Alesana- The Emptiness Story

This is the official story that comes in the Alesana Album Booklet, so all credits go to Alesana obviously ＞︿＜ I'm so obsessed with Alesana, and this is my favourite album of all time xD so obviously I'm obsessed with this story >w< also I'm sorry if any of the words are wrong I'm reading off someone else's images of the booklet on tumblr o(TヘTo) can be found here btw: Alesana Story Booklet idek know if anyone is going to read this but I honestly idrc I just wanted it on my account ＞﹏＜ anyways if someone is reading this enjoy hehe >:3

The Emptiness Album Story Booklet

Prologue- I Handed You A Knife And My Heart

Her youthful flush color had drained from her much like the very blood from her veins upon the bedding on which she lay. Such a foul image for one to behold, but in some twisted way it only seemed to enhance her exquisite beauty, like a lily on a grave. Today is April 16, 1898. I am a sketch artist who lives in a small town called Slough, which is situated nineteen miles west of Charing Cross on the outskirts of Greater London. I am here to tell you a story. A story that will torture your thoughts by day and poison your dreams by night. And though I will do my best, there are no words that can be written nor brush strokes laid on canvas that could describe the stark and utter horror of the night that Annabel died. The emptiness will haunt you...

Chapter One- Empty Eyes Accuse A Face So Evil

My eyes open to the sting of sunlight. Something is wrong. Not the kind of wrong you feel when you first wake from a bad dream, but something truly evil. A feeling of panic and desperation courses through my veins with such urgency that I leap from my bed with no regards for the bedpost that my head will inevitably strike. What is that smell? So unfamiliar. The only thing I recognize in its musk is Annabel, but it's as if something so profoundly putrid is masking its usual tantalizing odor. Why am I shaking? Am I wrong about the dream? Perhaps I'm trapped in the final seconds of a nightmare so horrific that even as I stand here awake I cannot escape its grasp. A sip of water and a moment to gather myself should help me put the pieces together. Where was I last night? What did I do? I remember dinner, drinks, laughter. I remember making love to Annabel. I remember drawing. Yes, my sketch, my latest masterpiece. Oh, I cannot wait until my sweet love lays her eyes on my finest achievement to date. It will please her so very much. I should wake her, I'm too excited to let her sleep any longer.

I reach out to gently shake Annabel from sleep and find my hands are covered in blood. The smell, the shaking, the panic. Against my will, I turn my gaze toward the horrific scene lying in the bed only inches from where I slept. The harsh reality of what I am seeing washes over me as I fall to my knees screaming, crying, vomiting. This cannot be happening. I am still asleep, I never woke up. I will crawl into bed, wrap my arms around my sweet Annabel, and in the morning wake to the gentle caress of her lips. With every bit of my strength, I pull myself into the bed and move slowly next to the woman with whom I have shared the last seven years of my life. It was at this very moment that I notice the painfully angelic beauty of her eyes. So gentle, so forgiving, and now in this seemingly endless instant, perfectly still. Her once lush, glowing skin is now drowning in a pool of crimson.

I’m not entirely sure what attracted my attention to the mirror on the wall. I’m not saying that if I hadn’t seen my reflection on that fateful morning that things would have gone differently in the end. All I know is that until the day I die I will never sleep again. In revealing the mystery behind the final hours of Annabel’s life, the old, cracked mirror that has hung in my bedroom for as long as I can remember made one thing perfectly clear. I, the Artist, had killed the only love I will ever know, Annabel.

Chapter Two- Sweaty Hands Will Fail To Lock The Door

A mirror never lies. They know. Everybody knows. Do you not see what they see? A mirror never lies. I see what they see. Everybody knows. Everybody knows.

I have always been fascinated by the definite and complete power the human mind possesses over what eyes behold. Somewhere in the spawning of thousands of synapses and possibilities, the brain sometimes deciphers quite improbably and incorrectly what the eyes have actually witnessed. These are the very thoughts I cling to as I stand over my beloved Annabel’s body lying in a sanguinary nightmare.

