Le Amor De Vampire: Part III
The Revelation
to: Jenna
The time to live up to one's commitment had come to be. And how much Mireille would hate herself for killing the only one she had ever come to love in such a way. With a feeling of regret, she slapped a magazine into the brain child of Carl Walther Waffenfabrik, as did Kirika; satisfy the hunger of Italian rage.
To the mansion of a vampire they went. In the garden lie and wait, guards with MP5s. Into the darkness they emptied magazines and from the shadows emerged, but a child, carrying no more than a Beretta, to deliver to each, his destiny.
Within the mansion proceeded a solitary woman, through a chapel, beautifully furnished with the fine works of art and architecture which the European artisans had mastered so skillfully. Questions racing through her head, she looked with desperate eyes, to the compassionate face of the Virgin and the suffering eyes of the Messiah on the cross, wishing for a second that she could have that which she did not. Through the house she wandered, admiring the lovely furnishings. Alone in a room, among the light of candles, she found, at peace, the only one who had ever brought her peace. Behind his back, the sound of a gun brought to question the mortality of an immortal. And as he turned, she lowered her weapon in mercy, and out of love, would spare him for a second.
He ran fast. And through his head, ran the visions and fantasies of a princess who surely did rule his heart. He saw Mireille, pure and untouched, a merciful and compassionate soul; and his heart broke at the realization that this was merely what he wanted to see.
So ashamed had become the soles of his Italian leather shoes, as he ran through an underground pipe, each step of his foot coming down hard into a small stream of water. From behind aimed a dark haired model of innocence; the hesitance at the cognitive and subconscious realization of Mireille's love would cost her her accuracy; and flawed would be the talents of a child like assassin, for the offspring of lead, born of her Beretta would not have traveled upon the wings of death. And now the immortal whose magnificent life, which lay humiliated in the radiance of his affection for an assassin, would be wounded, courtesy of an inaccurately placed 9mm round. The bullet lodged within his torso seemed the last of his worries as he hurried to an unknown destination with an unknown purpose. Then the obvious had struck him, he could have easily taken the life of his beloved Mireille at any time, for she was only mortal, and yet he could not, for his heart would dictate the dogma of his actions, and to steal her life away, so quickly and brutally, to do what was his very nature to do, was not in his power.
In his desperate attempt to save his immortal life, the feelings within him would be found. He stopped as such tender visions and revelations of internal reasoning materialized within the realms of cognitive thought, peeling off in layers, as his mind blossomed, a rose opening slowly and beautifully to unveil its blood colored center in which would be the pain of truth and the peace of delusion.
Out of man hole and into the morning sun he stood. As his attention again became focused on what he saw, he was brought back by a bittersweet sight, for before him stared the bride of death. And in the light of a morning star, their eyes locked, for the second time, and inside, all the love within and from the most sincere part of his soul, produced a look of profound sadness not even God would understand. Hand shaking, eyes glazed with the sweet tears of pain, Mireille did the only thing she knew how to do. She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Dropping to his knees, there was not an ounce of hate in his heart, and Mireille, in her tragic regret, rushed just in time to catch him in her arms. And as the warm crimson colored blood ran over her clean hands, she screamed, and all the tears in the world she surely did cry . . . and all the tears in the world could not wash away the blood on her hands or the guilt in her soul.
The Revelation
to: Jenna
The time to live up to one's commitment had come to be. And how much Mireille would hate herself for killing the only one she had ever come to love in such a way. With a feeling of regret, she slapped a magazine into the brain child of Carl Walther Waffenfabrik, as did Kirika; satisfy the hunger of Italian rage.
To the mansion of a vampire they went. In the garden lie and wait, guards with MP5s. Into the darkness they emptied magazines and from the shadows emerged, but a child, carrying no more than a Beretta, to deliver to each, his destiny.
Within the mansion proceeded a solitary woman, through a chapel, beautifully furnished with the fine works of art and architecture which the European artisans had mastered so skillfully. Questions racing through her head, she looked with desperate eyes, to the compassionate face of the Virgin and the suffering eyes of the Messiah on the cross, wishing for a second that she could have that which she did not. Through the house she wandered, admiring the lovely furnishings. Alone in a room, among the light of candles, she found, at peace, the only one who had ever brought her peace. Behind his back, the sound of a gun brought to question the mortality of an immortal. And as he turned, she lowered her weapon in mercy, and out of love, would spare him for a second.
He ran fast. And through his head, ran the visions and fantasies of a princess who surely did rule his heart. He saw Mireille, pure and untouched, a merciful and compassionate soul; and his heart broke at the realization that this was merely what he wanted to see.
So ashamed had become the soles of his Italian leather shoes, as he ran through an underground pipe, each step of his foot coming down hard into a small stream of water. From behind aimed a dark haired model of innocence; the hesitance at the cognitive and subconscious realization of Mireille's love would cost her her accuracy; and flawed would be the talents of a child like assassin, for the offspring of lead, born of her Beretta would not have traveled upon the wings of death. And now the immortal whose magnificent life, which lay humiliated in the radiance of his affection for an assassin, would be wounded, courtesy of an inaccurately placed 9mm round. The bullet lodged within his torso seemed the last of his worries as he hurried to an unknown destination with an unknown purpose. Then the obvious had struck him, he could have easily taken the life of his beloved Mireille at any time, for she was only mortal, and yet he could not, for his heart would dictate the dogma of his actions, and to steal her life away, so quickly and brutally, to do what was his very nature to do, was not in his power.
In his desperate attempt to save his immortal life, the feelings within him would be found. He stopped as such tender visions and revelations of internal reasoning materialized within the realms of cognitive thought, peeling off in layers, as his mind blossomed, a rose opening slowly and beautifully to unveil its blood colored center in which would be the pain of truth and the peace of delusion.
Out of man hole and into the morning sun he stood. As his attention again became focused on what he saw, he was brought back by a bittersweet sight, for before him stared the bride of death. And in the light of a morning star, their eyes locked, for the second time, and inside, all the love within and from the most sincere part of his soul, produced a look of profound sadness not even God would understand. Hand shaking, eyes glazed with the sweet tears of pain, Mireille did the only thing she knew how to do. She closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Dropping to his knees, there was not an ounce of hate in his heart, and Mireille, in her tragic regret, rushed just in time to catch him in her arms. And as the warm crimson colored blood ran over her clean hands, she screamed, and all the tears in the world she surely did cry . . . and all the tears in the world could not wash away the blood on her hands or the guilt in her soul.