Moratorium
Just what he felt was nothing anyone could ever describe.
He could look at you for a day's worth without a word from his dry, pale lips, yet it was enough for you to beg the gods to haul him up from the endless abyss his eyes held.
It should be said that the feeling just became completely banal, that his heart had become so numb, so numb that even pain and agony couldn't express the weight of confusion battling inside the course of his chest.
It was better to lie around and die like a dog, he said.
To die, to end, to run away---but he wouldn't take the shortcut carved on the knives that frequently accompanied his grasp by night (or by day) because he never enjoyed physical torture. Always grinded his eyelids shut, cowering below a broken-down table. Because that was what he truly was---a craven. (It was why he was left alive in the first place.)
But this time he makes an exception. He makes careful cuts everywhere, too many cuts that it couldn't be labeled as human flesh for its existence, and big ones when he feels it dire.
He just needed to bleed, to let go-to sink in-because he died, trembled and bled too much in the core that it pleaded for a way out.
He was a masochist in way too many---at least that's what he thinks.
To crumble without anyone noticing, to reach the breaking point with just a twitch of his hand---he wasn't an empty shell, never had been one from the beginning. He was just lost. Aimless.
Defeated.
Too knocked back down for sheer will and force to raise him back on his feet.
Too shredded-too breached-for his soul to be embraced by life again.
He was bleeding for without a cure.
He was bleeding for self-worth.
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A/N:
It's not an organ failure by the way.
I hope at least a line caught something of your interest.
Thanks for taking your time to read.
5/1/09