The Final Toast

The blood from Blackwood’s nose dripped onto his crisp white collar, staining the fabric in a bright, macabre blossom.

The ringing in his ears had reached a deafening, high-pitched squeal. His chest heaved as he struggled to pull oxygen from the dense, dead air. He looked at the heavy oak door of the study. He knew it wouldn't open. The universe had shrunk to the four walls of this room.

He looked back at the ghost. Julian stood perfectly still, a monument of cold, silent patience. He had all of eternity.

Blackwood’s gaze fell to the crystal glass. The cloudy white liquid seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of the silent fire.

He remembered the pride in Julian's voice the night he died. He remembered the horrific realization dawning in the boy's eyes as the poison took hold. And now, he felt the unbearable weight of his own monstrous ambition crushing him into dust.

If he refused, he would remain here, trapped in his own mind, his eardrums bursting, driven utterly, irredeemably mad by the lack of sound. If he drank, he would face whatever hell awaited a man who murdered his own student out of jealousy.

Blackwood let out a ragged, silent sob. His hand reached forward, his fingers wrapping around the freezing crystal glass.

The frost bit into his skin. He lifted the glass from the mahogany desk. His hand shook so violently that the milky liquid sloshed against the rim, threatening to spill over.

Julian watched him, his expression unreadable, waiting for the end of the lesson.

Blackwood closed his eyes, tears squeezing out from beneath his eyelids and mingling with the blood on his face. He brought the rim of the heavy crystal to his mouth. The cold glass touched his bottom lip. He tilted his head back, opening his mouth to receive the poison.

The cloudy liquid rushed forward to meet his tongue.

And then, there was nothing but the dark.