Bride Who Murdered Her Groom Ch 02
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Bride Who Murdered Her Groom Ch. 01 free porn video
AUTHOR’S STARTING POINT
To start with, I would like to show my gratitude to everyone of you here who has run an eye and pored over my work of my imagination and pork pies in other cute and bitter words. Maybe they are not pork pies categorically—call it whatever fitting and seemly that you feel like and think suitable. I am aware, it is my unwarranted and extreme passion and liking of words and phraseology that has made my writing to be what it now is—slang jumbled up with patriarchal, erstwhile words and everything of the belles-lettres sort and creative writing brand!
When I was kicking in or starting out this whole writing thing, everything was plain damn easy-peasy and painless to go through. But ever since I came across these unfashionable, wordbook words, I have frankly found it to be somewhat dense and uphill to do without them. I just can’t help it. Perhaps some time later in the future, I will start to dislike them and find them objectionable and perhaps at long last turn my back against them. For now, I am still very much deeply in love with them. Pardon me please if this annoys and fazes you out. It could be that studying so much similar and akin work has swayed and persuaded me to put pen to paper this manner and style. I am gravely sorry for it!
While my scribble and scrawl may possibly be hellfire and Gehenna unbridled for some of you to read through, I don’t know, it might be the glee and hilarity of others. If it doesn’t turn out so, then there is no stroke of luck and stars for me. I merely happen to revel in noting down and inscribing yarns and narratives this fashion and manner of mine. I just want you to know that it is not my intent and desire to hack you off and get your back up with all of this. No, it is truthfully and sincerely not! While I will give it my very best shot to keep my writing manageable and understandable, I won’t give my word on something that I might at the present moment not be able to accomplish, which is throwing away out of my phrasing and terminology these sugary, outdated, dainty and delicious words that people don’t now use most frequently and customarily. Of course, anyone has got a right to get fuming and raging with me if my eerie habit and obsession gets too much and unnecessary—and I know that it has undeniably done so at some point in time prior to now. I am repentant and putting on sackcloth and ashes over it. Condone me for my misdeed please!
Yes. I have picked up sweet comments for this, and censuring and dissing ones for the most part expressing to me how I should not overplay and overuse these atypical, unusual, and priceless words to death itself. I took in all that. And I will crack out my very best not to jot down Greek and Chinese cluttered up under the veil of English once anew. I will give fair warning to you nevertheless—my work has contained and still will accommodate such words in that fixed and standard approach.
*****
SUICIDE GIRL
To be honest with you, at times I do wish that I was dead. Every inch and consummately dead. Dead like those two boys, Alve and Espen, whose deaths I am responsible for. I didn’t mean to do it. I just did it unwillingly and forcedly. That is what always happens when I break the rules. That is how things always end up whenever I become a little bit stupid and stubborn and yielding and careless. Awful and dire.
Alve died on Valentine’s Day two years ago. He died before my very own eyes and those of everyone around, helpless and remediless. His death was so galling and frightful.
Espen died in his car, having driven me home from the party that we had just attended. He gave up the ghost right in his seat, with I myself keeping a hand on his once-warm-but-now-suddenly-cold-cheek, and it was after we had kissed vehemently and intensely.
In all my life, it was these two boys whom I had dated and fell in love with. There were no other. And there would be other, it seemed. Alve and Espen. I had loved them more than anything else. More than my own breath and existence itself.
I sighed to myself as I thought about all this, sitted down on my enormous bed, my feet tucked and crossed over each other, my hands wielding a sharply knife which I would soon use to root out my life. It had been enough already. Eighteen years of living hell so far. Eighteen years of torture and torment and endless actual nightmares and agony and anguish. I would put an end to everything now, without delay.
I still remembered the day I came across Alve Anders. I was a self-conscious and shrinking sixteen year old back then. Guiltless and inoffensive and lawful. I ran into him while wandering about Blanco West High School’s extensive corridors, lost and gone out of track. Without foreseeing it, I hit into this tall and blond and overly enormous boy. He was well-built with the perfect muscles and a lovely male visage that any female would effortlessly fall for. Everything about his appearance was just plain damn…sterling!
‘I’m sorry,’ I grumbled an immediate apology, shame-faced and angry with myself.
‘There is no need to, I am equally to blame as well, I wasn’t minding where I was going.’
Alve had a lovely and sugary-like voice. One that you would like to be all ears to all day long, one that you would fall in love with just on the phone without ever bothering to find out the appearance of the individual it belonged to.
