The Gentle Soul Taker
He moves in the silence beyond the colour and cacophony of the carnival. The floats are finished. The din diminished. The revellers retired. But the blood, the blood remains.
Now, is his domain. His time. His space. Every year the same. To this gathering of exultant humanity the servant of Happiness is called. Called to bring the darkness.
He weaves his art tenderly.
Young folks, hungry folks, nameless, faceless parts of a throng, thrilling at the sudden touch of a sharp shard of glass in their palm. Rendered opportunistic by the gift. Empowered with an improvised weapon and soft whispers; ‘Take what you want. Take what you need. You have the power. You deserve it. It is yours. And you are mine. You will always be mine. And I will love you.’
He needs but a scattering of souls for sustenance. He is not greedy. He only takes what he requires to survive. Only a few; softly broken, gently nudged into the dark. Just a little blood, just a little pain, over quickly. Hidden amongst so much joy, it matters little. The humans expect it. They understand that Happiness has her price. And she sends him, year after year, to balance her daughter Euphoria.
He steps quietly through the shadowy streets. The raven sated. The wandering, fallen souls collected. More to love, to cherish. For eternity.
He will rest now, for another year.
Sherry writes for the joy of it. She blogs stories and tales of her life. She studies philosophy, takes photos, and loves her dog, and her cats. But not their fleas. She believes imaginations need a workout as much as do midriffs, so she writes. Sometimes until the bath overflows.