My ears are embracing hope. I swear she is telling me secrets in only the faintest whisper. My skin crawls as I pace the room only to be followed closely by her motionless eyes. Knowing that to stay here in the presence of my sin would surely cause me to go mad, I resolve to move the corpse. Resisting the urge to kiss her undoubtedly ice cold lips, I wrap the remains neatly in the blood soaked linens of the bed and bound her with what various lengths of rope I can find.

Even as I drag her body through the corridors of the house and down the flight of stairs that lead to the basement, I am still in denial. This is all an elaborate prank. I’m going to re-enter the bedroom to the sounds of laughter and happiness. “We got you!” they’ll scream. Jesus, this body is heavy, and where in this dingy, dark basement am I going to store a goddamn dead body? I think I remember seeing an axe down here. Maybe if the body was smaller I could shove it under the loose bricks of the floor.

On the brink of absolute hysteria, I race back to the upper floor and latch the door, forever sealing my dear Annabel in her final resting place. With my back to the heavy oak of the ancient door, I let myself slide down to the floor and try to collect myself once more. Muffled screams echo the halls, sure only to be my very dead lover come back to life. Howling as she grapples with the restraints that bound her body she will race up the stairs and into my arms, showering me with kisses of forgiveness. I can no longer handle this place of terror. Not certain where I am to go, I must only be sure that I run far away from here. After all, they’ll be here soon.

Chapter Three- It Was Your Poison Kiss That Turned Me Into This

My feet cannot move fast enough. I have no clue where I am, I only know that I have been running so long that I can barely breathe. Sweat is pouring down my face and, mixed with the tears that have not let up for what feels like hours, I can no longer see more than a few feet in front of me. If only my body would stop convulsing then maybe my mind would be able to rest and figure out how the hell this has happened. Why did I kill Annabel? How could these hands have slain the only thing I have ever truly loved? Well, besides my art, my sketches. Nobody can ever take that from me, not even myself. They will live on inside me forever.

I guess I would have an easier time coming to grips with Annabel’s death if not for the fact that she has been right next to me for the entirety of my run since leaving the house. Has her voice always been so monotone, distorted, dead? This is not the voice of an angel that I have shared conversation, laughter, and song with for so many years. A beautiful voice that I longed for every day. As I amble from this nightmare, all I can think about is how I wish she would just shut her mouth. Why is she here? Her insistence is starting to make me believe that she deserved what happened to her. Sure, she was ravishing. Stunning, actually. But that does not mean she lived without faults. None of those are coming to mind right now, but believe me they were there.

Maybe if I just tell her what she wants to hear then she will leave me the hell alone. The only problem is that I’m not sure I know how to live without Annabel. She was the love of my life. I haven’t slept alone in nearly a decade. What if I try to fall asleep and just lie there with my eyes staring at the ceiling until my heart gives out and I join her in death? Annabel is the kind of beauty that you marry and cherish for the rest of your life, not the kind of memory that you bury in the bottom of your soul. Or worse, the bricks beneath the basement of your house. Still, the more I run and think, think and run, I can draw only one conclusion: She asked for it. Her poison lips kissed me one too many times and caused me to go insane. Yes, that’s right. An hour ago I would have thought that I was crazy to believe such a bizarre theory, but now in the setting sun with the soft rain beating my already saturated face, the cold air singing my nostrils with every breath, and my aching legs carrying me closer to what I now see as a town on the horizon, I am forcing myself to believe this one and only possible truth. Leave me alone, Annabel. You got what you deserved. If you are looking for peace, resolution, fine. I did it all for you, it was all for you. You are the only girl I’ve ever dreamed of. Are you satisfied?

Chapter Four- My Thirst For Blood Turns Me On

The depth of a man’s soul cannot be measured in a manner of meters and fathoms, but it is rather in my opinion only quantified by his proximity to heaven and hell. It was in such a state that I ushered myself past the town tavern, bursting at the seams with the sounds of laughter and drunken piano playing. Had it only been a different night, a different place, or a different kind of man passing by the thresh hold of that innocent pub, the events that transpired at that point would have undoubtedly been drastically different. I can only guess if anyone outside of that place had a clue, when those exclamations of mirth became the desperate screams of the helpless begging for their very lives.

