The Bewitched Soul 11 His Hands Smell Like Her Blood.

David's eyes burned with tears as he remembered her words. His mouth tasted bitter, his eyes glazed over as he tried to contain his tears. He couldn't remember a time when he felt like he needed to weep. But now, it hurt... his heart hurt. It felt like it was crumbling inside his body. His leg almost faltered.

'Why? Why can't?

'Why can't she love me?'

Love breeds, pa.s.sion... pa.s.sion breed hatred. And his love had brought upon her his wrath.

Ten years have pa.s.sed, his hands still smell like her blood.

His guilt had been suffocating... his chest felt heavy. It was like an incessant throb in his heart. He had an intense desire to make amends. But it was too late. She was dead... he killed her. He could no longer stand her continuous rejections. In the past, he yearned for her, the violence of love for Emilia grew in intensity every day. He had seen her grow into a beautiful yet strong lady. She was the apple of his eye. But his unreciprocated love made him grow anxious... a desperate sadness enveloped him. Agonizing emotions crashed into him... and it felt as if he started the complete grief process afresh. Everything was fine until one day his whole world turned upside down. She fell in love with the Prince and David was not up to par with the Prince. He felt low... he felt incompetent. He could no longer indulge her rejection. He solemnly promised himself to become the strongest and win her heart back. He blindly fumbled his way to a destination that was forever out of reach.

The years of yearning for her got him nowhere. He was hurt... so badly hurt that he didn't think twice before stabbing her to death. Blood oozed out of her freshly sliced skin... her heart spilled blood which was bitterly satisfying for him. The rain had washed her body... forming a small river of blood was.h.i.+ng his feet.

Standing near the open window, swirling a gla.s.s of red wine in his hand... he reminisced their first encounter. Beautiful and young... she stood out of the crowd. Her fierce eyes were gentle... her soft bronze colored hair cascaded down her back. When she walked... her soft curls bounced against her back. Her oval face had prominent cheekbones which gave her a dauntless look. The gliding slope of her upper lips departed into the chasm in the sides reminding the fertility of life. Her lips were appealing. Her brisk walk projected confidence.

"Good morning... I'm Emilia Whitemore, a white witch", she bowed.

"David Hunt"

"Nice to meet you..."

"Likewise."

Their short encounter was enough to take his breath away. She was just there, close to him... so close that it was getting difficult for him to breath.

No one had ever succeeded in wooing him, but this lady had won his heart already.