I awoke to my chambers, so bleak and dreary, the darkness made it frigid and eerie. I walked from my bed to window while weary. I stood calmly on the second floor. Glancing out I was forlorn, for the sight I saw was grey and worn. Out stood a gravestone, alone and adorn. My dearest daughter laid to rest. My mind filled with regret and lest. Hands of blood, hands of death. For now, I am merely a man, a crud, and a wretch.
Hands of blood, hands of fury. The midnight moonlight cascaded through the clouds, illuminating my room, so dark and dreary. I opened the latches of my window fiercely. In a rage I shouted, "MY DARLING DAUGHTER, PLEASE RETURN TO ME!". I was coldly greeted by the silence of night. "Please… dearest daughter, come back to me tonight". I wailed in agony, as the torturing memories of that night came oozing back, corrupting my sanity. A strong breeze gushed into my bedroom chambers. The angry roar of the breeze blasted through my papers. I stumbled and toppled into a crumpled heap on the ground, stuttering and muttering out loud, scared, and confound. Hands of blood, hands of angels. With a thud I fell and fabled, I drew my dagger gasping and panting, for what stood in front of me was neither human, nor enchanting.
Hands of blood, hands of terror. I stared in shock at the silhouette of light. The figure stood silently upright. Eyes closed, but not quite. Tripped in query I wondered what it seemed, for surely it was my daughter, but not, my mind teemed. Eyes opened, piercing eyes that glowed a red comparable to rubies, stared stiffly into my shattered soul. Eyes that incapacitated whole. I silently wept and bide, for my daughter who was not, stood still, and eyed. I looked so helplessly upon my daughter, whose face was cold and weary, unforgiving, and dreary. With one glance from my daughter, my body gave way. Hands of blood, hands of dread. I have collapsed and am almost dead.
Hands of blood, hands of murder. I watch in horror as I make away with the life of my daughter. Furthermore, I have been reduced to a mere essence, watching helplessly as I continuously slit the throat of my daughter, while at a distance. I screamed and shrieked but to no avail, for nothing could stop this disavail. I stared and watched as my daughter took my bottle of whisky, I looked and saw myself lash out briskly. The loop continued to play out incessantly, I watched intensively. The figure who was my daughter but not, came near. Bending down, it met my gaze with a sneer. I cried in anguish at the disgusting thought of my kind, caring, and compassionate daughter, growing up to be someone like me. A cruel, heartless flatheaded flapdoodle. Hands of blood, hands of slaughter. I feel cold and indifferent to the torture.
Hands of blood, hands of regret. I now know what I must do. I closed my eyes and began to move. Hands of blood, hands of vengeance. I unsheathed my dagger and killed that hinderance. I awoke to the sound of thunder booming in the distance. The soft sound of rain calmed my grievance. I arose from my bed and walked to my window. Outside stood a gravestone, alone and adorn. I stood in my bedroom chambers forsaken and forlorn. I unsheathed my dagger. The metal glinted under the moonlight I sat and stammered. "Dearest daughter of mine do not fret, for your father is now a changed man, and I will be joining you soon". And with that, I held the dagger up towards my neck, and with a clean slice, I was no more. Hands of blood, hands of death. That is how our story ends.