Thanatos Creative Writing
I have suffered through a thousand blazing hells for the Lord, slaying the lives of my mortal brothers and sisters as a penance for my sins. The name Thanatos, permanently etched into my soul as a blade of silver strikes death upon each fated life I reap. Time has no effect on my unresting spirit. The rays of sunlight set across the dull horizon in the morning cast shadows upon my dark figure. As I walk through the ashen streets of the plaza with my black cloak billowing in the autumnal wind, a premonition ignites within my chest. Closely I observe the young man with revenous eyes. He was dressed in large clothes which hung from the malnourished frame of his body. Each defeated step he took I followed in pursuit, remaining a good distance away as to remain inconspicious. We arrived at a small house nestled in a poverty stricken area of the city. The boy unlocks the door and dissapears into
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The bottle stands like a radiant being, enticing my impulses and ultimately conquering my sobriety. I raise the bottle up to a toast.
“ To Elizabeth!” I cry.
The amontillado passes through my lips, the warm liquid bursting with a dark complexity of flavours as it runs down my throat. A burning sensation emerges from my stomach and fills me with an intense desire for more. I push the bottle to my lips and drink again.
My accursed soul is weighted with the death of an angel so pure and heavenly. I drink to erase the bloody trail left by the sins of my past, yet the memories I’ve kept locked in the shadows of my heart begin to re emerge.
The little darling’s death though I admit I have committed, was not in its entirety my fault. I come from a line of admired and notable aristocracy, where fine wine runs through my throat as easily as the blood in my veins. That grim night I was intoxicated beyond my capacity; every action I performed was driven under the influence of
The bottle stands like a radiant being, enticing my impulses and ultimately conquering my sobriety. I raise the bottle up to a toast.
“ To Elizabeth!” I cry.
The amontillado passes through my lips, the warm liquid bursting with a dark complexity of flavours as it runs down my throat. A burning sensation emerges from my stomach and fills me with an intense desire for more. I push the bottle to my lips and drink again.
My accursed soul is weighted with the death of an angel so pure and heavenly. I drink to erase the bloody trail left by the sins of my past, yet the memories I’ve kept locked in the shadows of my heart begin to re emerge.
The little darling’s death though I admit I have committed, was not in its entirety my fault. I come from a line of admired and notable aristocracy, where fine wine runs through my throat as easily as the blood in my veins. That grim night I was intoxicated beyond my capacity; every action I performed was driven under the influence of