Change
He stands there, tall as ever, brilliant clear, blue eyes, beautiful, long, silver-like hair, and perfect skin. The sun coming from no exact direction hits his face and the sharp angles of his cheek bones, setting shadows across his jaw. His lips, the color of pale pink roses and long, colorless lashes make him look almost feminine. Turning his back to his surveyors he says he feels off, and is going to rest, which piques the interest of some, for what kind of angel feels off. He lies down, back against smooth, cold marble, long hair braided over one shoulder. One would think a glorified angel wouldn't get headaches, but this one sure did, and often at that, usually accompanied by ideas that he shouldn't have. Resting, thoughts overflow and begin to infect him, curiosity of pleasure and need for something more than what he had. Anger rushed through his veins as he tightened a fist and punched the wall, the dull thud echoing through the halls. Trying to calm himself, he lies, face first in a pillow and bites his lip until he feels a sharp sting, now watching a red droplet fall from his mouth onto the newly stained marble. He strokes his lip and stares at the red, reflecting in his icy blue eyes.
He feels a searing pain shooting up through his arms and wonders what he had done to deserve this. Another shock jolts him, and he cannot help but grimace. And yet, they do not notice. They simply keep staring at him as if he is their Adonis. Every sting is hidden to them; a thin white veil of smiles and pleasured laughs conceals his pain. Not once has it failed him and shown them his very core. And it is excellent that it does not. Because that is where the sickness lies. He can feel it, like a wild predator, tail steadily batting in the shadowed corners of his mind, claws planted deep inside every inch of him, bristling fur scratching at his skin. Its eyes are set, staring, it has only one target; it does not move, and will not move, until it has gotten what it craves. He will try time and time again to shake this creature from his body, to destroy it in anger, or to lull it into a long, deep sleep. Yet at every attempt, its claws sink deeper, and he cannot help but convulse, every time, violently, until at the very end, he is spent, and the creature is back in its shadows, waiting for him.
With every waking morning, it gets worse, making the world spin. He can feel the sickness being pumped by his heart, travelling through his veins, and being sent to his head, making his very mind ache with each unwilling thought. His hands shake, and he buries them in his pockets, hiding them away. It will be then end if they see it. He forces a clear smile, but his cheeks are burning with strain, and his eyes glisten. There are too many people. He cannot stand being put in front of so many eyes, looking at him in this state. They're grinning, laughing, innocently conversing with one another. He does not know if he will last the night, and flees. Back in his room, his false expression falls, and he can feel his heart slowing. But, relief is short-lived as he plants a seed of doubt. What if they saw? What if they know? Panic overcomes him, and he cannot stand the thought, collapsing on the floor, on his hands and knees. He's losing, he can feel it; this disease is stronger than he thought it would be, and he no longer has the strength to fight it. He will try, and try again, to expel it, try to make it go away. His arms are giving out, and his breath quickens again as his resistance is punished, another wave of pain drowning his every cell, eating at what feeble defenses he has left. His heart is beating too quickly, and his lungs are on fire, constricting. Images flash through his mind, seizing him and calling him ...He cannot last tonight. With one last shudder, he falls to the floor, no longer supported, and tries to breathe. It's forced and he can feel each gasp grating at his throat, but he needs air. He is tired, so tired, and he stays completely still. He just needs to ... sleep. He closes his eyes, his weakened body being slowly taken over.
They give him options, not that any are truly something he could ever want, with one being death and the other a pain worthy of death, a pain called 'cure'. He chooses the latter. They chain him to a pedestal. He strains his arms to pull away from his binds, they are so confining, but that is how it is when you catch the sickness. So restrained, held back with no opinion or rights. Sometimes, he thinks he doesn't want to become pure again after all. He looks down, and imagines falling from his pedestal; it doesn't look like a long fall compared to the pain he feels now. He struggles as brilliant light burns his skin and eyes, wearing them red, and his pained, wings, seemingly broken and twisted, begin to distort and corrode. His cloudlike hair darks at the roots, like storm clouds raging over earthen skies. His once perfect, pale skin is now bruised with black and purple splotches, various cuts and lacerations marking the skin around his neck. He hears the creaking groan of the chains straining to keep him bound to the pillar. Dark, whispered thoughts rushed through his minds, taunting him, lulling him towards the sickness. Their eyes are unwavering, simplistic adoration in their eyes, but there are hints of other things? Is it possible? Did they find out? Do they know he is sick? Could it be pity?
He sits in front of a frosted mirror and stares deeply into his own eyes. They were blue...and yet... he can see the red. He has given up, and he can feel his body changing. Every night is spent awake, trying to adjust, trying to push the worry to the very back of his head. He feels as if he has not slept in weeks, and as he reaches his hand towards the mirror, he struggles to keep it from trembling. He can no longer see his old self, he is nothing but a shell of what he used to be, a hollow thing without will. Is he really so complacent? So pathetically weak? He has submitted to the sickness, let it stain him, weaving a fine web of lies and faked smiles tattooed on his skin. He murmurs obscenities at himself. His hand clenches into a fist, and he throws it at the mirror, sending it flying, its shards scattering on the floor and walls, barely missing his face. He thinks; what … just what had he done, this wasn't like him. The sickness, it's taking over. He cannot control it anymore. He does not know why he thought he could fight it. But … Oh well. He suddenly smirks. There's only one thing he can do now.
His heart beats spastically, thumping almost as loud as his footsteps carrying him away from the painfully angelic noises following him. Waves of guilt rush up, slowing him, making him hesitate slightly in his steps towards the exit. As he looks back at the bright, almost blinding light that used to be home, and is ironically now the last place he would want to be, he feels yet another uncharacteristic smile spread over his lips. He'd love to stay, really.
I smile and whisper from the back of his mind, "It just happens to be, that evil is an incurable disease."