Gushing Blood
Prologue
An open fireplace, the fire flickering, encapsulating the logs, stacked upon each other, forming a triangle of varying lengths and sizes, glowing red with heat, embers flying from the wood.
There, standing at the fireplace was a tall man, his shoes jet black, shiny, reflecting the light of the fire, his laces tightened neatly, wearing pin-stripe trousers, with a crease down the centre of the leg, a deep blue, with white stripes, his legs, narrow and thin, seemed to stretch on forever, his upper body, also thin, was sporting a suit jacket, of similar description to the trousers, a deep blue with white pin-stripes, his left hand firmly placed within his trousers pocket, whilst his right held a tumbler glass, he looked down to the glass, and began to swirl his whiskey around, the ice gently creating a clinking noise when it hits the glass. Through one of his sleeves on his white shirt, there is a blood stain, it still looks fresh, the drop no bigger than pea. The clinking of ice stops, as the man sighs. His head leans back, the bottom of his short black hair now resting upon the collar of his white shirt. He takes his left hand from his pocket, and brings it to the mantelpiece above the fire, and swipes his index and middle finger, whilst joined, along the centre of the mantelpiece, where, is engraved within a shield, the number 1, prominently displayed.
There is a gentle breeze that rolls across him, his head jolts upright, his burning red eyes open swiftly and lay themselves upon the open window, white curtains are dancing with the wind. His complexion turns white as he takes note of the fire, it is dying, the bright flames are weakening. Atop the mantelpiece there is a small book, with a pencil separating two pages, he places his whiskey down next to it, then he raises a hand, covering the book, and slides it off into the palms of his hands, the book now open to the page separated by the pencil, he reads what is written. “Tonight I die, tonight I am reborn, my soul lives on, parted from it's host.”
He then picks up the pencil, and crosses this out, a tear rolls down from his eye, across his cheek, down to this chin, where it holds before falling, and landing upon the open pages, the fire is almost out, the lone tear being soaked up by the pages of the book, the man, falls to his knee's, dropping the book, he starts to sob, more tears rolls down his face, his hands clenched into fists, the room falls dark as the fire is finally dead. A tall grandfather clock strikes midnight, cries of people are heard from outside the window, the man, crawls to the window, as if experiencing immense physical pain. He bring his face up to see out, all down the dark cobbled road are stood a large crowd, not even an inch of the road or pavement to be seen, the crowd all dressed in white, most holding candles, raised towards the heaven, people praying, some are silent. Upon seeing this, the man is filled with a great mixture of emotions, anger, sorrow, grief, but most of all, happiness. He yells to the crowd below, “THE SPIRIT HAS BEEN REBORN.”
There, standing at the fireplace was a tall man, his shoes jet black, shiny, reflecting the light of the fire, his laces tightened neatly, wearing pin-stripe trousers, with a crease down the centre of the leg, a deep blue, with white stripes, his legs, narrow and thin, seemed to stretch on forever, his upper body, also thin, was sporting a suit jacket, of similar description to the trousers, a deep blue with white pin-stripes, his left hand firmly placed within his trousers pocket, whilst his right held a tumbler glass, he looked down to the glass, and began to swirl his whiskey around, the ice gently creating a clinking noise when it hits the glass. Through one of his sleeves on his white shirt, there is a blood stain, it still looks fresh, the drop no bigger than pea. The clinking of ice stops, as the man sighs. His head leans back, the bottom of his short black hair now resting upon the collar of his white shirt. He takes his left hand from his pocket, and brings it to the mantelpiece above the fire, and swipes his index and middle finger, whilst joined, along the centre of the mantelpiece, where, is engraved within a shield, the number 1, prominently displayed.
There is a gentle breeze that rolls across him, his head jolts upright, his burning red eyes open swiftly and lay themselves upon the open window, white curtains are dancing with the wind. His complexion turns white as he takes note of the fire, it is dying, the bright flames are weakening. Atop the mantelpiece there is a small book, with a pencil separating two pages, he places his whiskey down next to it, then he raises a hand, covering the book, and slides it off into the palms of his hands, the book now open to the page separated by the pencil, he reads what is written. “Tonight I die, tonight I am reborn, my soul lives on, parted from it's host.”
He then picks up the pencil, and crosses this out, a tear rolls down from his eye, across his cheek, down to this chin, where it holds before falling, and landing upon the open pages, the fire is almost out, the lone tear being soaked up by the pages of the book, the man, falls to his knee's, dropping the book, he starts to sob, more tears rolls down his face, his hands clenched into fists, the room falls dark as the fire is finally dead. A tall grandfather clock strikes midnight, cries of people are heard from outside the window, the man, crawls to the window, as if experiencing immense physical pain. He bring his face up to see out, all down the dark cobbled road are stood a large crowd, not even an inch of the road or pavement to be seen, the crowd all dressed in white, most holding candles, raised towards the heaven, people praying, some are silent. Upon seeing this, the man is filled with a great mixture of emotions, anger, sorrow, grief, but most of all, happiness. He yells to the crowd below, “THE SPIRIT HAS BEEN REBORN.”
♠ ♠ ♠
A piece of seemingly irrelevant writing but it sets up a key piece of information for the story.