Letters of The Heart.

A vast and deep ocean, and at its centre, me. I sink further into the dark depths, swallowed up by the struggles and insecurities of everyday life. It’s cold, and lonely. So lonely. All my life, spent swirling in perpetual darkness, pondering, am I important? Am I loved? Am I cherished? Will I be missed? So many questions, so many thoughts and no answers, save for the silent screams of words that were never said.

Words. Words are powerful. They come from the heart, from emotions, often said in kindness/anger/sadness/love/fear. But words are always difficult when asking for the most important things, help, support, acknowledgement. At these times, words are at the tip of the tongue, but extinguished by a suffocating throat. Close at hand yet far apart from being uttered.

The dark sea isn’t always dark. As rare as a blue moon, the light shines down to the murky depths where I sink. A moment of clarity of belief. I am important. I am loved. I am cherished. And I will be missed. We are not alone. Even when that light fades, our support, is still there in the shadows. Their hands stretching out for us to hold, warm and encouraging. Waiting for us to find our letters of the heart.

The heart, home to memories, loved ones. Home to the soul. Even when the soul is fractured, broken, lost, the heart repairs all. ‘Time heals all wounds’? Heart revives all souls, even in darkest day, the heart reminds us of who we are and who we have. And when all else fails, and the souls loses the last of its shining hope, the heart stays till the end, singing its soothing lullaby as the souls move on to clearer skies.

Souls exist not just in the living. They live in photos, reliving the memories of brighter days and happier times. They live in cherished possessions, in the red chested robin’s that visit those who have lost loved ones. They live in those they left behind, be it family, friends or the strangers whose souls they touched.

You never hit the bottom in this endless sea. There is no bottom until there is no wish. Keep wishing, keep believing, relive those happy times. You are not alone. You only need to speak/scream/shout the letters of your heart and they will come. Your lifeline, your desire to hold on in this stormy depth, even in memory, You are not alone.

The phrase I’m all alone, I’m unloved, are not truths, for even in our darkest hours someone will reach out their hand and hold us tight. They will whisper soothingly, ‘I’m here, I’m with you, tell me everything’ for time is not important when it comes…

… To The Letters Of The Heart.

Sheep in Wolves Clothing. (part I)

Gregory did not like Sheep. They reminded him of the girl’s from his college, or more precisely their selfies on instagram, faces puckered and lips pouted, just like a Sheep. He did not like how they stared blankly as they munched grass. Gregory did not like their soulless eyes or the loud, almost shrilling bleats that escaped their throats. He had nine hundred and ninety nine reasons to hate Sheep and being sent to his Uncle’s Sheep farm for the summer holidays was one of them.

Gregory woke up as his Uncle’s range rover began to trundle over uneven ground. First light was just rising in the east. He yawned from the backseat, his neck stiff from the awkward sleep. His Uncle Tom had arrived last night at his parents home to pick him up, and the journey had been one of uncomfortable silences and short answer conversations. Gregory rubbed the tiredness from his eyes as Uncle Tom turned to look back at him.

‘Ahh, Your up lad. That’s good, keep your eyes peeled after we go over this next hill. You’ll be able to see the farm, and quite possibly the Sheep.’ Uncle Tom laughed. Gregory rolled his eyes, but nonetheless looked out the passenger window as they reached the top of the hill. His stomach dropped, His Uncle’s farm had clearly seen better days, and the Sheep were everywhere. E.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. They stood scattered around the vast green hills and sweeping gold fields. They even stood on the track to the farm, some so ignorant and stubborn to Uncle Tom’s car horn that he had to get out to usher them away. Gregory could feel himself going pale. Six weeks. He had to stay here for six weeks in a worse for wear farm, surrounded by soulless, expressionless Sheep.

