Painted as though some blackened canvas, the darkened air outside of my window had become blurred with the evident specks of the purest of whites and a blue so dark that it would be found in the deepest of oceans. And perchance a red as dark as the kiss that had stained his lips, such succulent lips they are. Only Narcissus could compare. And only such vivacious colors could depict such a torrential downpour of snow and rain as I stood alone in my kitchen, peering out into the abyss. I felt lost, as though a sailor on a ship with no compass or direction of travel. And the sails that once governed over me like God's hands were found to be futile while exposed to the hellish fury of tempests such as these. However, I trusted my heart and the steadiness of my hands when the seas brought me such troubles. I was ready if a peril of vanity should arise. I was more than ready.
It is only in these moments, that I can truly separate the mind from conscience and intellect. Would one be considered mad if the idea of suicide was a constant and reverberating whisper? I always cared for such whispers. They had the most marvelous of schemes. A suicide is always so meticulous and planned out. Only true ironists say goodbye with their bodies and not a carefully thought out letter.
A knock. A quiet, unforgiving knock.
I swear… It must be hard living with ghosts. I can never seem to be rid of mine.
I knew for whom it was for and for why they had come.
I refuse to answer. Let him lie in the gutter. Let him gaze upon himself within the puddle that had drowned him. These wrists will never feel the cold, disparaging grip of shackles.