Insidious

Black rain. As black as the night, as black as the Devil’s heart, as black as the future.

He stood layer upon layer of blood-soaked ground. His fractured face glued together like a puzzle with washi tape was a mask of permanent anguish. 86 pieces. A face that had once been the pride and joy of the family, a face that had once been a symbol of hope, a face that had once been whole. Broken, smashed, over and over again, yet he did not die, for he was cursed to live. Cursed to live forever, with his sins painted onto his face, for everyone to see. Not that there was anyone left, but the presence of a thousand soldiers still followed him around, the burden of caring about what they thought was heavy on his shoulders; nothing made sense anymore.

Death filled the long crack which trailed down from his forehead to his jaw - the death of who he was, who he had been, who he could have been. A permanent sign announcing to whoever was out there, probably just the gods and the demons, that he was a failure. A disappointment. A murderer. And the black rain danced down his face, mocking him, reminding him that everything was gone, that all was lost, and hope had escaped Pandora’s box.

The dark water was up to his ankles now, specks of red stars reflecting in it. Beautiful. Deadly.

The rain used to calm him down - it brought him back to reality. But now, what was reality? Exterminating what he had thought of as real and replacing it with the fucked up fantasies in his head...was that reality? All this pain, all this death, it was all self-inflicted; he had caused everything. His memories of the world which had once been, were dying out like fireworks, flying across the sky of his mind fleetingly before they disappeared with a boom. At least they ended with an explosion, a blast of freedom. He, on the other hand, was chained to blood.

And there he stood, eyes blazing, a storm of fire, battling with the rain, battling with existence, trying to set it aflame, waiting for the end. His tears evaporated before they reached his eyes, but that was alright. Tears were a sign of surrender. No, he, Child of The Flame, would not cry. He would not let the darkness overcome him, yet he felt his soul aching to sink into its embrace. Dancing in the dark until we’re twenty-five, they used to sing, Dancing in the rain as the world comes alive. So, he danced. Useless, foolish, but he still clung onto his last thread of sanity.

Time fluctuated as he moved around like a drunk, his locks of hair the colour of lightning glowing obnoxiously. He danced to the silence; his head filled with memories of the insanity he had created his life from before long forgotten. The rainwater rose to his waist, and he still danced, yet he wasn’t sure why he danced anymore. Dancing in the dark he murmured, and his last strand of sanity snapped.

The black liquid rose and rose, and he continued moving to a non-existent beat, listening to the haunting melody of his grey heart as a streak of purple appeared in his right eyeball, spreading like a virus across his face, then his body. Only his hair remained vaguely unpurple, lightning flashes in a field of violets.