The Painting. (part I)

When I moved in to my own place, I received a painting from my Grandmother. The painting was of a cottage in the countryside. The house itself had grey cobbled walls, a brown tiled roof and two chimneys. The windows were panelled and a pure white. Roses climbed the side of the house. The painting had a deep wood behind the house, the background thick with the dark greenery of tree’s. In front of the house was a little dirt track, tall thick oaks casting the path into shade. To the bottom right of the landscape was a sky blue pond, green grass sprouting round its edges. Also at the bottom right was a wooden signpost pointing the way to the cottage. It wasn’t the most amazing painting to look at, but I had moved to the city and every time I looked at the rural landscape it was if I could feel the birds singing in the morning sun, the wind rustling in the leaves of the tree’s. Then I noticed. On the day of my Grandmother’s funeral, I had just returned from the family home, and the aching feeling of my loss brought me before the painting. But the painting had changed. On the side of the house was a set of windows, where before it was a just a mix of pinks and purples, now it had a person in the window. or more specifically a face.

The Slaughter House III.

I watched You for over a century, as you stole child after child, tying them to wall, to chairs, to tables. I stared as you giggled in delight at the children’s screams of torment. I gazed upon your actions as you lopped off toes, fingers, ears as you took the butchers knife to cleanse their innocent bodies of ‘adulthood’. The interesting thing about slaughterhouse was that it was never the same place. After me, came a house in the countryside, then a house by the sea, each with its own basement of operations. But the almost ritualistic routine of your slaughters remained the same. The pleasure you took in watching the fear in their eyes, the enjoyment you took from watching in darkness as they fought against their restraints and the muffled screams that echoed pitifully round the crimson covered rooms.

Over a century had passed and by some demonic means, you had lived long. The last ten years had been quiet, the killings had lessened, age had come for you. But I will not allow age to be your killer. You sat in your comfy chair in a darkened living room as I silently grabbed the cricket bat and swung at your head. You went down with a silent thud, the sound so convincingly muffled by the soft rug beneath. with my new found skills, accumulated since my untimely death, I dragged your body down to the basement.

I flung you on to the cold metal table, ripped your clothes off, and strapped you down. I know how you liked the ropes to be extra tight. I could hear the frail bones snap as i made sure the ropes were secure. you stirred, no doubt from the agonising pain in your joints and the adrenaline pumping through your veins. I forced your mouth open and shoved not two, but three rags down your throat. I would say I felt satisfaction as you gagged, but you stole that from me too. I tied the cloth to hold it in place as you wearily opened your eyes. I remembered the glee that used to light up your face, as you made your own futile attempt to shout through the foul-smelling cloths. Not even an echo reached the walls of the now spotless basement. I’d chosen three rags for a reason, I wanted to make sure you weren’t heard or freed before I was done.

You struggled for a while, the veins along your arms almost bursting out of the thin layer of skin left. Then, as your eyes adjusted you looked to me, and froze. I laughed, a ghastly laugh that reverberated round the room. Your eyes had rested upon the Butchers knife in my hand, which i had silently aqcuired from your own kitchen. with my other hand I pulled the metal trolley into your line of sight. The fear in your eyes doubled. At that moment I managed to feel despise. I despised you, the coward, the man who took pleasure in my death. You had lived your life confident that justice would not come. And now, now your own medicine would be served to you. I could see that you had closed your hands into fists, probably to stop me from cutting your fingers off, so I started with the ears. The blood spurted high into the air and rained down upon the concrete floor. You screamed silently into the rags, as your body spasmed, then as it relaxed I went for the fingers of your left hand. I repeated the process, waiting for the involuntary relaxing of your body till your fingers and toes were severed entirely.

Then I spoke to you. ‘Sometimes I start with the ears, sometimes it’s the fingers and toes, Then it’s the testicles!’ I roared as i swung the knife down and sliced your testicles off of your revolting body. I placed it on the trolley and brought the mallet down on it till it had become mush. Then as swift as you had once been, i brought the scalpel down across your throat, the crimson ichor spilling down the sides of your neck and pooling on the table. You gurgled in shock, your neck squelching as i pried it open with the tongs from your barbecue grill, and ripped the esophagus from its home.

