Short Fiction

The Tell-Tale Heart

By: Edgar Allan Poe

     I smiled, -- for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search -- search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My MANNER had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears; but still they sat, and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct : I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness -- until, at length, I found that the noise was NOT within my ears.
No doubt I now grew VERY pale; but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was A LOW, DULL, QUICK SOUND -- MUCH SUCH A SOUND AS A WATCH MAKES WHEN ENVELOPED IN COTTON. I gasped for breath, and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly, more vehemently but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why WOULD they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men, but the noise steadily increased. O God! what COULD I do? I foamed -- I raved -- I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder -- louder -- louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly , and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! -- no, no? They heard! -- they suspected! -- they KNEW! -- they were making a mockery of my horror! -- this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! -- and now -- again -- hark! louder! louder! louder! LOUDER! --
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! -- tear up the planks! -- here, here! -- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

     ..."The Tell-Tale Heart" by Edgar Allen Poe relates to my second quotation "Anger is a killing thing: it kills the man who angers, for each rage leaves him less than he had been before - it takes something from him." by Louis L'Amour. "The Tell-Tale Heart" and my second quotation are connected because in the short story the man is driven mad by the old man's glass eye. "It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! Yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -- a pale blue eye with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me my blood ran cold, and so by degrees, very gradually, I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye for ever." (Poe, 2) He is driven so mad that he kills the innocent old man. He is proud of his work until he is interogated by the police and he begins to yet again go mad from guilt. Rage made him kill and guilt made him confess. This relates to my Flash Fiction because the wife is driven mad by jealousy and out of rage kills her husband and out of guilt she is left as nothing but a shell replaying the scene over and over again. "The last day he came home, he was drunk and began to insult me in every way possible. All I could hear were the voices saying "Kill, kill him. Your pain will end when he is dead." My children, our children, had been woken up by his his loud profanity. All I remember is seeing their innocently, tired, freshly woken up faces before I had blacked-out. I remember hearing the screams of my children, the rage had finally swallowed me. I couldn't take the voices anymore, they were yelling at me to kill him! I just wanted them to stop, so I gave in. I remember feeling the satisfaction, then they were gone. I had done it, the voices were finally gone. As the rage subsided, I sat there in a bloodied mess, I remember laughing and feeling joy. Until I looked up and saw my children crying and screaming. I remember them flinching as I had tried to comfort them. I remember the feeling of guilt, horror and disgust as I realized what it was that I had done." (Flash Fiction, 4) Like Louis L'Amour's quote rage is a killing thing. It drives people mad...