 The pub door hammers shut behind me as I struggle to steady my breathing and walk casually up to the bar. My eyes dart from one patron to another trying to ascertain whether or not they had seen me lock the door as I’d entered. It seems that every one of the townsfolk here tonight have been enjoying themselves quite a bit, given the loud and indiscernible speech that is stumbling out of each and every mouth in the room. I order a whisky but merely trace my finger around the rim of the glass as I take in the layout of the place and achieve an accurate head-count of those present. Ah yes, seven. What a lucky number, seven. I have always wondered why that number was considered to bring good fortune. Maybe it is something that has been traded off from one religion to another over the years, or perhaps it dates all the way back to the Mayan sun calender. Either way, I almost bark out a laugh as I think of how very unlucky these particular seven are on this special evening. With that, I rise from my seat and calmly walk over to the man I have chosen to be the first. The first step towards my recovery. The first step towards my ultimate ascent. The first step I will take in my quest to reunite with my lover. But not my first kill. Oh no. That distinction belongs to Annabel.

I can feel my skin tingling as this poor soul’s red-rimmed eyes try to focus on the figure that now stands before him. The miscreant seems to be on the cusp of opening his mouth and questioning me as to what my business is when I swiftly and unceremoniously unsheathe my blade and slash his throat with such ferocity that he spins a full one hundred and eighty degrees before falling to the poorly crafted wooden floor. One by one the unlucky seven seven shall fall. Their only crime on this day was to stumble into this exact tavern mere moments before I arrived. Should I really be doing this? After all, these people have not done anything to me to deserve this punishment. Oh well, I’ll let god sort out the mess. Besides, I have to speed this up and get back to my glass of whiskey. Annabel, my love, it appears I am going crazy without you.

In hindsight I will realize that if I had never tipped my head back to swallow the last drops of that cheap whiskey, I would have never caught a glimpse of the man who had seen everything as he escaped quietly from the balcony.

Chapter Five- I Immerse Myself In Sick Reflection

I’m not entirely sure who I saw on the balcony. In fact, I have not even the slightest clue, nor do I care. As I slam my glass down, my curiosity turns to the woman I see in the reflection of the mirror hanging lazily behind the bar. I jump to my feet and search the room but she is nowhere to be found. I return to my seat but see only my own reflection in the mirror. I tell myself it was my imagination, but I know what I saw. I wouldn’t even think twice of the vision if not for the stunning resemblance to my Annabel. But that’s crazy, that’s impossible. Annabel is dead. Enjoy the moment. Oh, the visions inside my head. Oh, what little regret I have.

One thing I am more than certain of is that I have never felt so alive. Killing Annabel, and the seven pathetic souls here tonight, just may be the best decisions I have ever made in my life. I feel eerily calm and full of elated energy all at once. I do fear I may be losing my grip on reality, but is that entirely bad? I obviously was not happy before any of this. Why else would I have done any of this? Which reminds me, I have not even had the urge to pick up my sketch book, not once since any of this began. As I recall, Annabel always said that sketch book would be the end of me so I guess its a good thing that I left it behind. Yes, its all starting to make sense. I see more clearly now. This experience has taught me that I do not need to rely on my art to define who I am, my purpose in life: And let’s be honest, this is way more fun.

I step outside of the bar and into the morning sunlight. I have been inside longer than I realize because as I recall it was completely dark outside when I bolted the door shut several hours earlier. The air is much cooler now than I remember it being upon my arrival, but then again I had been running for miles. A local merchant across the way offers me a smile and a polite greeting which I return without even a slight hesitation. Funny, I wonder if he realizes that he just smiled at a cold-blooded killer? I descend the stairs and bump into a young woman who is toting a little girl, her daughter I imagine. The woman greets me but the child keeps her distance, hiding behind her mother’s leg. Kids are a lot smarter than people realize. Even here in the broad daylight I am tempted to once again draw my blade and wreak havoc on the town.