Having finished placing the tongue, tonsils and esophagus in a jar, along with your teeth in another, I started up the chainsaw. This was the part I had looked forward to the most. The part where i plunge the chainsaw into your chest, watching as the blood flies everywhere, spattering against the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was wild seeing the blood fly, the colour of your pale skin slowly turning grey, the life flooding out of them. I used my abnormal strength to rip your rib-cage apart and then took my time, just like you. I used your liver as a pin cushion, your lungs as bags for numerous arteries and veins that throbbed feebly as their lifeline was cut. With your heart I strangled it till it popped the life dripping over and down my arms. Your kidneys, I placed in a blender and gave to the birds that came for food the next morning. But I wasn’t done.

I took the ice cream scoop and gouged your eyes out. I had saved them for last, because I wanted you, even in death to see what I did to you. I left the spoon protruding from your open mouth. I left your lifeless, ragged body strapped to the table as the flies began to gather for the feast I had left. I was seven when you stole me in the dead of night. I was seven when you slit my throat and took my life. I was still seven when I took my revenge at the witching hour and brought justice upon your twisted idealism.

‘Welcome to the Slaughter House.’

The Slaughter House II.

I realised, in darkness time has no place. Time has no value in darkness. I lay strapped down to the cold metal table in that foul-smelling room of blood, gore and horror. Mobility had returned long ago and my wrists had twisted and tugged at the knots with little to no result. My wrists ached, flesh had torn away in my restless struggle and the back of my bare feet had bruised from the attempts to kick myself free. You were nowhere to be seen, not since you had uttered your first, and last words to me before leaving me in perpetual darkness. My voice had been the first to return to me, but the sodden rough rags you had stuffed in my mouth gave it little use in my attempts to escape your deluded clutches. My muffled screams did not even reach a volume high enough that it would echo around the room. But that did not mean there was not sound. No. The flies could be clearly heard as they feasted on the rotting corpse you had chained to the wall, as the blood slowly dripped down from the ceiling. It was terrifying, the almost melodic rhythm of the red liquid as it spiralled to the crimson covered floor. Indeed, time has no value in darkness.

A sound. The familiar sound of the groaning and creaking wood of the stairs. Then a bright light, once again stinging my eyes. Then you. You the coward, the man who hides behind a mask. You who whispered of wanting to see my slow death, to revel in it. To marvel in the pain. You had returned. Despite the fatigue I found new strength as I began to fight the restraints once more. You chuckled, the sound grating in my ears. Then another noise, the squeak of wheels and clatter of steel on steel. I turned my head in the direction it had come from. It was a small metal trolley. A trolley of horror. For on it, was an array of knives, scissors and other various sharp utensils. A feeble whimper rose in my throat. You picked up a pair of scissors and twirled them in your hand. You were playing. For you this was a spectacle, and I was the specimen.

You began by cutting away at my clothes, the only thing protecting me from the chill of the room. You tugged the cut pieces out from beneath the ropes, from under my body, till I lay stark and shivering. Your hands, rough and covered in dirt, snaked their way over my body. Your vile fingers caressing my skin, snatching at my hair as I wriggled and squirmed at your grotesque touch. You laughed again, almost crooning as you molested my very being. You reached for the trolley. I watched in horror as you grabbed the butcher’s knife, the sharp edge gleaming in the light. In one swift motion you brought it down, and with a thud, I watched as blood squirted up on to the ceiling. You had butchered my testicles. I screamed and convulsed in my restraints as the paralysing agony raced up my body. Tears flowed free and fast from my eyes now. Your hands came back into my line of sight. One hand held the now blood-soaked butchers’ knife, the other held the remains of my mutilated manhood. You flung the remains at the walls, the impact creating a loud squelch as the soft mushy flesh hit the wall. You placed the knife on the trolley and picked up the scalpel.

