Fireworks by N.K. Rowe



The blood has stopped pumping hard, for both of us, although at least mine remains inside my veins. The Colours are already beginning to fade, leaving me with just the bleak red essence, the whitening skin and the first touches of frost-bitten blue to the lips.


My beautiful synaesthesia means that I am a literal adrenaline junkie. As a child I never refused a dare, not through bravery but a simple desire to see the Colours once more. My forays into burglary were never about possessions; it was enough to simply stand above a sleeping figure and touch their hair, knowing that they could wake at any moment. The dark room would light up with a sparkling emerald backdrop, the most magnificent pulses of violets firing with every beat of my thudding heart.


The true, glorious, revelation was when one of sleepers woke up.


The wide eyes, the opening lips, the intake of breath. I nearly collapsed with the beauty of it all, but I still possessed the foresight to clamp my hand over their mouth…

kneel on their chest…

and force a ghost-white pillow down on their face…


until the kicking and bucking and vivid explosions subsided



and all was quiet and black once more.



So here I am, knife in hand, another gift-giving body at my feet, the smell of crimson iron sparking off my teeth and the fading embers of murder flickering in my peripheral vision.


There is no plan, no pattern, no preferred victim. There is only the quest for my next fix of the beautiful fireworks of death.

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