The only thing that stops me is the stunning revelation that absolutely nobody near or around me has any clue what happened inside the tavern last night. To them I am just some guy pursuing the town, maybe looking for some breakfast, or perhaps a tailor to hem my suit, or a blacksmith to help with my horses ailing feet. Whatever the reason for their ignorance, the deception grips my psyche stronger than my urge to kill again.

In the reflection on the window in front of Mitchell’s Diner I once again see the woman from the mirror. By God, she looks like Annabel. Could it be? Is she alive? Is this a dream after all? Will I wake soon and find myself lying by her side? Hah, I really have lost my mind. I shut my eyes and once again the pleasure strangles me. Good morning, town. Behold, for I am the will of the reaper and I am standing closer to the edge than I should be allowed.

The uncontrollable urge to leave comes suddenly as I clutch myself in bed at the Inn where I had decided to spend the evening. I need to run far away from her. In the eyes of the town, I’m just a local passerby in need of a day away from home. I will not be missed, I will not be remembered. But what about the mother and her daughter who had seen me leave the bar? The gentleman who had smiled and waved will likely remember my face. Tormented by these thoughts, and plagued by a soft singing on the wind that sounds all too much akin to the rich voice of my departed love, I decide I’ve had enough, spring up, and surge out into the night racing through the streets and eventually out into the countryside.

Without a clue as to my destination, I feel as if I am being pulled along on a string by some unseen force in the night air, and all at once the rain begins to wreck down upon me. A bolt of lightning illuminates the night sky revealing the hills ahead of me, upon which sits the house where Annabel died. Crippled by the overwhelming rush of guilt flooding through me, I fall to my knees and weep. What have I done? I cry out to the heavens and beseech for forgiveness, direction. My prayers are immediately greeted by the laughter of a shadowy figure looming before me. As if daydreaming indolently on a summer day, the stranger leans against the door to my home seemingly without a care in the world. I watch the man who mocked my cries stand perfectly still, not moving an inch. Although I had only caught a glimpse of him last night in the tavern, I had no doubt as to the identity of the phantom standing on my front porch. The only question remaining was what had brought the man from the tavern balcony to my remote house in the woods?

Chapter Six- Her Somber Silhouette Dances For Me

If only we could bury the memories of the ones we love with the very bodies we put in the ground. A cold way to look at it, I know; but this would save us from ever grieving the ones we are trying to forget. I only say this because of the extraordinary and queer things that had began to occur as I carried on around the town.

I see Annabel everywhere; in the windows of this shop or that, in the market for just a moment before slipping out of view, on Taylor street just before rounding a corner. It is slowly but surely wearing me down like the waves upon the sand and I have no clear notion of how to stop it. The last twenty-four hours have been exhilarating but I cannot fight the feeling that things are not quite as they seem. The man on the balcony, slipping out the back door like a criminal in a Shakespearian play; the woman in the mirror, taunting me with her ghastly stare; and now the torment of seeing the woman I love around every corner: Who am I kidding? Why did I think I could lie my way through this? I never meant to hurt Annabel, and it certainly was not her fault that I had. This is not who I am. I am not a killer.

With a confident swagger that only magnified my own fear and confusion, the man on my porch, the man from the balcony, began playing with something in his hands. Another flash from the heavens revealed he was holding the very knife that I had seen the night that Annabel died. The weapon that tore the soul from her body, the blade that had convinced me I had murdered my love and thus twisted me into the maniac I had become was now mere inches from my face, in the hands of the same monster who had so maliciously wielded it. Oh dear, sweet Annabel tell me I’m forgiven. Say everything is over, tell me I’m fine.

With another flash of light, The Thespian vanished.

Chapter Seven- My Feet Are Slipping

He killed my Annabel, I know that now more than anything. I must find out why he killed her, and why he allowed me to live. Maybe this is a game for him. Whatever the cause may be, he is a dead man. He must pay for what he has done to my love, for what he has done to me. Sitting here in the rain is accomplishing nothing. I must get up off my knees and remember the man I used to be before the nightmare began. I will not rest until I find him.

