one night one eternity

Reads: 121  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
he would give anything, anything, to erase it from happening. to release himself from this place. but some things cannot be undone, cannot be forgiven.

Submitted: August 03, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 03, 2016

A A A

A A A


He walked forth upon the road he’d walked before so many times. The gravel pathway that crunched with each sorrowful step his feet engraved within them. The surrounding woods dark and black with grief, drowning in his regrets and guilt. He merely looked forward as he walked, slowly and calmly. His heart without need of haste. The trees around him waved in the air ever so gently and gracefully. The rustling of their leaves shaking within the saddened air that exuded from his lonesomeness. He was too young to be old, and too old to be a child. His arms stood idly by his side as he walked through the silent forest. He came to a large statue off the beaten path. It was a statue of a woman, a tall, beautiful young lady.

He simply stood before it, silent for a moment. He inhaled deeply, feeling the cold and crisp air fill his lungs. He listened carefully, but heard nothing but the wind blowing across his face. He waited another moment, and listened again, much, much, more intently. Nothing. His face distorted with sadness. He felt tears fill his eyes as his tortured soul wept for forgiveness and release. He wanted to hear her voice again, her soothing and soft voice. A voice that could heal even the most agonized soul, a voice that could calm the most violent of hearts, a voice that could cure even the most diseased of minds. But he heard nothing, only his breathing amidst this place he was in. “I’m so sorry,” his voice creaked. He looked down at his feet, at the black dirt that he stood upon. It was like staring into dark void, a mere reflection of what his soul had become.

He looked back up at the statue. It was withered with age, chipped and idle under the black sky. “Release my soul from this prison, I beg of you, I should never”- his voice trailed off. He fought even harder this time to prevent the tears from coming. He remembered the night, a night that seemed like an eternity ago. He would give anything at this point to erase it from history, anything to relieve the suffering he had been condemned to. He turned around, his back to the statue, and began leaving. Each step he took felt heavy; the weight of mountains upon his legs as he walked. His mind shattered like broken glass, his sanity waned with each passing second. He was withered, a frail being in a reality created by his own sins.

A life that had been used for wrong. A man who had been grabbed by the righteous hands of the Gods, and casted across the vast cosmos, displaced through time and space. He was an outcast. He had gotten several feet from the statue, before he began remembering the night. He fell to his knees with a thud, and burst into a sob and closed his eyes. He drove his arms into the ground, and clawed at the dirt. It was cold to the touch.

The memories paralyzed him. He simply sat on his knees, his mouth gaping, his fists clenching; nails digging into the dirt. He squeezed his fists hard, feeling his knuckles painfully scraping against the rough dirt that seemed to slowly turn into rock. He opened his eyes, and looked around. He wanted so badly to be forgiven, but he knew his actions were not forgivable. What he had done to her. He feebly got to his feet that supported legs that were once strong and stout; but were now weak and frail.

As he walked, he looked up at the sky. A single tear rolled down his face. The sky seemed to change color with mood as his once bold heart turned fearful and fragile. “Have mercy on my wicked soul,” he muttered. He walked down that same path he had walked so many times before. He could never atone for what he’d done, the silver blade that he held in his hand that fateful night. The leather-wrapped grip strong and sturdy in his rough and weathered hands. Hands that had wielded that weapon, that had took those lives, that had written too many crimes into the small fabric of history.

As he raised the blade above his head, his face sick with rage, and his heart infected with violence. He remembered her laying beneath him, her legs resting upon each other. Her soft white skin showing under the faint light of the moon. Her hair was black as coal, and her face as beautiful as a daffodil on a bright summer day. Her dress was an elegant white silk, which outlined her slender body and flat stomach. She was his wife, a woman whom he’d loved with the whole of his soul since he was a young boy.

He held the blade above his head, his arms trembling with fear. He closed his eyes, feeling the tears slowing coming down his face. They dripped onto her dress, making small clear stains. “I’m so sorry,” – the words slithered out of his lips in a swift quivering breath as he plunged the blade down. Her eyes burst open as she felt the sting of cold steel pierce her flesh, puncturing her heart. It was an almost instant death. Her eyes fixated on his for a moment. He stared back into her fear-driven face, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He whimpered loudly, the sound coming from his throat like a croak. He had to do it, he didn’t want to, but had to. He had no choice. Her hand slowly grazed his as her life fled from her body. She laid on the bed motionless, with open eyes that spoke a thousand words of sadness. His hands trembled profusely as the blade fell from his fingers, landing on the ground with a metallic ting.

She had told them about him, about what he had done to the village. And for that, she had to die. The village that he pillaged with his soldiers, the gold in that mine that he stole. The children, the poor children that he beat and attempted to kill. She could not live with the crimes he had committed. So he killed her that night with a long dagger.

He remembered sitting on that bed over her corpse, listening to the gentle breeze flowing through the open window; the black silk curtains waving in the air. The men came into the room, grabbing him, and dragging him out of the hut. They threw him onto the ground. He remembered their metal boots slamming into his body; his back, stomach, chest, his face. Bloody and beaten, they took a noose, and wrapped it around his neck. He remembered staring upon the many faces of the villagers. And as the sun set, he fell, stopping mid-air to feel his neck break.

He then woke up, in a forest, a forest that reminded him of everything he’d done. A personal version of Hell for him. And every day, he would walk that same gravel road to find that statue, that statue of her. To remind him of the fact he’d never see her again. A woman he killed for attempting to get him punished for his actions. He was a wicked man, and without doubt deserved his eternal fate. Forever, to walk that gravel road.


© Copyright 2017 Forestern. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: