The Red Angel

f o u r

THE TELL TALE HEART

by: EDGAR ALLAN POE

1843

paragraph 4 of 15

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

•      •      •      •      •

I paced in silence, completely at a block in my mind.

He was in my every thought, every dream, every single one of my senses was at an overload with the very existence of him. Every waking moment, every flutter of my eyelids was another moment I spent thinking about him.

He was like poison.

My poison.

I was beginning to fight an addiction I had no taste in.

I decided to take my addiction the extra step, I needed more because with what I had.

It was not enough.

I stood in the center of the Persian rug that decorated his scratched mahagony floors.

He laid 3 feet before me.

He always seemed at peace in his sleep.

How a man as horrid as him never had nightmares surprised me.

Even the worst beings in this world had nightmares.

I'm sure Charles Manson had his demons, and so did Dahmer.

"I could just accept this." I carefully whispered.

Though the beast was sleeping, in a sense, I felt he could hear me.

"I could hide with you, we could run away, live long lives together." The moon from his window shined perfectly onto his high cheekbones.

The white duvet was perfectly placed across his toned abdomen.

"This was never a thought to me until the first time I watched you." This truth hurt me to admit.

"I could change." I gazed down at my feet, I wiggled my toes, rubbing my bare feet into the antique rug.

"For you." I kept my gaze down, and even though I knew his conscious mind could not hear a thing I was saying, I still felt cheeky at saying such things,

I sighed, lifting my head up; I starred out the window.

I watched the moon with an intense stare.

It never moved. Always in the same place, the same color, the same shape, and size. Even if the ground on the Earth it spent its entire life revolving around was to change, the moon would stay the same.

The moon; a beautiful creation. Props for the idea. How simple it is. A large, round mass, floating in the sky. Stuck in orbit to repeat it's self for the rest of the life.

"If I could ask the moon a question, I would pose; if you could leave your orbit, would you?" I swiftly turned my head to take in more of his features.

"I would ask the moon if he enjoyed his endless cycle."

"I would ask if he was happy that his eternity was bound to such a complex creation, such as the Earth." I took a slight breath, "with all the evil, horrid things man have done on and to this Earth, why do you continue to return every night?"

The urge I had to wake him so that I could be with him was one that was eating me away. I was beginning to question my strength against this pull.

Inevitable.

The word kept breaking into my mind, convincing me more and more to wake him.

"Soon my love," I promised.