Chapter 1 - Agonizing Confession of a Dead Poets Heart

My bones convulse as if to escape my own skin as I complete this final letter, the harsh winds and tremendous rain making cracks in the walls around the old windows of the sanatorium. My old, withered hands grasp tightly to the quill as the guilt pours out onto this paper, the smooth red ink forever a remembrance of my past self, my past manners. I sit here at this table, the wood making an almost heart-thumping sound, the rest of my inmates long gone to rest, while I stay here, tormented by my own memory. By God, I was respected once, a name to all in the village, I dare to say that I was even loved by all. Alas, there was one love I yearned for more than anything; it was not the approval from my mother nor my father, but the adoration from the now ghost of sweet Margery, my once most cherished betrothed. The day she had come into my shop simply browsing for the reddest ink was way back when I was pure of heart, that day was as well as the day I saw the world for much more, saw that my words that we were once powerful, could fall dry in the sight of such art. From then on, I could only see her from afar, night after night, page after page, my letters and mind could only intend to be filled with my deepest love confession, till the day I found my courage and approached her. I remember well, my heart beating like the wild drums of the Heralds, as I approached the muse of my expressions in the farmers' market, jumping like an imbecile, only to be mocked.Laughed at like a fool, Cupid's wretched arrow viciously ripping my heart from the cage of my soul as I stare at the woman whom I had obsessed over. And if only I had learned that day on, letting go and accepting fate was my only option, I wouldn't have followed her, watching from afar again, but with the attention of a rabid dog waiting to attack. And had I learned to live with the loss of my love, I would have never followed my dear sweet Margery into the corridors of the monastery with my mother's most beloved kitchen knife glistening behind me in the dark, moonlit hallway, and I never would have struck her right in her back, the sound of her skin slicing open, the blood pooling around her collapsing corpse and the sound of the indivials veins slicing open being sounds of sweet music to my ears. If only I had learned, but I hadn't, so now I sit here, regret in my heart, and the strange beating of her heart in my chest as I conclude my confession before my passing.