Hello, my readers. This was actually something I wrote because a fellow writer friend of mine and I decided to do a "depressing-off" to see who could write the most depressing thing... I won. This is a different mood from what I normally do, but as I was typing this up, I thought of possibly continuing this into a love story (it would be slash/yaoi) so please, tell me your feedback. This can be triggering. I had a friend of mine who read the first half then literally refused to read the second half because he said it made him feel terrible about himself, so warning! Well, enjoy, my lovelies~

Hope and Its Failures


Oh, it was those eyes.

Those eyes that flashed with pain, with hate. But there was a softness behind those eyes, a softness always missed.

He had stories, stories no one would know, stories that would remain forever left untold. But the invisible audience that heard his stories that came in nothing but broken sobs gasped. This man was so strong, so detached. But these "feelings", these "emotions" were so indisputably powerful, they seemed nearly unreal.

He stood in front of the mirror, those gorgeous blue eyes tearing at every imperfection he harbored. Sure, no man was perfect, but his imperfections far outnumbered many others, or so it seemed to him. And physical imperfections the eyes could see were only the beginning of these wondrous, hateful eyes of his.

Oh, emotions stronger and more prominent than he could understand, were even more clouded by those stray voices around him, those people with eyes so hateful to him, but yet so kind to others. The inconsistencies of this world bothered him to no end.

He didn't want anyone to see those eyes, that body he spent everyday loathing, but more often than not, his want disintegrated, as though he had not even thought of it. Oh, how he despised society, the society that made him the broken man he was, the society that wanted to "build him up" after breaking him down into what was now hardly human. There was no true trust in such a place, a place where a rich man's money speaks louder than the best words of a poor man. But this was the world in which he lived.

But he hated life, he hated that he lived, he hated every single breath that was forced to escape him. He dreaded every second he spent lying awake, wishing that sleep would come, fully aware it never would, and if it did, he would be plagued by the never-ending nightmares that made him relive every pain he once felt. But he was weakened by the empty hope of "better".

His fist made contact with glass. He hated that image, he hated that he hated that image, he hated those gorgeous, magnanimous eyes more than he hated the society that made him hate those eyes. The night sky and ambulance sirens outside his apartment taunted him. He glanced down at his hand, blood now dripping down, crimson red splattering in beads onto the smooth white floor of his. He sighed. He hated his blood. He hated that he bled. He stood there,staring at the thick red liquid, counting each and every breath he was cursed to take.

He released a heavy angry sigh and turned on the faucet, placing his now bloody hand beneath the clear water. With his other hand, he pulled out a small shard of glass the had embedded itself into his hand with the strike, and rinsed it under the water, watching it run pink with diluted blood. He stared at the piece of glass in his left hand, sharp and shining with the fluorescent light above him. Something came over him and engulfed his entirety of remaining sanity, but what it was, he could place with words.

He lifted the small shard of glass to his cheek and pressed the pointed end against his soft flesh, dragging it down agonizingly slowly. He felt the warm blood dripping down his cheeks like tears that he hadn't cried in years. He dragged the glass down his face yet again, staring at his reflection in the few larger shards of glass that remained locked in the frame, locked in the same way he was locked in his life. There was another cut on his other cheek, none being deep even to receive stitches like his hand might've.

But they still bleed.

Oh, did they bleed.

He caught himself staring at his eyes again.

There was still this unidentifiable softness behind the countless years of repressed pain and hate and torture. He hated that softness, that weakness, even if no one else could see it; even if no others could see that vulnerability he longed to lock away and forget about, it still bothered him to no end, ate away at him until he was sure there was absolutely no good in his world. Why? Why couldn't he just be strong? Why couldn't he just be the cold, cruel man that society hailed him as? Why did he have such kindness, such hope that maybe... maybe one day... someone would understand his pain, someone would recognize his heartache and sympathize with him. But no, no! He knew this would never happen! His mask of composure was too flawless, his glare too cold for anyone to want to break through to him no matter what they saw in him, and even question why he was so cruel, and why he hated society so distinctly. But it was this hope, this stupid, ignorant, arrogant hope that made him breathe the breaths that he dreaded; a fragment of a tiny dim light that seemed to crack his darkness. But this light was a lie. It would never come, never become truly bright enough. It would stay just out of his reach, just bright enough for him to take note of everything he would never grasp, things he would never hold true. This. This was his curse.


Oh, it was always those eyes of his.