Poetic Motives

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A tale of star-crossed lovers with the same taste of macabre poetry

Submitted: January 03, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 03, 2012



I can't breathe.
It could be the cigarettes. Lord knows I smoke enough for that to become the death of me. Yet my chest doesn't hurt the same as it does when I over-indulge my love for nicotine. No...it's a much different sort of pain. A sort of frigid throb that is too close to where my heart should be for comfort. It's as if at any minute I'm going to self-destruct; implode; or something just as messy and unpleasant. My heartbeat is deafening as it pulses within my ears and in my fingertips as I write. I wonder if the people in the next room can hear it. I wonder if it drives them up the wall as it does me. It is overwhelmingly loud. I wish it would just stop for one moment even if it was to be the death of me. I'd rather be dead than to have to hear the incessant pounding of my shattered heart. I need another fucking cigarette before I lose my mind and my desire to tell you of my sweet Serenity.
I didn't always used to be this distraught, mind you. I used to be as carefree as a child and passionate about life only a few years ago. It was the day that I met that woman that changed the entire course of my life. She was the manifestation of absolute unadulterated beauty. I had never known how love truly felt until the moment I met my undeniable soul mate. From the second I looked into her impenetrable brown eyes, I knew my life would become hers and her life was mine for the taking.

I can vividly remember when she walked into the classroom and took the seat next to me. She wore a black transparent blouse with bright red roses patterned on the sleeves and a mercilessly short black lacy skirt. She smelled of jasmine with a fading hint of menthol cigarette smoke. (It's hard to describe beauty as it honestly is. I could write a 100,000 word essay on Niagara Falls with immaculate description on it's splendor; but could you honestly comprehend the intensity of it's grandeur by a man's mere observations? I would never lessen her perfection by attempting to illustrate her physical being. She was simply enchanting.) In her hands she carried an "Introduction to the Art of Poetry" textbook and a worn bunny-eared paperback copy of "Whispers Amid The Screams" my debut collection of Gothic poetry I had written a couple years back that I thought had long been forgotten.

" I watch you soundly sleeping
While you are deeply dreaming
Always and forever keeping
The lovely sounds of your screaming.", I quoted to her from my personal favorite of the collection entitled " No Escape ".

Her smile was intoxicating as she held her hand out to introduce herself as Ms. Serenity Reid (emphasis on the "Ms.", that went unmissed by me). I, in turn, told her that I was the author of the book that she was holding in her hand. Her eyes lit up in recognition as she passionately shared her common views on the beauty of horror and her absolute adoration for my poetry collection. She was cute in the fact that she was somewhat star struck by me. Now understand, I have never thought of myself as in inspiration to anyone much less with an array of psychotic poems of morbid nightmares. As we conversed about the meanings of each of her favorite poems from the book, I began to realize that we were more alike than I could ever imagine. As cliché as it sounds, I almost immediately felt this strange and alluring connection with this woman; almost as if I knew that at that very moment my life would separate into "Before Serenity" and "After". I know it sounds crazy but someday you'll understand the overwhelming feeling of falling irreversibly in love. After the class had ended we exchanged phone numbers and made plans to meet again that upcoming Friday at the Open Mic. Night poetry reading at the campus theater.
I happened to be a regular there and competed quite often in the Spoken Word Competitions. I was the only poet that would still use simplistic couplet rhyme schemes as opposed to the more modern abstract free form commonly used with little if any rhymes at all. The majority of the competitors respect and admire my work with the exception of some of the younger students. When I got back to my house I had received our weekly newsletter and began reading the feedback of our last competition (in which I took second place), and came across an anonymous complaint about my "archaic" and "elementary" approach to poetry. Professor Linden, one of the more highly reputable judge of the competitions, added a response stating,
" Not only do I disagree with this cowardly act of jealous slander but I refuse to believe that YOU who wrote this statement could believe that to be the truth. Mr. Parish's poetry, in my opinion, is old-fashioned in a sense; old-fashioned in it's passion and depth; archaic in it's echo of the genius of Edgar Allen Poe and the intellect of Robert Frost; elementary in it's way of keeping basic fundamentals of poetry alive and well. I believe Jude Parish restrains his vision to basic rhyme schemes as to not overwhelm the innocent reader. He limits his self to his musical couplets because if he did not...his imagination would never be contained. "
As wonderful as that all sounds, in all actuality, I write they way I do because that's what I've always felt a poem should be. My pen is the instrument in which I make music from the flawless rhyme of written word. Any other day I would have been furious at this demeaning remark about my self-expression but I honestly had more important concerns to worry about. Friday was the competition and all I had been writing then were pathetic ramblings about dying alone and feeling sorry for myself and what not. I had to write something disturbingly dark (for that was what Serenity most loved about my work) yet I wanted to add a little sexuality to it. Something that showed how deeply passionate I could feel for someone ( and of course, with my trademark appalling twist). It took me three days of re-writes and changes in direction before I finally was satisfied with three entries for the competition. I titled my finale piece (in the event that I made the finals), "Until Death Do We Part".