The night sky feels as though it has never been darker. With the fleeting hope of vengeance compelling me I will attempt to recollect myself and resume my chase. But what is it that I am chasing? Am I really chasing anything at all? Or am I simply drowning myself in revenge to avoid the horrifying truth? I’ve lost the only thing that made me feel truly alive. Are my hands responsible? Are his? Who was he? Who was the madman that stood before me tonight? I swear I’ve seen his face before. I know I’ve seen his face before. Even if I find him and kill him, what good will it do? It will not bring my Annabel back. Killing him will not erase what he has done and bring her out from her tomb in the basement. A tomb that my hands are responsible for creating. There is only one clear solution. I must go to her. I must rejoin her on the other side.

It takes me an hour to walk all the way back to town. Being here again is like returning to the scene of a crime. The air feels thick and it seems hard to even breathe. Every person who passes by fills me with rage. So much smiling, so much happiness. Hell, at this point I would settle for complacency over the tangled mess that my life has become. Every moment that comes and goes is accompanied by the urge to pull out my knife and slaughter this entire town. If I’m going to die, why not have some fun on my way out the door? The coroner will certainly have his hands full tonight when I am through, that is of course if he is not among the dead. My hand is anxious and resting on the hilt. An unsuspecting man is within my reach and I can almost taste the thrill all over again.

I’m losing focus. I must remember the man I was, not the man I have become. I must remember Annabel, her touch, her smile, her breath. I must focus on her and the love we shared in life, and can once again experience in death. But if I do decide to follow through with this and end my life, who will remember me? Will anyone remember me? Honestly, who cares? Nothing matters without Annabel.

I stumble weary and defeated to a nearby alley. I fall to my knees and look towards the sky. I am ready. I know that my place is not here on earth without her, but rather in heaven beside her. Sweat is pouring down my face and my hands are shaking. Would someone please distract me? There is no-one left to talk me down. Can I really get through this? For better or for worse, remember me forever. I draw the knife from it’s sheathe and slowly bring the tip of the blade to my throat. Just as I find the strength to go through with it, the woman from the mirror appears and all thoughts of revenge and death and mistakes just seem to completely vanish. I was right all along. The woman from the mirror was my Annabel.

Chapter Eight- Dead Girls Don’t Just Appear Out Of Thin Air

The shock of seeing the woman from the mirror must have caused me to pass out because the next thing I remember is waking up in an unfamiliar bed in an even more unfamiliar house. The events of which I can only assume happened yesterday have drained me nearly to death. My head is pounding and it hurts like hell to open my eyes. After shaking loose the cobwebs from my head I stand from the bed and walk over to the dresser where I can see a note has been left for me. The letter invites me downstairs for a meal and it is at this point that I realize I haven’t eaten in nearly two days.

The entire way down the stairs my mind was begging for this woman to be Annabel, but in my heart I knew she was not. On my knees in that alley I had begun losing blood and was about as far from a rational thought as a man can possibly be. I was clearly hallucinating as I saw my savior walking towards me, and that is exactly what this mystery woman is, my savior. I would not be alive at this moment if not for the kindness of this stranger. I round the corner at the bottom of the stairs and for a brief second I am unable to move. The woman standing in the kitchen is the spitting image of my deceased lover. I could stand and stare for hours and in the end would still be convinced that the woman from the mirror was my Annabel, but still my heart knew the truth. This woman could only be an angel sent from heaven to save my life, to make me realize that there are reasons to keep living.

We sit in complete silence as I eat the food she had so kindly prepared for me. Afterwards, I finally speak and ask if she would like to go for a walk. She says nothing, but simply nods her head in approval. Even though she remains quiet, I can feel her eyes on me. She looks at me the same way I would look at Annabel, with complete love and adoration. Our walk seems to last for hours. She listens as I explain exactly how I had ended up in that alley with a knife to my throat. At no point does she make me feel wrong or evil, she simply listens. She asks me if I believe in love at first sight, and I tell her that I knew from the first second I laid eyes on Annabel that I would love her forever.

