It feels like a dream, though whether it is or not, I am not entirely sure. I try to hope it is, but the pain cuts through me like a thousand knives. The red is over-whelming, made even more so by the fact that I have never liked the colour red.

It is funny that, the fact that while I lie on cobble-stones, that is the one trivial thought that enters my head. But thinking about the past is sorrowful, and thinking of the future is pointless, because they have laid all its secrets out on the table for me to discover, in a way that no fortune teller could ever hope to achieve.

But was I really the only one who could stop them? I was so weak, so...insignificant. I did not even put a dent in their armies before they tossed me aside like a rag doll, and left me here to die, with time to consider my pain, and the impending darkness.

Was it only days ago that I heard them singing? Time has been warped by my weakening mind. It could have been days, or years. But I can remember their sweet song, the one that they sung when the rain fell and the world blossomed again. Did I blossum as well? Or did I fall like the brown stalks of last years flowers? I cannot remember.

Family gather around me. I can hear their voices, young and playful, or old and weary. Their hands brush my cheeks, but I struggle to push them away, because I'm only dreaming, just dreaming, of another place and time. At least, I think I am, because now I lie in a field of long grass, a breeze lightly blowing, the fields of the highlands, where I came from, and sought to return to.

The red stains the grass, the black stains the sky, and I can see the narrow alley once again. Stars twinkle in the sky above me, though they are met with scorn. Why must they be objects of love and hope, when I must endure the shattered dreams and loss of many? Why are they high in the sky, when I am on the ground? Why may they live, when I must die?

Dying. It's the first time I've faced it. But will they ever know? Surely, my passing will wash their hearts with misery, if they are allowed the time to grieve before they too, meet their fate.

I am gone, but I find I can fly. It must have been years since I left, though time has no meaning to me anymore. Am I an angel? Or am I just a lost soul, wandering the skies for my meaning? My life was not finished, but they did it anyway. And now, I watch, I listen, trying to find the sound I miss most.

Laughter, sweet laughter, the sound of joy. No longer does our laughter echo through the high mountains. There is no more laughter in this world, one that I am no longer part of. The songs of yesterday, if yesterday indeed exists, are buried beneath a thick layer of ash and sorrow, of lost hope and broken dreams. All is lost, because I found no way to stop them from doing this.

Dreams. Singing. Laughter. Hope. The very essence of joy, are gone.