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Blood.
He knows the scent all too well. His entire existence, waking or dreaming, is painted in it. Yet this blood smells different. It’s heady and sweet, cherry wine rather than scorching iron. Familiar.
And terrifying.
Yet fear is not something a predator should experience. Fear is the trembling flutter of wings as the cat’s teeth sink in; the choke of a thin neck as hands wrap around it. So he cannot understand why he feels it, is consumed by it, is changed by it. The chilling sensation pries apart the rage, the chaos, the exposed nerve endings that seem to be his entirety. Insanity breaks like the screech of torn metal. Clarity.
Panic.
He gulps down air, feels the control of his body being returned, shivers at the taste in his mouth. Sweet.
Yet bitter.
A groan escapes him, guttural and thick. His memories are sullied like pictures to bleach left in the sun. The smell of the frenzy enhancer. The clink of chains. The growl of a monster. And her. Her worried eyes. Her gentle hands. Her screams. A whisper.
Then silence.
He forces himself to stand, swaying as he does. A body that once felt like tempered metal is now a feeble thing; left so long to the rot of insanity that it’s covered in wounds. He places his hand on his chest, feeling gouges left by his own fingers dug into hardened muscle. They heal in wisps of red and black. Mended. Yet his soul screams.
Forever broken.
The chains still attached to him clink as he turns. There she is. Pale, like moonlight. Red, as if strewn with blood-red flowers. His little bird. Cold. Lifeless.
Dead.
A sound fills the air; the howl of an animal forced to chew off its own limb to survive. Yet he didn’t want to survive. He wanted a bullet to the head, the heart, the soul. He wanted to be the one dead in a pool of red. Not her. Never her. Yet she had decided that bullet wasn't for him, she had betrayed what he had taught her. And she looked so calm. Tranquil.
At peace.
He staggers over, collapsing to his knees next to her body. The sound that fills the air is a lament that would haunt even the king of hell. She’s too cold. Too light. Too quiet as he eases her into his arms. She should snap at him, complain, tease, laugh. She should chatter like a bird at dawn while he hides a smile behind a guise of disinterest. But she’s silent. Lifeless.
Gone.
He cradles her body as he rocks back and forth. Wake up. Wake up. Please wake up. But death is an unending dream. So too, is his existence now that she’s gone, becoming a nightmare he’ll never wake from. Her lips are ice cold as he presses his own to them. A breath of life, a kiss.
A lover’s farewell.
But he asks whether he has that right. Whether the monster that drowned her in a sea of red deserves to lament. And he’s still a monster, just one able to hide behind a mask. Rage seeps back in. Insanity returns. But he fights. Struggles.
Wins.
At least for now. The hounds of mindless brutality still howl, still nip at his heels. So he must act before they finally chase him down. Her head flops to the side as he gathers her into his arms. A careful adjustment; a lover’s touch to make their beloved comfortable. Now she almost looks as if she’s only sleeping. He leaves the blood. The chains.
The cage.
The stairs seem to never end, as if hell itself will deny him ascendance. But then there is a door. A world outside. A heaven-like sky. Rain falls, cleansing, making crimson run once more. He holds her close as the evidence of his sin is washed from her pale skin. It stains him instead; covers him in the sweetness he never deserved. Like in his dreams, she bestows upon him a gift.
A love spoken in crimson flowers.