Antichrist

by thenbhd

So who knows the truth? No one really, I'm not even sure I do. It's funny how humans worry so much about appearances. Especially them. Because the scars on the outside are gone. Hell, they've made me essentially perfect, but the inside is ravaged. There's this monster walking around and she's beautiful. She's me.

Antichrist.

/

Well I swear there's a ghost on this Island

And his hands, all covered in blood

The initial thought was that I had won. But then I remembered that everyone defines winning differently.

The sickly coarse crimson liquid stained my clothes so densely, I wondered how they would get it out. But then I remembered something else, again. They didn't need to get it out. They could dispose of the clothing easily. It served no purpose anymore.

Who was I? Their lives were in my hands and I didn't hold on. I let them die. I made them die. And now instead of their lives in my hands, it was their blood. And now all I am is this body. I didn't know what to do with it.

So it made it's own decisions.

I realized it was a panic attack after they did.

The camera cut to a different view perfectly in time.

She said, "How can I relate to somebody who doesn't speak?"

I feel like I'm just treading water

Is it the same for you?

They marveled in it.

The second I stepped out onto that shiny, polished stage with it's onyx glow, all I saw were these sick, sunshine faces, clapping for me - the biggest spectacle of them all.

They liked my chilly glass shoes with their amethysts and they wanted to touch my hair because it felt like rich satin and they were so happy and glorious that I just knew that I was the real spectacle.

And I hated it. I never wanted to feel like that again.

I never did get what I wanted.

Well, criminals and liars - keep him in your cell as a privilege of mine

Well I love the house that we live in

I love you all too much

They enjoyed it. Too much.

We were the only ones who enjoyed the obscure luxuries at home.

It was never home again.

I could never let it go. Being the spectacle. I was the lone gladiator in the middle of the Colosseum with a starved lion at my feet.

So I ran as fast as I could. But trying to save myself was the worst mistake. Because I couldn't save them all.

What gladiator could outrun a lion with a block of iron on it's back?

Some 'accident' it was.

The blood is on your tongue as well as your hands

Archaic and content, you just wash them off

But I grew smarter. No one would help me. Fear keeps us human.

And who are we to claim that we're anything else?

Indifference keeps power in check.

So that's what I did.

And the iron on the gladiator's back that wasn't there before is there now. But it's taken a different shape.

Somewhere in between the blame and the hope.

I'm not quite certain where yet.

/