Oh the irony of me being away from so long makes me smile. But I'm back after a LONG hiatus to bring in something for 2008! I lost my urge to write for a bit but then I found myself drabbling and eventually coming up with this little gem! I hope you all missed me:D Plus, I've been working to actually use my livejournal so you can get anything I don't post on here, on there.
When we see an image in the sand we call it a mirage. A trick upon the eyes and a simple illusion based off of our own misguided imaginations in the wave of desperation to find an oasis in the desert that seals out fate. A painful reminder that we are still in an agony and still lingering in a state where we cannot accept a horrified murmur from the idea that death is slinking his hand through our spine and slowly tearing out our heart from our backs. Does this cause a muttering insult from the young who cannot understand the pained memories that race through the passing being's mind as they recall what they have done and make wishes for what they have not? A hand slipping from one's grip as their strength fade, sometimes they cannot even close their eyes, and merely stare off into empty space where they see nothing physical between their existence and their mirage.
Their illusion of everlasting life; a hope to reunite with those we love in the end.
Does it truly happen?
The bitter taste of the alcohol smothered over his lips in an attempt to fixate his mind away from the passing minutes. His back hunched over the dimly lit room as his gaze lost against the glass bottle that slowly sees to become a beckon in his confused and intoxicated mind filled with inebriated images of a harsh winter crossing outside the doors of the church. There was a mutter of incoherent babble slipping from his lips, a slid of saliva slithered down his chin and a cough surfaced from his lungs as he seemed to choke as if liquid had gotten into his lungs and burned.
The burn of alcohol was his own antiseptic for the mental agony that his physical being could not be stained with. He was ruining himself. Killing him.
The clock against the call clanked harshly as the minutes seemed to pass slower than they should. Perhaps it was the intoxication or even the cramping of the quarters that brought him to realize that the world was blurred. The world was slower and even, for a moment, time stood still as he brought himself from his chair in a sluggish movement. He was afraid. He was more than terrified of the world that lied beyond his state of mind that expresses itself through the neatness of the walls.
Nothing changed. For so many years, his walls and his books along the small, private library, nothing changed. But around him, he realized with a painful expression that he hid with a grin too wide for his face, everything changed; outside the world was floating along the waves of in a flux of revolutionizing and unfamiliarity. The buildings changed and places he knew well became historical monuments to man's attachment of his domination against the other beings. The vanity of the human race was a phenomenal thing which he found attractive and beautiful even with the ugly face it donned and the horrid children of greed it produced.
It was rare that metal felt so cold and unforgiving to him. The door knob turned as his legs became heavy while he pushed against the wooden door; a small sob escaped to his ears and he paused. The fear gripping against him and clinging to him like the mighty warrior of death that hovered over the area; the scent that made him high had turned into a rotten ideal as he pushed back again and forced himself out of the room. His safe haven and his world against the reality; his own mind locked away in the physical so that he may see it around him even when the day comes that his sanity no longer keeps him company.
He only had three wishes; all pertaining to the reality changing to a dream like state where he could feel the softness of nobility against his skin. He realizes with that selfish thought, as he stopped short of the brown haired man, that God was angry with him. His expression does not change but his mind is raging, screaming and pulling at his wounds as he scratches himself in a way of ridding the disgusting scent that he so cherished.
Temptations of the flesh. He wishes he never gave in. He wishes he never took part nor enjoyed it. But reality slapped him once more with a ferocity that he found frightening as the sound of the cold air brushed against him; it was going to be a snowy funeral; frozen rain to comfort her tears which were shed on those nights of passion long lost to the times. He loathed the memories that lingered of the heat around them and the brushing of her hair while it fell in her face; a coy smile of her virgin face that proved he was more than just a monster.
Her hair, now grey with age, with her eyes closed in a peaceful rest. He knew the rest would never be peaceful as her spirit must have been enflamed with a vengeance that burned his eyes even now; he wished he could sob blood, as a sign that he was allowed to exact what was deserved, but who is to challenge God in how he created the world… how he created the sick game of watching lovers pass boundaries to be together only to lose in the end.
God is laughing at him now, isn't he? A cruel mixture of irony and amusement washed over his face, but the words of the fellow priest goes unheard to his ears. A poem comes to mind, but only the end, and Abel finds that fitting for the occasion. In his sorrow and anger, he realizes, that in truth she was smiling; Esther, in that coffin of royalty, was smiling even in her death she found forgiveness for the ones who did this. His hate was drowning him; and he was disgusted by himself due to it.
A mutter escaped his lips as the chill seemed to have frozen them shut. A cold and cut reply as he remembered the end of the poem; a fitting monument as he recalled her red hair falling over her shoulders in a sleek fashion with her usual priest attire on (he had always enjoyed it when he recalled their younger days as partners) and her fingers fiddling the pages.
The book now laid on his bed, the page still bloodied on the words she had called out in reciting the moment the bullet had pierced through her throat and dirtied the crispy beauty of the novel. Abel had, sadly, stared at the page for so long he recalled the worlds perfect…
"Will open on the cold eternal shores
That look sheer down
To the dark tideless floods of Nothingness
Where all who know may drow"
I do not own "Man Against the Sky" nor do I own Trinity Blood.