We spend the evening by the fireplace, sharing stories of our past, our fears, our expectations. Being with her makes me completely forget the nightmare my life has become. Maybe this is exactly what I need; someone to fill the empty void that the loss of Annabel has left inside of me. I can no longer resist the urge and I lean forward to kiss the woman from the mirror, but she is no longer there and I fall to the floor. It takes me a moment to realize what has happened, where I am. I shuffle to my feet and realize that I am still in the alley where the woman from the mirror had found me, on my knees one step away from death. It was all a dream, an illusion. The woman who nursed me back to health had been Annabel after all, but she existed in the only place where I will ever see her again.

Chapter Nine- It’s Happening Again, It’s Happening Again

As I round the corner back into the street, I once again see Annabel in the reflection of a window in front of a local butcher shop. She has come to say goodbye, it is time to say goodbye. Unlike the mirror in the bar, this time Annabel smiles. I stand there in the middle of the street, eye locked on the once so beautiful eyes of my lover. I stay there just long enough to see her smile fade, the blade drag slowly across her neck, her body fall to the floor, and The Thespian reveal himself as he stands laughing over her lifeless body. Once again, my Annabel is gone, slain by the hands of a madman.

I wandered the streets of that town for days and days following my third encounter with The Thespian. I would sit and stare into any and every reflection I could find hoping for another glimpse of my Annabel. He had somehow managed to take her from me yet again. I know it seems impossible, but he stole her from my mind. My memories of her are slowly disappearing one by one. I know she existed, and I know she was amazingly beautiful and kind and devoted, but I can no longer remember exactly what she looked like. It’s as if he erased a part of my memory that day when I left the alley and stared into the store window.

As my mind begins to focus I realize something very odd. I have been traipsing around this town for God knows how long and still not a single person has accused me of anything. Nobody has given me so much as a dirty look. Is it possible that the bodies were never discovered? Could the bodies I had tortured in an unfathomable rage have somehow stood up and walked out the front door, back into the arms of their loved ones? I decide to retrace my steps back to the unforsaken tavern, the site of my macabre masterpiece. I arrive shortly thereafter and upon entering, I see only one problem: The pub is business as usual. There are people laughing, drinking, celebrating, drowning the sorrows of everday life. I murdered seven people in this bar and it’s as if it never happened at all. Feeling confused, defeated, I take a drink of whiskey and come to the realization that I should muster the courage to return home. It is stime to forgive myself for what I have done and what I have allowed to happen.

What transpired after this I can only describe as a waking nightmare, the utter most materialization of my greatest fears. Annabel has returned to the mirror in the bar, but she is now only a distorted image poorly arranged in my mind. She looks at me with utter disgust, her eyes go wide in abject horror. The room turns ice cold as she whispers the words, “you let him kill me.” She tips her head back revealing a gaping knife wound while blood froths forth from the bubbling wound where her poreclain neck had once been. Her mangled body crumples into a heap upon the floor of a now sullied sanctuary.

It has become all too clear that I am not meant to ever have peace. What brought this madman into our lives? How long had this beast watched us before he claimed his prey? How had he so perfected the art of hatred? How did he know exactly how to hurt me so deep that the wounds were seemingly beyond repair? How has he managed to find a way to alter my thoughts, my memories? Despite his apparent ability to remain one step ahead, there is one thing he does not realize: He made one crucial mistake. He underestimated the evil he has created inside of me. I will hunt him down with the unholy power he, himself, has imbued within me. Throwing on my overcoat I set out in to the night with one purpose; to kill the man who killed Annabel.

Chapter Ten- You Have No Clue What What She Is Capable Of

The concept of time is one of the more curious things that a man has ever invented, for what is a second to the Earth? We measure it in manners of minutes and years, lifetimes and generations, centuries and millennia, but how do we calculate the length of the day that you know you are going to die? This and much more I ponder as I stalk through the many forgotten alleyways of the city, ever vigilant and searching for the man who seemed to be born of the darkness itself. I had spent the day reasoning out the areas that he was most likely to inhabit, immersing myself deep into the mindset of a killer capable of unthinkable horror.

