Blood is Written in the Stars
(Intro)
By
Robby Richardson
The table was scattered with books and papers flew over the room as the window in my basement failed to remain closed.
It was always cold where I was now. My bones felt brittle as I gripped at my wrinkled hands noticing the dirt beneath them. My breath kissed the air as it wheezed out of my mouth. My basement had turned into a forced labor camp with paper covering every inch. My life was devoted to the ever long toil that consumed my life. The mission of my life and mission of my soul, it surrounds me like a blanket in days of cold. Grabbing my shoulders I shivered slightly as I raised my head when several of my own papers flapped across my very face. Grease sat upon my face like paste as my sunken eyes stared at my slave driver, “please just something to eat”.
A chill like a thousand pins scratched over my face, “alright, alright”! I shouted snatching at papers flying around me. I slammed them down on the wooden table. I ran my hands over my face my toil never ceased. I kept feeling his icy breath on the back of my neck, “I know,” I said, repeating it several times. I felt a jab in my side, “I’m searching as fast as I can . . . his tough to find”. The wind blew harder as I grabbed at every paper, “I am LOOKING”! I turn to see the slave driver as his wrangled cloak flapped in my decrepit basement, “He is tough to find. I told you he would be tough to find”. I knew my eyes were sagging as I raised my head and stared into the emptiness of his face. The cloak was pulled so high his feature remained distorted, that is if he had any features. He slammed his sickle on the ground as his figure raised too eight feet, mere inches from the ceiling. “I promise you I will find him and bring you to him,” the sickle hit the ground as the wind rose around me. I knew death’s patience was growing thin.
(To Be Continued)