Title: Finally
Author: Cannibaljello at PG-13...maybe.
Warnings: Bad author alert.
Author's Notes: So...it seems I'm writing again. Maybe, if I still feel I deserve to do such a thing.
I find pride in my ability to provoke thought from an audience. That's why I don't write details about every little part of the environment or really anything. It's not important to me right now. Emotion is, as well as whatever else passes through the mind. If you don't like this approach, then the story will be equally unimportant to you.
For the rest, enjoy. Please review too.
x
Only death loved him, reaching for him now with rust stained skin smelling of rot.
Finally, she'd found him and had come to conquer him, to tear down his armor, bringing with her a thousand bleeding minions.
There David stood, defenseless. He didn't need a sword. He knew all too well that he couldn't fight them. Finally, finally he was going to give in, let them dig in and devour him to their highest delight.
He didn't have a hero. He'd never had a knight. All he had was her and one last night to despise instead of survive.
Before that day, she'd been a whisper to him, coming now likethe scream of a dangerous demon. She'd touched and tasted those who stood all around him, had stolen the souls from the people he'd felt something for. Something.
He'd never known love before, but now with her being so loyal and dependable...
Now, people who had laughed with him, at him, each and every one of them were turned against him. Had been against him, beating at him as those fingers with falling and torn flesh tried to do through the door that separated two types of living beings, one incompletely, the other far too full.
Was it possible that David had been dead since his beginning? Had he died before that time?
Perhaps not. Not like them. He didn't have skin made of paste that slapped together damply like hells wind chimes. He didn't have eyes that caved wetly inwards, nor the naked innards exposed from erupted abdomens. Even with them, the dead continued crying, trying relentlessly. Because of this and only this, David knew he wasn't one of them but their opposite. He was silent. He'd given in, given up, and still he looked up to them from what was destined to be his grave. After all, they'd achieved all he'd ever wanted...
They felt nothing. He felt far too much of everything but fear. Oh no, he wasn't afraid of them. They could have him, would, when fate wanted to bring him to his end.
The realization hit him then, the answer to a question, the only one that had continued to baffle him. Death was the lone love he had. Why hadn't he run to her sooner?
Fate. The single word seemed to regenerate and abbreviate every born sentence that passed through his mind only to settle there with immortal certainty, weighed there like an anchor in a calm ocean of liquid ice.
Fate never came too soon. It failed too arrive to late. What did it matter anyway? The results were always the same. Why fight when there was nothing to fight for?
Ask Kevin. Maybe he'd know. They all would, David was sure, because each and every one of the eight would die at some time, some place, at the face of death -the same death, that never failed to chase and embrace all who lived into her arms. The same death who approached David so beautifully now.
How was it possible to tell them, that those who fought stood behind a facade, thinking so falsely that they still had a reason to live? They were ignorant to the truth that they'd be thoughtlessly or thoughtfully replaced.
In fact...they were tricked to believe that they were worth something. Perhaps their weight. Even then, they were worth more dead. After all, a collapsed corpse was known to be heavier than a living, breathing human.
Being dead, how did they lift him, when the door came crashing down? When the whining wet mouthslunged and plungedto feast from him? Did it even matter?
To David, it didn't. It was too late to think and all too apparent to know each individual tooth when they took him, tore into him, in a final reminder that at least something was accepting him just as he had his fate.
They ate from him and then came a second realization. They needed him to fill their stomachs and mouths frothed with spoiled scarlet spittle. They felt they did, though they were to sure have ceased metabolizing...
Hadn't the other humans believed that they had needed him, only to come to the conclusion that he would be better off dead? They'd left him. It had been their last given gift.
Indeed, it was a time of celebration. He could hear the laughter. It sounded suspiciously insane and so like his own. He hadn't heard it for so long, but now...he was happy, because arms were finally embracing him. And to think he'd never believed he'd feel them.
Fingers were curling in his hair, bringing him close - for a kiss, perhaps? - tilting to expose his throat from the heavy fall of ebony hair. And there it was...there was love. Love. Now he knew it, he was sure. There was so much of it he felt he'd drown in it...if love had the same color and nauseous taste of naked blood that awakened his senses and brought forth another question...
Only death loved him, he remembered. Why hadn't he run to her sooner?
The darkness that put an end to everything didn't have an answer.