My hands are sore from the work i have devoted myself to these last few days.
My hand flows stedily trying to remember that night trying to remember what happened.
The ghosts of my past swarm above watching me like a wardon in a prison.
They are trying to tell me what happened not in words but in my painting.
My paint brush flows blood red paint and then a pitch black.Which is the only thing i can remember from that night.
The room aound me is dark and gloomy and all i can see is the canvis of which i am painting on the rest seems like a set out of a black and white movie. The only light i have is that of a full moon.When i stroked my final stoke, everything came back to me.
I now remembered what i had forgotten.............
I died. I was murdered by the very person i thought i could trust and love for the rest of my life. He was to marry me and yet on the nifght before our wedding he killed me with such hatred in his eyes i barley even reconized him. Now that i know my tragedy i can rest but not untill i take my revenge on him bfore his new victum suffers as i did.