Vivian’s Vengeance

I was once a cannonball swerving past every soul to try and annihilate the one that I held dear.

What was the point, one may ask?

I don’t know.

Maybe I feared the way she ignited the waning flame in me.

The one that permeated the warmth of joy.

The one that could thaw the frost of pain.

Vivian.

She was life, peace, love and all of that conflated into perfection. The good kind of perfection.

Maybe, I feared that.

So much so that I could not endure the tenderness of her presence and I snuffed her flame.

Yes.

I did that.

But her absence elevated my fatality.

I alleviate the pangs in my chest and my head with the demise of the extraordinarily ordinary.

Like the one before me today.

Her hair blowing gently with the summer breeze slowly congealing into slaps of vigorous wind currents.

Her eyes fixated on me as her lips parted in wonder.

She’s the ambience of a cavernous, ancient, dark, ominous library with shelves and a stairway of bronze and paintings of Greek Gods and Goddesses, the antique books on witchcraft and court romance, and a shimmering chandelier lighting the room.

She makes me want to lose my mind and read her like she’s ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ written in pirouetting calligraphy.

She’s a treasure trove of words so consequential and worthwhile.

But one must be on the vehement quest to hear them.

She’s the perfect dupe for my fall from grace.

But must I slither around her neck and lacerate her flesh for blood when she embodies Vivian flawlessly?

She emanates the same aura as hers.

Must I peculate the blood of a soul so congenial and make a pulp out of her throbbing organ so warm as Vivian’s?

Until her frame stood in front of my eyes.

I watch as she recoils in amazement upon eyeing the pigment of my iris.

What do I do when she stands there at a standstill and I face a dilemma?

Walk into joy’s horizon with her or lead her to my cavern of death?

Fool.

She follows me for I told her too.

Fool. Fool. Fool.

Mad, insane, lunatic, crazy, deranged, mental, bedlamite.

Bedlamite.

Vivian.

She asks my name. Why? Why?

Her voice sounds just as I imagined- an archaic fireplace with logs of wood burning with cracks and sizzles so euphonic and a grand, antique piano playing the Fur Elise.

She makes me want to lose my mind and listen to her like she’s Mozart’s 40th Symphony playing frivolously on my rainy days.

But I don’t.

I don’t because I’m meant to lacerate flesh like hers.

Oh, but must she have to remind of Vivian in each step?

I observe every detail of hers.

The way her eyes twitched and beads of sweat on her forehead formed profusely and her lips quivered as I disappeared out of her sight.

The way she hyperventilated and was about to retrace her steps in belief of having been delusional until I dug my canines deep into her neck.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t gasp. Doesn’t hiss. Doesn’t shriek. Doesn’t cry for help.

She closes her eyes. Slowly.

And I feel the frost inside of me thaw like how Vivian once did.

Her blood leaks with the hue of my eyes.

Her shamrock blood and my shamrock eyes.

I let go of her as I feel myself choke.

Vivian.

The perfect revenge.

Why must she face a homicide again when a human girl embodying her details could wreak vengeance on me?

I feel myself throttle as I watch the girl fall to the ground, frail and smiling.

And I ignite like the vent of a volcano as I turn into ashes steadily, dying the deserving death of a homicide.

And flashes of Vivian are all I can comprehend as she eyes me with her classic misty eyes, a stellar, cosmic nebulae; tears of stardust and words of my musings.

But it changes in an instant.

She smirks with triumphant eyes and tears of pain and joy to replicate words of my musings.

And I realize.

I could have either walked with her into her blinding, sunlit horizon of forever or faced this retribution.

I fade as she does too.

And left the girl with the memory of my homicide with a young clover as she deceased,

Much like how I nestled Vivian’s frame in my chest.

My body is a pyre of ash but my heart concealing her frame hasn’t, even slightly, creased.

Notes: Part 4 i.e. the FINALE of the ‘Shamrock’ mini series. Yayyy!