‘I hoped you enjoyed your stay in the slaughter house,’ you drawled, ‘children always enter but they never leave. First, they lose their minds, then their body parts, one by one. Sometimes I start with the testicles, sometimes it’s the ears, then it’s the fingers and toes. These are the parts that have the least meat or juice in them.’ You broke off in to a mad maniacal laugh, the scalpel whirling in the air as your body laughed along. ‘But this time is different, because it’s you. The loud-mouthed brat that was loved by all. A perfect child they said, a nasty menace I’d say. Singing was your greatest gift. But not anymore.’ And with a swift stroke of your arm, you slit my neck. I gurgled in surprise, a flash of recognition in my eyes as I realised, I was dying. I wasn’t going to escape into my parents loving arms, to feel the sunshine warming my face once again. I was going to die, alone in this room amongst the decaying corpses and you. You, who at this moment was enjoying the pleasure of cutting my body open, taking the mallet to my rib cage and using your bare hands to tear my chest apart.

You giggled in joy as you pulled at my liver, plucked my lungs from their place and squeezed at my heart in your hands until it popped. You took your time after that, as with a pair of tweezers you peeled flesh from bone painted the walls of the room with my blood, all the while humming. Then, once you had enjoyed your fill of excitement and flesh, you left. Left my lifeless and empty corpse on the table, but as you turned the lights out you sang, ‘Thanks for the kidneys, I can make steak and kidney pie for my tea now. I’m sure it will be delicious. I do hope you enjoyed your stay at the slaughter house.’ 

Slaughter House

I was seven when you stole me from my bed at the witching hour. The clock striking thirteen as you silently slithered down the oak staircase of my home, past the old grandfather clock and out into the night. I could not move, not even as you rushed through the long forgotten victorian streets of London. My eyes flitted back and forth, earnest in their terror and fear to spot even the faintest beam of light through the fog. My one sliver of hope was stolen as you slunk into the shadows of the factories we passed. You made not a sound, not even as you opened the door to your destination. Not a sound as you flung my body onto the crumbling sofa, the dust bombarding my eyes as it rose and settled.

You stared out through the broken windows, a dark shadow, peering into the fog as if staring at an unseen enemy or foe. Minutes passed, and still i could not move, no matter how much i begged my body to leap to its feet and race for that door. To fly into the fog and vanish from sight before you could even notice. but it would not listen, my body. It lay still and unmoving, even as you abandoned your post and crept towards me. My eyes, blinded by the earlier dust gave me only a hazy view of your features as you gently lifted me into your arms. Male. Man. Abomination. Captor. Your aura was sinister, masked by the calming presence you portrayed. You carried me out of the dust covered room, and down a set of stairs. The stairs creaked and groaned as the decaying wood fought to hold our combined weight. Afoul stench reached my nose, as even in darkness you made it down into the pitch black depths of this house. You placed me down and I felt a sudden chill as my body touched cold metal. Then you vanished from sight. I strained my ears to hear the telltale signs of your breath or feet. my efforts remained futile.

A blinding, burning light lit up the room. My eyes watered as they adjusted to the light, then shut in fear. The reason for the foul aroma was answered. The room was dripping with the deep crimson blood. Blood snaked its way down the walls. I opened my eyes again, and the fear doubled. To the left of me was the remains of another child. His hands chained to the wall, his body caked in dried, crusted blood. His stomach had been cut open and the smell of decaying flesh eroded from it. But that wasn’t the worst you had done. The child’s eyes had been removed gouged out by a spoon. The spoon hung loose in the left socket, most likely kept their by the sticky gunk and rotted flesh.

The sound of footsteps came from the right. My eyes flashed right in fear and horror. It was You. In your hand you held rope. You stepped closer, your face now covered by a mask, as you gripped my right hand and looped to rope around it. I felt the roughness touch of your hands as you tightened the knot and tied my hand to the metal table I laid on. You repeated the process with my feet, then my other hand and finally two separate ropes for my knees and elbows, which you tied together. The ropes dug into my skin and I could feel the loss of blood going into my hands and feet. From a pocket you pulled out a rag and moved closer to my face. You forced my mouth open and pushed the cloth in as far as you could. I gagged on the dry material, but you weren’t done. You pulled out another rag and pushed that in aswell, before pulling out a final one which you tied round my mouth and the back of my head.