I remember waking up that Friday morning to my cell-phone ringing around 11:30 or so. It was Serenity, first apologizing for waking me up and then letting me know that she was going to meet me there because she was going to be a little late for some reason I was not awake enough to grasp. I fell back asleep before she finished even saying bye. Like I said, I had not been sleeping very much that entire week; so when I could get it, I gladly embraced it.
That time when I fell asleep I had the most uncanny dream. I dreamt that I was on my bed reading this massive book with a worn out rustic leather cover on it. It seemed I must have been reading for hours because my eyes were beginning to water like they do when I've spent hours upon hours straining my eyes reading under the dim yellow light of my desk lamp. All the sudden the words on the page I was reading began to move all around jumbling together forming new words and some sort of portrait. Panicked, I threw the enormous book flying to the other side of the room. The pages started to flutter frantically as if a strong wind had taken to it. It stopped on page 206 and to my surprise the words had taken the form of a concrete poem (the type of poem that forms a picture). It was a rendering of Serenity in the nude crucified upon a cross with a look of utter satisfaction on her face. Her facial expression was horrifying in it's contentment. She looked as if she was actually happy to be chained and nailed to a wooden post profusely bleeding from random wounds throughout her body. As if she had accomplished something. The words were too confusingly scattered to actually read what the poem said with the exception of one sentence at the very bottom. "For god's sake; Make me happy".

When I finally awoke I was so disoriented from the dream that I was actually looking everywhere for the mysterious book I had been reading. It took me a second to realize that it hadn't been real. I glanced at my digital alarm clock by the bed and realized I had an hour to get ready and over to the campus before the reading begins. I slept through all of the daylight hours. Cursing myself for having to now rush to get ready, I jumped in the shower. I couldn't get that image of Serenity out of my head. It was like a cut in my mouth that would most likely go away if I'd just leave it alone yet the image continued to burn in my mind like a fiery sulfurous coal. I personally never thought of my dreams as visions with meanings. In all honestly, the majority of my dreams consist of an illogical story or scene with no purpose or point whatsoever. For some strange and inexplicable reason though, my mind kept recalling the utter bliss on my love's face as she lay there dying; begging for god's sake to make her happy.

I hurriedly dressed and grabbed my notebooks and folders for the competition. The phone rings as I'm making my way to the door and I impatiently grab for it losing my balance and nearly killing myself in the process. Instantly I feel better hearing Serenity's melodic voice on the answering machine.
" Hey I was just calling to let you know that I canceled my other plans so I could get here on time. I wanted to see you as soon as possible. I have a surprise for you when you get here. Try and hurry so you can sit with me; I'm ordering us drinks right now. See you soon... "
I grabbed the phone just as she hung up. I glanced at my watch and decided against calling her back. There was about 15 minutes before the Open Mic. was to begin. I grabbed my keys, locked up, and sped toward the campus with (for the first time in years) butterflies fluttering in my stomach. She really had a hold of me. I felt like I was a high school kid again wondering if she was going to let me hold her hand or get a good-night kiss tonight. It's funny how female's can turn a man into a puddle of melted butter in their hands. It's a power that to this day I've never understood. Especially now.
When I finally arrived (10 minutes late), I signed the Poetry Contest entry form and showed them my membership pin. I don't know why I always showed them the Society of Poetic Endeavors pin; no one else really cared about wearing their pins. Everyone knew you once joined the Society of Poetic Endeavors and you competed a couple of times, I guess it's a pride thing. I liked belonging to a organization of fellow word-smiths. It's quite possibly the only place I felt important and welcome. I was scheduled to be the second to the last poet of the night. After the judges wished me luck, I made my way towards the seats in the front. A good friend of mine, this girl named Tulley Anderson, was finishing her explosive delivery of a poem obviously directed towards the economic crisis of our nation. It was dark so it was a hell of an ordeal trying to find Serenity in the densely crowded audience. She said she'd be sitting by the stage far right and I spotted her long black cardigan she always wore along with her black beret at a table with two cranberry juices. I took my seat and gave a few quiet hellos and waves to friends and some S.P.E. members. Tulley finished her poem with a fairly decent reaction from the crowd. She almost always comes to all of the open mic. nights but has never competed in the contests. She said she doesn't need a judge to tell her she does what she loves good or not. After she told me that the first time I met her at my first night here, I have been in every single competition. She helped me realize that I need someone to tell me I'm good at what I love. If you're no good at what you love to do...why would you even do it?
As I was debating myself on the ethics of these competitions I finally saw Serenity as she made her way onto the stage. She was absolutely stunning. Wearing a simple black tight fitting dress and black and maroon stilettos, I remember hearing the soft click of her heels as she walked up to the microphone. Her long sleek pitch black hair covered most of the right side of her face but stopped short of the deep maroon color on her delicious lips. There was no doubt about it. She was the most captivating thing anyone saw that entire night.

