Lately, I have been giving myself writing prompts to help with my creative writing. I choose a word from a list and whatever that word sparks in my mind I write about. My latest writing prompt was the word: Unopened.

The letter sat on the table. The letter that would decide my fate sat there, taunting me. Should I open it? What would I do if my worst fears came true? To open that letter and see the once again familiar red ink that is not ink at all would be too devastating to bear. An internal battle rages inside my head with the decision. I know what I will have to do if it is the thick, copper smelling words written on the parchment before me. I’ll have to kill him.

To stop this madness I’ll have to kill him. For that is what it is, madness. Already too many have died at his hands. Too many loved ones and relatives to count. So many letters. So much pain. Am I a coward for not opening the letter? It may not even be what I fear. Anger rises as I swiftly grab the letter in my left hand and the letter opener in my right. But, slicing it open, I hesitate.

My hands sweat and I start to shake. The ink is red. I let out a sound too inhuman to come from me, as the letter, still half in its envelope, falls from my hand. I know what I have to do. I have to kill him.

I lift the letter opener and plunge it into my own chest, sinking it into my heart. Then, I smile. No more red letters.

What do you think? Is my mind too dark a place for coming up with a short story like that from the word unopened? XD