Thrusting and locking the knife into his brain like a key, he knew he was dead, but he had to become worse than dead. Dirt, rot, food for the worms. Father had to die he said. He had to die because he made things too unrealistic.
Chaos was embed in his hands. This golden apple was thrust in their throats, swallowing discord after discord and pain and falsities. There was no truth about his father, everything that remained lied in this shallow pool of everything that once made him breathe and think. Peace was the answer, until his son was involved, until his very own Abel had made him sought hope for this kingdom.
No tears were shed. All fathers had to fade away. Everything had to. He hadn't heard the blue ringing mournful cries of his mother in years. This little blue Abel was with them, comforting them, letting the masses be tucked into bed and told that everything would be all right. Count the sheep, hear about little boy blue. He was sick of safety and assurance. Religion only brought the comfort in dying a boring and unsatisfied life. Let's go to work, let's do what we're told. Smile at the one who killed you on the inside. Smile at those who welcomed you to wallow in this middle class misery and to never say how you truly thought and felt. Father came and he wrapped the tourniquets around you. Go to sleep, he said. There will be no more words tonight. Stop crying. I will shield your eyes of the trauma I witnessed for too long. Sonic is the fortunate one. This little Abel who could cry whenever he wanted.
Daddy dear, he hardly missed you. Your death was in vain, your veins no longer conglomerate as do your masses and believers. The green Cain willed no more peace, no more symphony, but only din, destruction, darkness, the yang of the yin. His glasses shuttered out all the light of the world. His father had done the same every night, wrapping his cornflower blue pupils in rusty duct tape. For all his life, he only saw darkness when he wanted to taste the light and to know of its beauty. Now darkness would only follow, and it was the only friend he knew. Going to bed every night knowing this animal boogeymen was watching, he didn't count sheep. He didn't hear dad's lullabies and stories. Instead he talked to him and shook his hands that smelled of acrid brimstone.