a rise,
they also have a fall.
The King-a humble faery knew not
the power of the mice.
The mice with their nibbling
hath deprived many a faery, crippling
their flight into oblivion.
“A grounded faery is a dead faery!”
The knight proclaimed in agony,
the faeries lamented.
“But a dead faery can’t be hunted,
a dead faery can’t be killed!”
The knight cried,
the faeries cheered!
But the mice are funny creatures.
They heard not the noise of any but the piper.
They sniffed and scurried to the ‘dead’ faeries dens.
They ate their food and squeaked them into madness.
The mice were smart too.
They knew who to thwart to win the war.
They broke the spirits of the faeries,
they broke the knight of the faeries.
At midnight, they squeaked and scurried
under the knight’s slumber bed.
They danced there in unison with
the mice in nightmares of the faeries.
They danced and danced and squeaked aloud.
They scurried about sniffing out the dream mice
from the slumber sand in the eyes of the faeries,
and sprinkled them in the eyes of the knight.
The knight saw nothing but mice.
Mice under his bed,
scurrying over his dinner,
sniffing through his kitchen,
but mostly he saw them in his head.
They were the sins in his mind’s sinner,
they were the pain in his heart- bitten.
The knight traveled in his dreams,
he lost sleep and gained nightmares.
His mind spoke in screams
as he lost all hope in faeries
and the faeries lost all hope in him.
The mice scurried through the mind of a broken man,
victorious in their sly cunning plans.
There it was, life:
rose petals showered
on a bed,
so beautifully red.
Red, red, red,
and under, unhindered
was a knife.