This short story was also submitted for a "Tale of the Week" competition, although this version is slightly improved. Story is full of metaphors and symbolism. Enjoy!
The Face of Murder
16th March
The unending blood-thirst of these men is petrifying. I have lived at this place for too, too long have I heard these mean-spirited oaths and curses, witnessing scenes of forbidding warriors unleashing their wrath on unwary victims, every single day. Their blades are rusty and bloody, being the last sight of many poor souls. The hatred of this vile place is MADDENING! Yet perhaps the worst of all this is that this insanity is glorified! The halls are dotted with haunting pictures of celebrated murderers and destroyers, songs in their remembrance still sung centuries past. And in the middle of all this, I silently watch these horrors. I watch these men slaughter others, I watch them live and die. What was before this madness is long beyond my recollection; there is only this bloodshed and its participants, with my eyes following their movements. An old man below my apartment shares my feelings, and I believe he is my last saving grace from madness, but his health is declining and he can barely talk now.
20th November
Somehow, I am beginning to enjoy this place! The splattering of blood has now become music to my ears, and I cherish even the thought of its sweet sound! The songs sung in the halls are as beautiful as the images on these walls, although I think the pictures are changing their appearance.
30th December
The euphoria that I am experiencing right now is beyond mere words! My thoughts are dizzy and my limbs light, yet it feels like paradise! The day before yesterday, there was no bloodshed. It made me uncomfortable, yet I wasn’t worried; the next day will come with the next death. However, yesterday, too, there was no death, there was no blood, and there was none of that sweet, calming sound of gashing liquid. I grew very impatient, yet still I knew the next morning will solve everything. Today there was no killing again. It drove my senses to madness, as I curved into a ball on the floor and screamed in agony. Then, the sight of the old man downstairs crossed my mind. I at once took a dagger and went down to slit open his throat, and then bathed under the spray of the rushing blood. I tasted it on my lips, I felt the warmth on my hands. When I turned, I saw the images on the walls have changed completely; now they resemble a calming scene of demons consuming various meats around a round table, with hellfire burning around them. Then the door of the hall opened, and the warriors, whose faces have changed to look like corpses, invited me inside and we sang a beautiful song detailing my enlightenment. I looked inside my bowl of water and saw my improved reflection; a blackened, rotten face. The sweet face of murder!