Culaki

I lay bleeding. A knife was buried deep into my chest. The pain was near intolerable, yet I couldn't go back now. It was too late for me. The knife had pierced my lung. Soon sweet death would take me in its loving embrace. I thought of what drove me to this suicide. Him. It was his fault. I loved him, But my love had been wasted. He loved another, who would not love him. I knew not who he loved. I heard footsteps. I looked up, it was him. He bent down and gasped, "It's you. The one I love. Why did you do this." "What do you mean?" "You were the girl I loved." My pain began to lesson, And I was sure I was dying. Sudden

Sorrow is the world's secret. You never know it, until it takes over, And by then, it's too late. Pain and death dominate it, Fear and jealousy help it. It's there, plain as the moon, But we're to blind to see it.

Another death. The fifth prostitute killed in the past three months. Hopefully the last. Jack the Ripper, as we dubbed him, had struck again. I walked to the room were the body lay. On the bed, blood soaked the mattress. There were apparent slits with a knife across most of her body. As I examined the scene, I thought of what it must have been like in her shoes that night. It was Friday, a usually busy day in a prostitute's line of work. It was November 9, 1888. There had been a string of murders in the area, and Mary Jane Kelly, also known as 'Marie Jeanette' Kelly or 'Ginger', was worried. However, she had bills to pays. She was weeks behi

What have I done? I looked at the slain body of my husband, and as I did so a sudden exhilaration spread through me. I had killed someone; and it felt wonderful. It was at that moment I realized: I would kill again. You see, it happened like this: I had came home from my job about an hour before I usually did to surprise my husband, but instead he surprised me, a surprise that caused his death. I caught him with another women. The women ran home and left my husband to fend for himself. "You!" I screamed, "How could you do this to me? I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the chef's knife from the drawer. I went ba

Disconnected, racing thoughts passed through her mind. Will I die today? Will they let me out? She looked up and stared at the ceiling. She then looked over to the small bedside table that they had provided her, and saw the medicine cup filled with lithium. She remembered where she was and why she was there. She then said to herself, "Is all this a dream or a nightmare?" She could never tell, for she was in an insane asylum, barely living with severe manic depression. Sometimes, she wanted to die, at others she longed to be free. She didn't think it was fair that she was here, for almost everyone has these thoughts eventually. The only diffe

It was the year 1814; a girl named Sapphire walked down the slippery riverside. She was a girl who was sixteen years of age. She was an observant girl, hardly missing anything with her keen eyes and sense of hearing. She walked over to the small, yet sturdy bridge. She looked over the edge and smiled at her reflection. She had long black hair and exuberant blue eyes. It was for her eyes that she was named. Her eyes were deep sapphire blue. Her complexion was a creamy light peach. She was on her way to a berry patch, just south of her village. Her mother had wanted her to get berries for the pie she was making. It was early summer, and warm w

And with that, I was condemned to death. Yet I had committed no crime. It was 1692, in Salem, Massachusetts. I sat in the dark, cold dungeon for hours thinking why someone would say I, of all people, would be a witch. After a dinner of stale bread crust and water, I began thinking of ways to escape. All that was in the dungeon was a small cot, a bench, and half-full pitcher of water. Nothing useful. My hope was diminishing. I laid down on the cot and thought of why someone would accuse me of being a witch. I was condemned to Gallows’s Hill for seemingly no reason. I was to be hung the next morning and desperation set in. I began c

It was the end of the year 1347 in Pisa, Italy. A girl named Sofia was gracefully walking down the cobblestone streets. She was the doctor's apprentice. He had told her to try to find a special herb to cure a very deadly disease that was spreading through Italy. He wasn't sure if there was an herb that would cure the disease, but she went to check anyway. Sofia had a feeling that there was no cure for the deadly disease. Her parents had already succumbed to the disease better known as the Black Death. The plague had claimed several hundred lives at this point, and it was still spreading. The air smelled of dank, rotting corpses. Many people

Plain as death, now I see, How true love can be. The shame rises like a ballon. This pain I feel, deep as my bones, Destroys my mind and soul. You lie there in your prettiest dress, As people cry and cry. Your pale skin, the color of moonlight, flatters you. Looking back, I now know what I had. You lie in your coffin, as the first tears graced my eyes. Why did I commit this act? What have I done? I stood and went to you. I bent and whispered in your ear, "I love you. And truelove never dies, Even if the lover does." My tears splashed on your face as I cried. I cried like the smallest child away from their mother. I kissed