After helping me gather up my scattered books, I had paced away, leaving him standing there before the lockers on his own, and when I spun back to look at him he was still gazing and marveling at me. Little did I know that he was the guy whom I would share the microscope with in the laboratory during the Biology session. My God, he looked so graceful, spell- binding even! Even though his attire was modest and simple—blue jeans and a yellow shirt and a white coat—with that spiked up hair of his taken into account, he looked…totally divine!
That was the moment I fell in love with him. Not on our first encounter. Though later on he did admit it to me that he fell in love with me the first time he unexpectedly laid eyes on me.
School was just awesome and mind-blowing with Alve around. Every day I was in Biology, seated there next to him with him looking and making eyes at me throughout the whole span that we stayed in class, I felt like I was in seventh heaven. Many times the professor would notice him and pass comment on how absorbed some of his students were starting to fall in love—not mentioning out names, but speaking in a manner that made it obvious by peeking in Alve’s direction as he spoke—but still, Alve did not ever quit making sheep’s eyes at me.
It took him eight straight weeks to eventually ask me out. All this while, we were just friends that met and chatted and cracked jokes and laughed together during Biology. Whenever the two of us had a word or two and laughed and giggled what’s more, everyone’s attention would move and abide on us until we were over with whatever affair it was that we were going about.
This was how it went the day Alve expressed his feelings to me:
After Biology, he ran to catch up with me in the protracted corridor, yelping out, ‘Ragnhild! Ragnhild Ascwin!’
I turned over to him, seizing my books, which I had planned to lay by and then lock them up in my locker. ‘Yes, Alve.’
He came to a final halt before me, breathing and sighing heavily. ‘What will you be doing tonight? My friend’s brother—Magnus I mean—is having a party. Magnus himself would like you there. I let him know that we are best friends. What do you say?’
I mused about it for a little bit while. ‘Sure. They say never say never. I will attend that party.’
‘Thank you so much. One more thing. Look your very best. I beg you. I want to dance with you tonight.’
Smiling joyously, I replied, ‘I probably will.’
It was while we were dancing that very night when Alve had began. ‘Ragnhi
ld.’
I looked up at him warmly. ‘Yes, Alve.’
‘What would be your response if I told you that I love you?’
I giggled in absurd excitement. ‘My response? It would be that you are joking.’
He looked hurt in some way. ‘Ragnhild, I love you.’
‘Is that a joke? Another one from you?’
‘I am not joking, Ragnhild.’ We stopped dancing right that moment and looked at each other quietly and gravely.
‘Taylor…I…I…’
‘I do mean what I say, Ragnhild.’
His eyes showed it. ‘I can tell,’ I observed.
‘And what is your saying? I want to hear it straight from you. Do you love me or not?’
‘I do, Alve.’
‘You do?’ He was suddenly happy and buoyant.
‘Yes, I do!’
Squirming and yelling out in joy, he cuddled and squeezed me tightly to himself. I could hardly breath. In any case, he did not kill me. No, he did not.
Onward to the Valentine’s he died. We were dancing, steadily and happily, just like on the day that he proposed to me and I in turn accepted his proposal. He was neatly and excellently dressed in an immaculate black suit, one that suited and harmonized with his disheveled blond hair, and his scent…he smelled of cologne and some sort of mannish lush perfume that I had never come across until now.
I myself on the other hand—I put on a flowing and cleanly and well-designed black dress. Yes, to match and harmonize with his black suit.
‘You look lovely and blameless,’ he nibbled into my ear as we swayed this way and that way, much to my delectation and enjoyment.
I smiled eventually and whispered back, ‘Thank you. I am as gorgeous as you happen to be as well.’
He smiled back, staring down into my eyes while poking and ramming his nose gently over mine. We were breathing distance away from each other. And it was then that he kissed me, fervid and vehement.
‘Alve,’ I whispered between the hurried and ungovernable kisses, trying to pull back from him, but he was strong and he towed me over to myself. ‘Alve, let us stop, this is not right…Alve…’
‘I am enjoying this, baby, ain’t you?’
‘Alve…’
The next moment he was on the floor, salivating and throwing out blood. Mouthfuls and liters of blood to be precise. As he spat out the blood, he writhed in pain and twisted and turned and rolled and crawled on his belly, screaming and yelping out to no one in particular. Just when his eyes had began rolling white, I screamed out, shaky and affrighted. ‘Alve!’
Espen Geir. I loved him. I cared about him. How many nights I have wept and mourned over his death and loss I cannot recount. To be truthful with you, I am so pained and grieved by his departure. This is a boy I loved more than I had come to love anyone, a boy who stood up for me whenever I needed him and who in the very end died right in my own arms before my very own reach and touch. Espen. I still do love you. Even if you are no more. Gone, forever.
