Dahlia

"It was an accident."

That was true.
It made a good story, good enough to keep the authorities off your trail. It worked just long enough to thrust the consequences upon an innocent soul.
But lies are no comfort to a guilty conscience, and tears do nothing to cleanse the blood from your hands.

You can't imprison the truth forever.
It's only a matter of time before guilt devours us all.

In my dreams, I often passed by a massive, rusted cage. Bent iron bars reached up and out of sight, holding a tangled net of chainlink and barbed wire together. Inside sat a faceless beast, a mass of bulbous flesh and stained metal. It filled most of its enclosure, weighed down by the chains securing it to the floor. Dark red veins criscrossed its pale, leathery skin, and spines jutted out all over its body. It kept its two legs tucked under itself. Its "wings" were chained up tightly. One was small and deformed, while the other had a gigantic blade embedded into its joint. The creature's most distinguishing feature, however, was its head.

The beast's head was a massive iron pyramid, almost larger than I was. Atop it were two curved horns, much like those of a banescale. Whenever I passed by, I heard the creaks and groans of grinding metal as it turned to watch. Slowly, its face would split in two, revealing jaws filled with rusty nails. It never lunged and never growled. It never made the slightest attempt to escape. But we both knew its cage was rotting, weakening by the second. Soon, the beast would finally be free, and I would never see the light of day again.