Power
I cannot wait any longer.
Hearing your screams will not suffice.
I must see your pain.
I must see your blood.
A single dirty bulb flickers to life
Hanging from a rusted chain
Beneath a water-stained ceiling.
Its dim light finally allows me to view
The terror in your wide, pleading eyes.
The silk of my gloved hand
Slips from the aged light switch
As I move slowly from my place
In the frame of the heavy, bolted door.
You plead for salvation.
I plan your demise.
I stalk toward you.
The layer of dirt on the stone floor
Does little to dampen the imposing echo of my boots.
It is your death march,
For with me, I bring your end.
With every step, your screams lessen.
And as I stand above you now,
You can do nothing but whimper.
And stammer out calls to God.
No.
You pray to me now.
These are my hands that hold your life.
And I must say that your crimson essence
looks so lovely contrasted upon my white gloves.
But I do promise
That you will see your god soon.
For a moment, I admire the scarlet mess
That you have managed to create on my table.
I recall that the others didn’t struggle nearly as so.
They were a disappointment.
I quite enjoy watching you squirm,
Slipping over your own spilt blood.
But there’s so much more inside you
Dying for release.
Are you afraid to die?
Do not worry… I’ll go slow.
You will have plenty of time to accept your fate.
And in the end, you will beg for it.
A rusty metal box lies in wait beneath your table
And I bend down to retrieve it.
Your fate is locked within.
I place it in a blood pool beside your feet
And unclasp the latch with an ominous click.
You cannot see what rests inside.
You cannot see the rows of glistening metal,
Neatly lying upon a bed of blood-stained satin.
All you can see is the white of my silk gloves,
Sliding lovingly across.
I taunt you with the time I take to make my choice.
But now you can see the silver glint
Of the implement that I have drawn out.
The simple tool that will permanently cease your pains.
But only after it first brings you more.
You start again with your cries and screams.
They are beautifully composed music for me to work to.
Slowly, I slide the hand-sharpened blade through your flesh.
And I begin your end.
Copyright © Em Rayne | Year Posted 2009
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