" Please bare with me fellow readers and avid writers alike. I haven't written in a long time until the utmost recent. This poem is with dedication to the person that knows my heart as if it was his own. From the first time I met him, I looked into his eyes and knew he was the one that was going to make me happier than I've been in a long time. This is titled, "Your Words", she said as she brushed the hair from her face with a soft smile and began to read.


" I know you more than I know myself
Every night you'd speak to me
Through the words inside your book
You would allow me to see
The hate that's found in true love
The pain that's found in pleasure
The words with such meaning
Their importance can not be measured
You excited me and scared me
Sometimes you'd make me cry
But no matter how hard things got
It was your words that got me by
Without your words I would be lost
In this infinite world of hate
So please read me those precious words
And make me happy; for god's sake. "

In all honesty, I don't remember what the audience's response was. I was completely and utterly dumbfounded by what she had written about me. Now I know that her poem was by far not the greatest piece of literature that has ever been read; yet it was the first composition ever written directed towards me and my work. She completely and thoroughly understood and appreciated why I write Gothic poetry. It's the balance of the evil within the good. The yin within the yang. The hate you feel from being intensely in love. The pain you experience from having pleasure and losing it. I write about the evil in the world because that is what is and always has been the truth of the world. The reality in this fantasy we call life. I exclusively write about horror because that's all I've ever known and felt. She gets it. We are two peas of the same rotted and withered pod. As she slowly made her way off the stage, her eyes met mine and never let off until she was seated next to me with the same smile she had in my dream. The smile of accomplishment.
" What made you write that? I mean, don't get me wrong, Serenity, I loved it. I am absolutely flattered that I would inspire you to rekindle your writing...but why me? Why now? "
" I don't know. There's always been something about you. Something I understand that maybe some people don't see in you. The side of you that you openly express through your words, yet, when people read them they just don't see it. When I read a poem you've written about the most horrific things imaginable I try and figure out what you were thinking and trying to express through it. You use your horrific imagery as a disguise in almost every poem in your book. It's like the meaning of the poem has nothing to do with what bloody things are taking place. They always have a deeper meaning. You use dark metaphors and make it harder to decipher what you are saying because you are thrust into such violence and gore that most people take it for face value. I never did. That's why I wrote that poem. Your words are so beautiful and so real that it's beyond genius. "
" You know they say it's a thin line between genius and insanity? "
" Then let's walk that tightrope together and see where it takes us. ", Serenity seductively told me as she leaned in and kissed me with a passion I've never before felt.
I was thinking about telling her about the dream I had had; see what she would make of it, but I was a little worried that it might dampen the mood and quite possibly get her to think me as leaning more towards the side of insanity rather than her proclamation of genius. No, I didn't want to ruin this moment of no longer being alone in the world. I had finally found someone who understood where I was coming from and was going to make this feeling last as long as I could. We held hands as we enjoyed the rest of the Open Mic. Night. The call for the competitors of the night was announced and I kissed her forehead and told her that all 3 poems of tonight's competition were for her, and her alone. I made my way to the back of the theater. I listened to a total of about 13 entries before it was my turn to read. I chose to read an older poem I had written from the book Serenity loved entitled "Love Never Dies".
I've read it before and got a thunderous applause that time, so I knew that my spot in the semi-finals would be set in stone after that. We drew names out of a hat, and I was chosen to go first this time around. I read a poem I had written last year about a bug that slowly eats his way throughout an unknowing man's insides entitled " Bump In The Night ". It's somewhat of a morbid comedy. The audience ate it up as well as the judges. I've noticed that for some very interesting reason people would much rather hear a grotesque comedy than a witty and pun filled comedy. I guess we all love a little blood with our laughter.
I was chosen along with another Gothic poet, Fredrick Walls and the reigning champ ( a free verse poet that relies heavily on descriptions of random depressing imagery that never makes sense but people seem to go fucking ape shit for for some reason ) Marcus The Muse. Again we drew names and I was chosen to go last. Freddie's poem was in all actuality the best I've ever heard from him. It was called " Softly How She Died ", about a girl who had money, friends, and a caring family but simply willed herself to die because death was the only thing she never had. When I say it, it sounds stupid; but Freddie really showed his talent with that poem. I don't remember anything from it or I'd recite it for you. I try and not memorize other people's poetry, it taints the ideas that you store subconsciously. Marcus read his Poetic Achievement Award winning poem entitled, " me/you/us-together ". I must admit it is one of his better works, but still nothing I think should've ever won even a participation award for. There's no topic whatsoever (like most of his poems) and all he talks about is how the rain is falling on his window creating millions of rainbows in each tiny droplet or some stupid shit like that. I don't know. Typical Marcus The Muse manure if you ask me. I stepped to the microphone and began to read my poem in a whisper.