Espen was both the bad boy and soccer leading man, or hero I should say, in our school. Blanton High, Downtown Kent, Central Iceberg. I came to learn about him after my friend, Adlaug Simens, insisted every afternoon about how we had to go and watch the football matches that happened on a daily basis in our school’s enormous playfield.
First, I would sit humbly and attentively with her and watch the boys play until Espen glanced about and happened to accidentally run into my eyes. Ever since then, he did not take his eyes or watchfulness away from me. I was without fail what he looked at and dreamt about and adored as much as he cherished his own dearest life. I was that one and only true love in his life.
He was already friends with Adlaug. Not genuine and sincere friends per say. They did know each other and greeted and talked and laughed. And after my discovery, he went on to pay more attention and concern to her. All in the hopes of getting closer to me and then finally open out about how he was dying and very much willing to become my man and protector.
Yes, his plan did work though. Yupeee! It surely did. And why am I celebrating you may wonder? Because deep down my heart I prayed and dreamt and hoped that the boy would notice me and well…make a move on me. I am glad that he did.
Our relationship did not last that much long. It wasn’t destined to. It all ended badly with Espen losing his life and I myself being contested and warred for by his friends and cousins to be their next girlfriend. I hate to admit it. But as much as I hate it, I just have to acknowledge it. I feel like I am assuredly nice-looking. Beautiful even.
No, I am not stuck- up or self-seeking or self-praising. I am not. At times I do look this plain and terribly ugly in the mirrors and photos—I cringe away from giant mirrors that make me look rather irregular and foreign, and at other times, I am this lovely and adorable. I don’t get. How does beauty behave? Do we have it in one moment and then in another second it slips away just like that? That is what it seems like.
***Flashback***
‘Mommy, am I beautiful?’
‘Yes, sweetheart, you are!’
‘Then why don’t you allow me to go out on dates with boys I like just like the other girls do?’
My mother, with a very disappointed and frightened face, disclosed, ‘The curse doesn’t authorize us to date or fall in love, Ragnhild. You are aware of the consequences of doing so, aren’t you?’
‘To hell with those consequences.’
‘Tell me, have you been seeing any boy.’
I did not reply anything.
‘Sophia, did you sleep or have sex with some boy?’
‘I’d never do that, mother. I respect myself and my future husband too.’
‘You are not going to have any future husband, sweetheart. You know it. You are not going to marry or even get married. That won’t ever happen.’
‘Don’t say that, mother. I want to marry one day, I really want to.’
‘You won’t, Ragnhild, you know very well that that is an impossibility.’
‘No way!’
‘Ragnhild!’
***Flashback cut out***
Mother was right. I won’t marry, and I will never get married, and for that one reason, I’d rather be a dead man. Or a dead girl if you prefer.
That said and thought over, I knew what I had to do with the knife that I was clutching in my hands.
Suicide is no easy thing. We all want to live, we all want to live life to our very best, we all want to have those foremost and leading things that we can possibly have in this life, and if we cannot have them and instead we are unhappy and broken-hearted and hapless, what better alternative than to put an end to our being and existence itself?
I don’t know why. But in spite of wielding the knife and assuring myself that I was going to thrust it into my stomach, I just could not get the power and zeal and spirit to accomplish that. Mother. I thought about her. Alia Leif. What would she do without me? I was her one and only daughter. The only girl she adored more than anything in this world. Yes, even more than her own happiness and well-being. Was this how I was going to repay her for everything that she had done for me? By killing and depriving her of my companionship and intercourse. No, that was not being fair, or was it?
That night, while it poured hard and showered and thundered outside, I dreamt about Espen. These days, ever since I had become so humiliated and depressed and chilled about where my life was going, I had been experiencing frequent and endless and incessant nightmares. Nightmares about I myself wedding with fire-winged and hellish-looking demons and devils, nightmares about enraged and murderous-looking mobs and throngs of people swarming over me and chasing me and stoning and hitting and beating me up and calling me a witch sent from the devil himself, nightmares about the entire town gossiping and prattling and gibbering about how cursed I had been in killing any man that happened to be drawn in towar
d me.
Alia and I have kept this a secret to ourselves. That we are beautiful but cursed. No one else apart from the two of us knows our condition, not our friends or neighbors. We always do what we can to avoid men that become interested in us. If we were so inconsiderate and unmindful—sure, just like in my nightmare—the whole town would without doubt know about our curse and go on to gabble and gossip and dish on the dirt to others about us. And what would we do from there? Nothing but move away to some…far away town or place?
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