The darkness was slowly consuming the broken soul. There was no hope for him, he was drowning and there was no light to save him. The jester tightened his grip around his legs and rested his forehead on top of his knees. He was alone in the world; rejected and misunderstood. "Insane…" "Demented…" "Crazy…" Their harsh words echoed in his head. Tears slipped past his eyelashes and streamed down his cheeks. He was useless and an outcast.
The jester was tired of being deceitfully talked about behind his back, drained of being mocked, done with being ignored and depressed of being unloved. He was exhausted. The spiritless jester was ready to give up and surrender to insanity. Others had already called him crazy, but he wasn't, not yet. The poor jester was just impaired. He desired love and dreamed of company. He contemplated on what it would feel like to talk to someone other than the night mother that would not citizen his every word. He wondered what it would be like to listen to someone instead of the jester's laughter echoing inside his head.
The fool hastily wiped away his tears and unsteadily rose to his feet. He approached a small desk and grabbed a thin journal inside the drawer. He flipped through the pages and scanned through his written entries. Someday, someone will read his journal and understand. He just wanted a friend, someone that understood his peculiar ways, and someone that could heal his open wounds that the others had caused. They whispered heartless words that made the fool wonder what was wrong with him. They tormented him and ridiculed his mother. They humiliated the lonely jester and abandoned him in the shadows. The jester released his notebook and fell on to his knees. He extended his hands to the ceiling and stared up into the void. "Cicero is always alone. Mother! Why does no one understand poor Cicero?" He pleaded; tears glistening in his red stained eyes. He was met with silence, the silence the lead him into madness…The silence that had led him into depression…The silence that punished him.
His body slowly crumbled into a broken structure on the floor as he softly wept. No one would hear him because he was discarded and isolated. No one would care because they felt bitterness and hatred towards the suffering jester. There was always and only darkness. The jester accepted the darkness like he was greeting an old friend. It understood the pain he had been through and acknowledged the laughter in his head that was slowly killing him. It was the only one that recognized that The Fool of Hearts was not crazy…Just a little unwell…