" Here I sit at your grave with my shovel in hand
Ready to break the vow I promised when we married
I know that I said "until death do us part "
But love is something that I just can not leave buried
I've been digging for hours to see you again
I haven't tasted your kisses in several months
I can't wait until I hear the blade hit your box
So I can again savor the flavor of your tongue
I want to bite on your neck like I would often do
When we would make passionate love in our bedroom
I want to pull on your long curly brown hair
When I'm back deep inside of your dead womb
I want to lick the inside of where your eyes once were
Those big beautiful eyes I used to stare into
And deeply inhale the sweet  musty stench of your skin
In it's beautiful rainbows of yellows and blues
We made love seven times in that hole that night
Drenched in sweat and covered in flakes of dead dust
And we slept underneath the glow of the moon
Drunk on rekindled emotions of lost love and lust
They said I was a sick piece of shit when they found us
That's when they tried to take you back away from me
That's when I pulled out my gun and I shot at them
And await until death do I depart to wherever you may be. "

Needless to say, I wasn't favored by the judges that night nor the audience of for that matter. To this day I don't understand what the big deal was; I admit, it was a little graphic and maybe a tad unethical but it was hopelessly romantic more than anything. That is an incomparable love I was talking about that night. Have you ever loved someone that much that you would go as far as dig their grave up just to see them again; then commit suicide by cop just to be back with them? That is pure unadulterated love. The poem had nothing to do with taste, ethics, or morality. It was a tragedy of undying love.
Immediately after finishing my reading I walked off stage and grabbed Serenity by the hand as we held hands all the way to my car. From all the chaos of the hateful disgusted remarks of the audience I didn't notice that she had been crying this entire time. I hugged her somewhat forcefully into my chest as she sobbed into me. I didn't know why she was crying or if I should even be hugging her. From some reason, I thought that she was crying from how the audience turned on me for the intensity of my poem. At least, I hope that's why she was crying. What seemed like hours of just holding her, hoping she didn't hate me now, she finally spoke,
" Did you see how they were looking at you? At us? What the fuck is wrong with those people? Regardless if they didn't have the intelligence to comprehend the reason behind the poem; they didn't have to act like that. "
" I figured it was going to happen like that. Serenity, people don't like to hear about anything that isn't what they dubbed normal. Besides, I didn't read it for those ass holes anyway. I read it for you. I wrote it for you. ", I said hoping to God she didn't take that the wrong way, which in all actuality could very easily happen.
" Look, ", she said blowing her nose on a handkerchief I just handed her, " I know what you were saying up there; that's why I was crying. Behind the horrendous imagery lies the same story as Romeo and Juliet. I loved it, Jude. It was the sweetest thing I think I've ever read of yours and I'm honored that you wrote it for me. I love you dearly, Jude. I do. "
" Do you want to go back to my house for some dinner? It's still early and just want to get the hell out of this scene before it makes me sick to my stomach. I'm not trying to be forward with you though, I understand if you wouldn't feel comfortable. "
" I'd love to go to your house. And hey, Jude...can I ask you something and get the god honest truth from you? ", she asked.
" Anything. ", I said as I opened the passenger door to my car for her to get in.
" Do you think that you could ever love someone as much as the guy in your poem loves the woman that died? "
To that I remember I just kissed her and gave her a confident smile. Little did she know that in the week that I have known her my love far exceeded anything I thought ever could be possible. There is nothing that could ever pry me away from the intense emotions that I was feeling for her at that moment. I never felt closer to anyone or anything in my entire life.
That night we made ravenous love for hours upon hours.

