Author: Peridot Tears PM
For you, I die.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Angst - Words: 552 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 05-15-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2807428
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
The world has abandoned you.
You stand in the dead sea.
There is nothing. Nothing but the expanse. Emptiness. Cold, burning metal as my heart crumbles at last.
What have you been doing—wasting your youth away, letting the flower wither with the cold?—what have you used to finally break it?—something is there, sawing at my heart, something I never quite realized was there. Yet it is the heart that hurts the most, the heart that tears itself apart when all things crumble to dust.
I am dead. I am dead.
What have I done these past years?—what sort of hell was I cast into, isolated, ostracized, alone?—is this the cruel hand of fate, twisting the tatters of my heart into knots upon the ground? Torn, shattered all over the emptiness—it is but a small island. For no one is there, for no one cares. You, you are not a wallflower. You, me, I am upon the floor, trampled beyond to an echo of a flower once to bloom.
I never bloomed.
You—I—I now see the truth. No one cares. No one is there. You are what they have seen you as for years—they were never right, but neither were you. I.
What am I to you, all of you...am I but the next pebble upon the ground, the one not vibrant, not breathing?—the next, sinking down into the depths of the ocean. You are me. You all is all of you, all of you who do not care. What am I...as the years pass by, as time turns traitor to show itself for what it is—as it erases me from your minds, once more taking away what I have cherished but for a small, desperate amount of time?—trust and time are horrible, ugly monsters.
Death is the only escape, but I am no coward. That is what I tell myself.
It wants me—perhaps it has made a deal with time and trust, and love. Cruel, sweet things.
So roam—I roam, empty, unwanted, unneeded. Cruel, sweet faith—where are you now? Must you drag me off, leaving only claw marks upon the floor, that fade with the next descent of dust? Hope, how I hate you. How I hate you all. Cold sadistic nemesis—you are no friend of mine.
When will my grip break?—tell me, how much longer will I cling?—the cusp is crumbling at the edges, leaving me hanging—I was blind, so foolishly blind, waiting to be pounced upon; you have jumped again, enemy of mine. I taste your sweet and bitter blood as you fight and I attempt to parry; you win, again.
I hate you.
And yet I live. I will live but to be defeated. Again, again, again, again, again...
I hate you.
I sink into the sand, the salt, at long last—you have delivered a final blow. You have taken everything from me. All these years of pain, accumulated with the good things—and now you yank it all away, so that I will fall, fall, fall into the dark.
There was never a light.
My life has been wasted. It is a lie. For your own selfish cravings. I suffer.