After a great deal of fruitless efforts, the sun begins to wane in even stride with my hope of finding the man I’ve come to call The Thespian. One dead end leads to another in a monotonous chain that slowly but surely wears me down and threatens to extinguish the smoldering wrath that is keeping me in pursuit of vengeance. Night falls and the bleakness of my quest is moments from fastening itself completely to my soul when I see a shadow cross the alleyway before me. I would not have noticed it if not for the remote but proud lantern light reflecting from the exposed blade of his weapon; the knife that will haunt me forever. Surely he was off to quench his bloodlust once more on this night, yet little did he know that the hunter had now become the hunted.

I stalk through the mazes of stone after him with caution and purpose, knowing very well that to lose the element of surprise was to meet my doom. The stench of blood upon him was so pungent it made my stomach turn, still I inched closer and closer. I was not brought up in the woods only to be scared by an owl. We crash together like wild beasts locked in a frenzy of mortal combat, dancing with death itself. Sharp, hot pain lances through my back as I miss my mark, but he clearly does not miss his. Dear lord what have I done? I try to muster the strength to get up before he finished me but my limbs feel leaden, and shortly after, paralyzed. Soon the suffocating darkness begins to give way to a lazy brilliance in my mind’s eye. My thoughts are a tangled mess unable to make sense of anything.

Suddenly, a voice echos through the night, the soft soothing voice of a woman with a tongue of honey. I never for one second doubted the owner of a voice so angelic; it was that of my dear Annabel. “Sweethear? Darling?” She whispers. “Turn around. It’s me. Follow my voice. Everything is going to be okay, my love. Everything will be fine. It’s all over now.” The sound of her voice awakens my mind one final time. I stay alive long enough to find that I am standing in my bedroom, staring into the very same mirror that had led me to believe that I had killed my lover. Everything was as it had been on the night that Annabel died, with one small exception: Annabel was not lying lifeless in the bed. The mirror had revealed to me its deepest secret. There she was, my sweet Annabel, covered in blood standing behind me, twisting the blade she had plunged into my side. I had promised her the world and still I had let her down. The darkness returns and I shall never see this world again.

Epilogue- And Now The Dream Is Over

My name is Annabel and I am here to tell you a story of the day that I killed a madman.

There is nothing more frightening than watching the man you love try to kill himself. The exception is watching the man you used to love turn into a complete and utter lunatic.

The sketches were always odd. Sometimes I had a hard time understanding how a man who was seemingly so sweet and loving and caring could possibly conjure the images that were scratched onto the paper in that God forsaken book. Occasionally, I would find him sitting alone in the corner, pencil and book in hand, and he would be talking to himself. Not in a motivational manner, or a contemplative manner, but it would sound as if he were actually holding a conversation. I would be too scared to inturrupt him, and if I ever mentioned what I had witnessed he would shrug it off and say that I must have been mistaken, confused by what I had seen. I could see his grasp on reality was slowly slipping away.

The man I loved was no longer present in his eyes. I could no longer feel the love he once held for me in his heart. And when we spoke, it was as if he were a complete stranger. He would mutter complete nonsense about seven people in a tavern, a beautiful angel saving his life, and some man he called The Thespian ruining everything. The more distant and incoherent he became, the more I paid attention to his sketches. They were becoming increasingly more violent and disturbing. On the evening of April 16th, after he had fallen asleep, I decided to take his sketch book into the den and look for any sign of why his behavior had become so peculiar. My discovery paralyzed me with fear.

I did not kill my love. The man that I loved, that I shared my life with, laughed with, cried with, was long gone. No, I did not kill him. He killed himself. He killed himself when he allowed the madman inside his head to take control. I spent years watching in silence as his illness spilled onto the pages of that damn book. Is it my fault? Was there something I could have done to prevent his descent into insanity? In the end, should I blame him or blame myself? Did he ever think the sketches would take over completely? Did I? No, the man standing, staring blindly into the mirror in front of me is not my love. I said goodbye to him nearly a year ago. If he does still exist somewhere inside of this demented mind; I’ll be damned if I can find him. The son of a bitch standing here is the man who killed my love and stole all that I hold dear. He is the crazy bastard who found shelter in the mind of an artist and escaped onto page. The knife that this creature had thought would kill me had failed. The very knife that I now hold in my hand.

By Alesana