I can still remember the sweet saltiness her pale skin tasted of. When I close my eyes, I can remember that night with such brilliance; as if I recorded that night with a mental video-recorder. I remember every moan; every kiss; every touch. There is something in the way she made me feel. It was genuinely beautiful. I could never put into words what raw emotion, what raw passion I experienced that night. It was unequivocally beautiful.

Serenity looked like an angel when she walked out of the room; her nakedness gave her a faint glow in contrast to the darkness of the dampened room. She walked over to my desk, turned on the light, and grabbed my fountain pen and began writing. That is the image I hold dearest when I remember Serenity. Naked at my desk, pen in hand, and writing. I thought of asking her what she was doing, but being a writer I know inspiration comes at it's own time. I laid back in my bed and smoked a cigarette; lost in the world that this woman had made for me. Within moments I was fast asleep.
I dreamt of getting married to Serenity that night. I remember seeing our kids grow up. Books collaborated on together published. Growing old and dying together.
I awoke to an empty bed. The night before was almost a blur to me. Everything happened so perfectly. You have to understand, things hardly ever work out for me. I remember laying there in bed for another hour or so just reflecting on how great everything was going to be now. I had met my soul mate. The one. When I was finished with my vivid recollections I looked around the room to make sure it all wasn't a dream. She must have cleaned before she left because the room looked back in order. Last night's clothes were folded neatly on the chair of my desk. The copies of my poetry I had taken to the competition were on my desk as well. I grabbed the pillow next to me and inhaled the sweet smell of Serenity. That is when I found what she had written. On a torn piece of my journal in her cursive hand she wrote:
" Til' death do us part, my Jude. Never forget about this night. The love we found in each other. The love we made to each other. Thank you so much for the happiness you have brought to my heart. Never forget about this night. Nor the words you wrote of me.
- your Serenity. "
My serenity. Never were truer words ever written. She kissed the paper leaving an imprint of her lovely lips underneath her name. I remember I kissed the outline of her mouth and placing the note back on my desk. Upon showering and eating a light breakfast I made my way to class early in hopes of meeting Serenity before. Before I made it out the door the phone began to ring. I ran to answer it hoping it was her.
" Jude. My god, I thought you went off and killed yourself. Why didn't you answer your phone last night after you left? "
It was Tulley.
" I didn't want to suffer the S.P.E. with my presence after that bomb I dropped on stage. Besides, my date didn't want to stay that long. Why what's the matter? ", I asked.
" You just scared the shit out of me with that morbid stunt you pulled last night. I don't know. You always have wrote kind of on the darker side...you just seemed so excited about it this time. So...passionate about the subject. Which if I may remind you was necrophilia. "
" Look, you know well and good you shouldn't take what I write for face value. "
" I know I know...but everyone else doesn't know that. I'm just saying...the way you ran out of there after reading that poem. How do you think that made you look? ", Tulley asked with a hint of sympathy in her voice.
" Honestly, I could care less. As long as Serenity knew what I was talking about that's all that matters. "
" Who? Who is Serenity? "
" The girl I was with last night. The girl that read right after you did your first piece; during the Open-Mic. "
" I was the last one to read at Open-mic last night. No one went after me. ", she said somewhat puzzled.
" What are you talking about, Tulley? The pretty girl in all black...the one that read the poem dedicated to me? "
" Honest to god, Jude. No one read after me at Open-Mic. "
I hung up the phone. I was getting a pounding headache from the stupidity of the conversation. She called me right back but I didn't answer. Once you start Tulley in an argument, you can never win. It's a lose-lose situation with that girl, I tell you. After calling me at least ten more times she finally sent me a text message saying; " I'm seriously worried about you, Jude. Please call me if you want to talk about anything. Anything at all. "
When I finally got to class I noticed that Serenity hadn't got there yet. So I started to write a little something for her to surprise her with when she made it. No matter how hard I tried I couldn't think of anything to write, though. I must've erased the first line about a hundred times. I wanted it to be perfect. The class bell rang and still no Serenity. I figured she overslept so I decided to leave and wake her up. At the very least she could grab the assignments at the end of class. I looked through the address book of my phone and dialed her number. I remember a female voice answered that wasn't Serenity.
" Hello? "
" Uh...hello. Is Serenity available? ", I asked
" Who? ", the voice answered
" Serenity. Serenity Reid. This IS her phone number, correct? "
" Is this some kind of sick joke? ", the voice asked obviously angered.
" I don't understand, ma'am. I just talked to her yesterday on this very number. I thought it was her house number. "
" This is her mother and I don't think this is funny at all, young man. I don't appreciate you making light of this at all. She passed away years ago. ", the woman said right before hanging up on me.

