Malec Shorts

Dripping Blood (Part one)

A/N: I tried a new writing style here. It is kind of weird, so feel free to skip this story. 

WARNING: If this makes you uncomfortable, please do not read. Like, this story is HORRIBLE. It includes murdering children.  This story is pretty morbid, with many mentions of death, blood, murder, insanity. It's an AU, none of this ever happens, please don't read if you don't want to. It's overall a complete wreck. Enjoy. 

Rose petals, blood, smoke. It was an interesting smell, not that it mattered. All the screams sounded the same, all the same, blending into a chorus of horror. The color of blood was such a nice color, although when most people associated it with something of major dislike, I didn't feel that way. Blood had stained the satin curtains of the house I now stood in. Such a nice color. Quite lovely.

Insane, I might be, but not if you chose to believe otherwise. Insanity has so many definitions, does it not? Is one crazy? Maybe only broken? Things break easily, they do. Hearts, glass, butterfly wings, the bones of my victims as I crush them in my bare hands. So fragile. Too fragile. Hearts were fragile, even more so than bones. Impossible, it's not. Love, so weak. Happiness, not real. Was it? I think not. Even if it was, it was too short-lived. 

The marks I left on my victims, yes, the marks, I almost forgot. I must leave my mark. Tell the world that, once again, they had failed to stop me from taking yet another life. My mark, as the news calls it, was simple enough. The mark of shattered love, they say. I would carve a heart into the skin of my victims, right on their cheek. The right cheek, every time. Then I would slice a line through its center. A broken heart, they called it. The broken heart of the murderer. The name they called me by, it was strange. They called me 'Bloody Rose.' Strange, yes, but who was I to change it? 

The rose petals. I picked a single petal from the blood-red rose in my hand, dripping my victim's blood onto it. Maybe that was where the name came from. I left the petal over the heart I had carved on the girl's cheek. 

I turned to face the security camera in the corner of the room, a smile plastered to my face. I winked at it. It didn't matter if they caught me on tape. They all knew my old name. Even so, the mask covered the majority of my features. 

Sirens. The police were getting quicker, I must admit. But sadly, too slow. Oh, how excited I was to see the look on their faces when they saw my latest victim. A girl, about seventeen, with fiery red hair. Oh, how her bright green eyes had grown in size right before I'd slipped my blade into her chest. The Chief of Police, whose name I couldn't quite remember, would be devastated to find I'd killed his daughter. 

And then telling his wife, oh, the joy it would bring me. For people to feel the pain I felt, still feel, every day as they took the one person from me whom I had loved. Oh, how I missed him, and they knew, if they had not taken the soul of those sweet, innocent, perfect green eyes with the yellow speckles, none of this would have ever happened. They had killed him. Killed him, burned him right on the stake-burned him-burned away my sanity, they say, and they knew, oh, they all knew. They knew. They knew the reasoning for my killings, they knew I had loved him. They knew my name, the name I had abandoned long ago. So, so long ago. The person I was before, he was dead. Gone. His essence burned away, the only thing left of him was the smoke from the flames and the ashes of my heart. The ashes, I knew, they kept in a jar. The ashes were not mine-of course-for I was very much alive. The jar, the jar I had smashed the day I had killed my mother, my sibling's expressions as I dropped the knife I had been holding, the blood- oh, how I loved the color of blood-staining the carpet of the place I had, so long ago, called home. How I had run that day, after staring at my dead mother in shock, my younger siblings, tears rolling down their faces. The screaming. The blood. How I had returned, killing my father. My siblings, they were very much alive. Alive, but not living. No, they hid. Under the protection of the police, they stayed. 

How old would they be now? Max, ten, eleven, maybe. And Isabelle-yes-I remembered Isabelle. I had loved them, he had. Truly. 

"Up here!" A shout rang in my ears, followed by the banging of a stampede of footsteps as dozens of police made their way up the stairs. I stood there, waiting for them to burst down the door. When they did, I only smiled, gestured at the body of the teenage girl, and leaped out the window of a ten-story building. 

Smarter, they were getting. This time, there were police surrounding the permitter of the building. They each had something in their hands; a gun, maybe? Yes, it was a gun. Luckily, it would be pretty hard for them to get me from here. 

I had landed, both feet, on a windowsill about halfway down the building. The police below were shouting, taking aim with their guns...

Bang! 

They all fired at once. Surprisingly, the bullets, most of them, at least, flew toward me. The window behind me shattered. Glass rained down on me. The police below seemed to be surprised. I hadn't moved. Why, oh why, I had stayed put? I smiled, a smile as dark and unforgiving as the original story of Romeo and Juliet. 

I disappeared into a shadow as the second round of bullets shattered more glass. Even those above me had started firing. I should probably leave, yes, that I shall do. Oh, but how I wished to see the chief tell his wife of the death of their daughter. 

But no, I could not stick around, for more police started to swarm into the room behind me, the room with the broken window. 

I had left the scene under the cover of darkness. Darkness, such a beautiful thing. Like the color of blood. Beautiful. 

The night was a cold one, the wind piercing my skin through the thin material I wore. My home, my safe haven, was somehow colder. It smelled, yes, it smelled quite horrible here, as the water ran through the thin stream, the rats skittered about in the dead of night, the quiet drip drip drip. It wasn't perfect, but it was home and had been for years. 

I had a bed, not one like most people would have, but a thin mattress I had fished out of a dumpster. It lay in the corner of the room. No one ever came here, and when the occasional construction worker would, I would kill them before they even saw me and drop their bodies somewhere in the middle of the street to scare the bystanders, with my signature mark on their cheek. Believe it or not, I even had a rickety television, using the water work's electricity without them even knowing. I flipped it on, watching the news channel. 

..."Bloody Rose strikes again. The victim, an eighteen-year-old girl, daughter of the Chief of Police, was found dead. The murder was spotted on the scene." The news reported was saying as a recording of the events of the night played on the screen. I stared at my own crystal blue eyes on the screen in front of me. I had nailed the smile. "For those of you who still don't know, Bloody Rose has been identified as twenty-one-year-old Alexander Lightwood. He is wanted all over the United States and has murdered seventy-three people so far this year. If anyone is aware of his whereabouts, please contact us at..." I turned the television off. Here they go again, trying to get people to turn me in, acting like I had alliances or something. It wasn't like someone would be friends with me, after what I had done. It was practically suicide, and everyone knew it. No, I had no friends, no one at all. But I was fine with it. Who needed friends if they were only going to ditch you for someone better than you at the first opportunity? Friends, yes, he remembered when he had friends. Not anymore. They were dead. Deserved it, too. 

I leaned back on my mattress, my arms crossed over my chest, and dozed off into a light, dreamless sleep. 

A/N: Part two will be up soon so yeah. Hope you enjoyed this but not really. :)