‘I had to tie you down,’ You rasped, ‘the drug wears off soon, and i don’t want you to leave. you’ll never leave. I want to see the colour of your blood, the fear in your eyes, the sweet melody of your muffled screams. I want it all. You will die, eventually.’ My eyes widened in terror at the sound of your voice as you left my side and switched off the light. ‘Welcome to the slaughter house child.’ You said, before laughing manically and leaving me in perpetual darkness.

‘Welcome to the Slaughter House.’

The Last Spring of Sakura. (part I)

April 1st 2019

Dear Wendy,

                Today is that special day again. My birthday, and the bloom festival. Every year the cherry blossoms bloom, and every year we celebrate with a festival. The local starbucks adds new cherry blossom style drinks and snacks. The street is decked out in pink hues and even the milkman gets in the fun. Although his milk is best avoided during the festival.

The Lily valley library is busy as always however. Only this morning I was strolling down the aisles and aisles of books, taking them out putting them in. I still wonder how a Stephen King book ends up in the baby’s section of the library. Every. Single. Time. Then there’s putting the books back with their respective author and series.  Lizzie asked me again today how I can stick with such a repetitive job. I said to her ‘Think of all the reading I can do and never get bored.’ Being the librarian is probably my favourite job. Actually wait, correction. It is my favourite job. Everyone in town knows me and I know everyone’s reading habits. Lizzie loves her romance stories (she still fantasises that some handsome charming man is going to sweep her off her feet and whisk her away from her job at starbucks). The milkman loves the science books, non-fiction. Might explain a few things. The kids love the fantasy and adventure sections of the library. The chef chooses recipe books and my old Ma comes in every now and then, just to read the newspaper rather than buying it from the shop.

There was a difference in the library today. Many whispers have been going around town of the newcomer in town. Sleek jawline, perfectly shaped hair, mesmerising eyes and the ability to let any woman who sees him faint. And any man to crack his knuckles. I had yet to meet him, Wendy, until today.

It was a quiet afternoon and we were getting ready to close shop. I was using the step ladder to put a book titled ‘The wanderer’ back in its place, when I lost my balance. He caught me. and I finally got my first look. His jaw was certainly sleek, his eyes innocent and wide. And his hair was a jet black sprawl. So at least one rumour was false. I’ll write down how our first meeting went for you Wendy. But I’ll tell you now, he stole my heart.

Him: Whoa, are you ok Miss?

Me: oh. Um yes I-I’m fine thank you. Thank you for catching me.

Him: I’m just glad you are not hurt. The name’s Axel. Axel Blake.

Me: um, hi Mr Blake. Um would you mind putting me down?

Him: oh! Right! Yes, I should do that. (awkward chuckle)

He put me down.

Him: sorry bout that Miss…

Me: My name is Sakura. Sakura Green.

Him: well, Miss Green you can call me Axel. I was wondering if you could help me.

Me: Of course Mr bla- Axel. What can I do for you?

Him: well I heard that this week is the Bloom festival. I wanted to make some cupcakes for the orphanage near my home, but I don’t know much about the festival. Or about baking.

Me: well, if you are looking for a book I’d suggest the cookbook aisle and the history of Lily valley section.

Him: thank you Miss Green.

He goes to the end of the aisle and looks left, then right. He turns back to me.

Him: where’s the cookbook aisle. And the history aisle. (awkward chuckle)

Me: (giggles) hang on. I’ll go with you or else you’ll be here till tomorrow.

Him: thank you Miss Green.

Me: please. Just call me Sakura.

The Last Spring of Sakura (prologue)

April 1st 1996

Dear diary,

                Today was my birthday! It was amazing, mummy and daddy got me a new dollhouse and big bro got me a toy unicorn! I had pancakes for breakfast, then we went to the burger shop with the big yellow M and I had burger and milkshake.

Then granny false teeth and grumps came round to share dinner. I got dolls for my new house from them and played hide and seek with granny’s teeth. I hid them in Daddy’s coffee. For tea we had pizza and a massive pink birthday cake.

I’m six now and my best friend Suzy got me you, Diary. I’m writing in you for the first time. Oh, daddy’s calling for my bath time!

I think I’ll name you Wendy. Hi Wendy, my name is Sakura.

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