The bottle stands like a radiant being, enticing my impulses and ultimately conquering my sobriety. I raise the bottle up to a toast.
“ To Elizabeth!” I cry.
The amontillado passes through my lips, the warm liquid bursting with a dark complexity of flavours as it runs down my throat. A burning sensation emerges from my stomach and fills me with an intense desire for more. I push the bottle to my lips and drink again.
My accursed soul is weighted with the death of an angel so pure and heavenly. I drink to erase the bloody trail left by the sins of my past, yet the memories I’ve kept locked in the shadows of my heart begin to re emerge.
The little darling’s death though I admit I have committed, was not in its entirety my fault. I come from a line of admired and notable aristocracy, where fine wine runs through my throat as easily as the blood in my veins. That grim night I was intoxicated beyond my capacity; every action I performed was driven under the influence of