Forgive me if I write this note in blood, for I have no ink with which to stain these pages. Thus, I pour myself upon them for you. Everything is for you.

My arteries have an endless supply of the stuff, even if it is not always my own, rich and unctuous. I would prefer the midnight depths of black, but what choice do I have? This place is ill-lit and blood shines brighter.

People take notice when words stand out from the crumpled, milk-white pages of another ruined book. They eye them not with the same suspicion as leaking red, but as though written by a doctor, important and necessary etchings. I am not a doctor, though. Nor am I necessary. I have been told this my entire life.

It has taken so long to slice the required vein, to drain myself, that I have now lost the will to write. I could record my voice, shout even, but the written word is so much more preferable. Dickens’ and Shakespeare’s works would not carry the same kudos if unavailable to the masses. Damn this endless malaise!

Hours have slipped past. I have no words left to impart. Unless I have, and you read them already, here and now. But words must carry details, information, promises and rewards. These words carry only doom. I apologise for this. Doom is in my nature.

I close the book. Stitch up my wound. Mire in melancholy just a little longer. But time is something I have, and it avails an afterthought.

I reach up from the depths and twist a star; they never like this. The brilliant beam of molten silver this act avails makes it all worthwhile. I step out into this mercury spotlight and steal said luminance. Or displace it, I’m unsure which?

Only light reveals me, for I am the darkness it would otherwise banish. Light is always the key, not words, nor books, nor me. And I realise as I hum a tune to the other so high above that I don’t need to leave a note. I am not required to forewarn you. Eventually, we shall meet regardless, and you and I can share as many words as we want for as long as we want. Or not.

I bow to Eternity. I wave to Infinity. Neither wave back. I then depart stage down.

‘Death has left the building!’ I wish to scream.

Instead, I snigger at those pathetic fools I wished to please, to reassure, to inform. Death never leaves the building, you see. He, by which I mean me, just waits outside the door.

Now, I am home. I am bleeding freely, if inwards, not out. Perhaps I shall write about it. After all, I bleed only for you.

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Thanks for reading

Richard

Richard M. Ankers