A Different Kind of Hero.

My core shuttered and lurched sickeningly, bringing a ripple of destiny through the very fortitude that my own thoughts exclaimed. The substances held within me effervesced, until I could only sense the pure presence of darkness. My very own darkness, conjured within the inner depths of my non-existent soul. No, no, the soul that drove me was not that of my own conception but that of the one who hoarded me. It was they who now obtained my endowment, they who had inflicted the ailment that now traipsed into my very being.
Gravity shifted, and I once again fell plagued to the motions. Liquid fluttered incessantly inside my basis. This was becoming too much too bear.
An object of enigmatic proportions gently brushed my surface. It felt smooth, calculated, flat. it could only be the aura of paper, blank, white paper, ready to lose its innocence to the enmity I contained. I hovered in this spot for only a moment, anticipating the future of my destiny. As I waited with eager patience, a feverish feeling flowed through me. Blind as I was, I knew the consequence of what was happening. My insides had upturned, and fatality lurked nearby. Streams of my innards began to ebb onto the purity of the paper, soaking it with my fresh vitality.
Dizziness overtook me as I began moving. I continued to rush onto the paper, searing it with my life. Everything that I contained was leaving me, flowing into the words that were being formed by my new master.
Time as I knew it had become my stalker. It knew my face, my identity, my very soul. Its hands had grasped at me, yearning to claim my flesh, my essence, to hold it in its eyes. I knew that yielding to it would cost me my life, that if I surrendered to its forces, I would perish. But how could I escape the pull of something so utterly powerful and inevitable? There was no hope.
Pain, utter and complete pain overtook me. I felt drained, wasted, filtered. My very own life was being depleted before me. A sudden squirm shook through me as I received clandestine chill. I was still being spread across the now tainted surface of the paper, still leaking internal fluid that caused me to thrive. The end skulked near. All I had to hold on to were the words I was being sacrificed to make, the words that were to bring on my death.
The bullet wound had ground deep into my chest. At first it had throbbed, scorching with the pain of burning flesh. Now, it felt dull and desiccated, all feeling lost to nothingness. I knew that I was dying, that this wound was going to pilfer my life. And it scared me. I was going to die, tonight, this very hour. Death was going to claim my soul.
Fear tickled my veins and crept up my spine. I was all alone, always alone, and now eternally alone. There would be no tomorrow, no goodbyes. This was death, pure death, and it was my turn to die.
Grief, pure grief. it was my death. The one who held me knew what it was bestowing upon me. It was recording my tale, for all to read, for all to see, so that when I was expensed, I would live on. My life would forever live in these words. I would not be forsaken in my death. My immortal ink scrubbed the paper once again, this time, not in shallow morbidity, but in an infinite hope.
Darkness clouded my vision, cold, cold, darkness that went on forever. There was to be no hope, no gallant savior. My death was here, and here alone. Here is where I would lay eternally.
A single, lone tear slid down my cheek that flashed limpidly in the silver moonlight. Why, why did it have to be me? Why was I dying right now? My breath was hollow, a sacred reminder that life still pounded inside of me, even if that life was quietly draining. Sweet death pricked me on the shoulder, reminding me of my fate. It was time, time to lose myself. Would I float away on a cloud, forever free in the sky? Or would I fall into an eternal unconsciousness, never waking again but to blackness? There was no time to ponder. No time. no hope. no time.
No. no. there was hope. Hope was all that there was. It was all that was possible to believe. I could never, would never stop believing.
My core had long since gone numb, completely drained of feeling. My fluid was gone, my life spread thinly across a thin sheet. There may no have been time, nor life, but I still believed. I would go on, I would never die. I would always be remembered, remembered for my words, for my soul, my immortal breath. Always. even now.
I shuddered violently, wildly, yet I no longer took offense. A deep contraction heaved through me as I was pressed for an ink that I did not contain. I had been emptied, released, freed. My heroism would not be forsaken, would not be forsaken. I sighed brilliantly, waiting to be remembered as I drew my last word on the page.