STAGE I
I created my best masterpiece most sickly and beautifully. The goal, quite plainly, is to chisel off stone in just the right places. The world without its Lord of Fire is a world without eyes; blind by the little child who turned his back and let it all burn and his phony promises.
They're nothing without me.
Me. I am not unjust. I would never betray your trust. Isn't it obvious? I am the representation of complete and utter salvation.
I am true, I am loyal. I'm powerful. I am royal. Flawless and your solace.
STAGE II
A warped finger jabs the air-eyes that puncture with a sword-like glared. He's done, I remember thinking. My tighten, shrill vocal chords declare that even today when screeches emit from unhinged jaws in a cell room. It's my own screams.
I revel in this wonderful frustration when spit flies in fury, and eyes burn black under beautiful, infuriated sedation.
My real satisfaction comes only from one simple question; who is the true abomination now?
STAGE 3
Death is a bastard. Filthy, slimy thing.
Coward!
Traitor!
"Perhaps another day," he murmurs quietly. But then when his scythe curls around my father's throat after a year of being washed away from civilization, and when his empty voice fills my ears-
I wail. I scream. I slash.
"Damn you, I cannot wait anymore!"
A slightly worn brass handle curves in the center of a sweaty palm. Silent steps pad against old, dulled hardwood floors. And somewhere the voices scream out. Oh, I hear them.
In the corner of the foyer, the invisible grandfather clock tick-tocks an apathetic cadence, and his face twitches every minute as he keeps the endless tempo of emptiness. I'm just behind a cage of bones. My heart fills with blue fire thud-thumps a devoted beat first races then slows and endures and stops when the infinite tempos of life is no more.
I am cold...but free.