Now this is the point where they say I am mad. I wouldn't say I was mad. More confused than anything.

I didn't know what to do. I was lost. I remember I rushed back to my house to read the note again. It was still there. My entire room smelled of sex and cigarettes. I didn't understand what was going on. I ran to my answer machine to see if her message she left me was still on it. I had seven saved messages. Not one of them was Serenity. I began to cry with frustration and confusion. There I was holding a letter from a supposedly deceased girl that I loved. It was illogical and impossible. I read the note over and over trying to understand what was going on.
" Til' death do us part, my Jude. Never forget about this night. The love we found in each other. The love we made to each other. Thank you so much for the happiness you have brought to my heart. Never forget about this night. Nor the words you wrote of me.
- your Serenity. "

I didn't know what to do. I got on the internet and tried to locate any Serenity Reid's living in the area. I checked the roll on the online database for the class we shared. No Serenity Reid. I checked the campus directory. No Serenity Reid. Finally I decided to type in her name on the local newspaper's search engine. I almost had a heart attack when the headline from the April 2nd, 2004 newspaper, " Local student found dead " was the only result. The article read,
" Today a high-school girl, Serenity Reid, was found dead in the Yestivane Recreational Park. She was a promising poet of the acclaimed Society of Poetic Endeavors, at Canter University of Arts with several independently published poetry anthologies including the highly acclaimed collection entitled " Black Butterflies ". Police say the tragic loss of the young woman is believed at this time to be by way of suicide. She is survived by two brothers, Richard and Patrick Reid, and her mother, Mercille Reid. A memorial will be conducted by the Society of Poetic Endeavors' club on Thursday at 7:30 pm. Funeral services will be held at Freedom Height's Cemetary. "
Her picture showed the same smile I only hours ago fell in love with. It was her. According to the paper she had been dead for over four years. She attended the same school I did and belonged to the same organization of poets. I couldn't believe what I was reading. I had to see for myself. So I grabbed her note, along with my poetry, and my revolver my father had given me. I got into my car and made my way to Freedom Height's. It was then I had a revelation of what I was to do. I knew exactly what she wanted me to do. Through tears of insanity I finally arrived at the cemetery.
I must've walked for hours before I came where the love of my life laid to rest.

" Serenity Reid
3/31/84 - 4/2/04
Never to be forgotten"

I re-read my poem and her note. Over. And over. And over.

" Never forget about this night. Nor the words you wrote of me. "

That's when I began to dig. The soil was hell on my hands but after the first foot of earth it was moist from the recent rain and came up nice and easy. I dug until my hands bled and my fingernails cracked all the while calling her name through broken sobs. When I finally reached the coffin I had a hard time opening the latch of the door. I remember she pushed from the inside as I pulled from the outside as the door swung open to reveal my love. Serenity was wearing the same outfit I met her in and looked just as gorgeous as the day I met her. I took her by the hand and asked her to come with me. To run away and never come back. She told me she just wanted to be held. So I held her.
We made love, once in again, weeping softly as I kissed the tears from her face.
" I love you, Jude, until death do us part. Forever and ever, my love. Thank you for making me happy. I am so...happy. "

That was when I heard the sirens. The police had been called about a disturbance at Freedom Height's. I knew I should've have left and taken Serenity with me but something in her face made me stay. I knew what I had to do. And so I waited for the cops to arrive and shot the first two officers that got out of their patrol car with all six shots. They arrested me and brought me to this god forsaken place. The entire ride to jail they called me psychotic and a perverted freak. I tried to explain to them that she was my soul-mate. I tried to tell them that it was okay because she loved me and wanted me to make her happy. They wouldn't believe me though. No one believes me. The guards say I deserve to die. I tell them I agree. Little do they know they're helping ME out by killing me. I'll finally be with Serenity for the rest of eternity. And wait until death do I depart to wherever she may be.

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