02-13-2008, 03:51 PM
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indent It had been eight days. It had only taken God six to create the world, but it had taken him eight. Eight miserable days in which he saw no living soul, isolating himself from the opiates that had threatened to consume him whole. He screamed during the night, shook uncontrollably, struck his fists against walls hard enough that they bled, and finally crashed into that soft, safe place—that dark place he had always held onto. On the eight day, Ahren de le Poer, whose blood could have been considered royalty and who thought of himself as nothing but an itinerant waste of space, realized what had to be done.
indent The thought was neither planned nor mechanical—it came in a soft voice, registering only in waves. So it was to his old home he went, walking as if in a dream. He didn’t know how he found her bones, buried under the snow. He didn’t know how he found the kerosene. Still, he took those things to the church, and for a long time did nothing but sit in the afternoon haze, smoking, contemplating his own death. He stayed there for hours. Magnetism drew him to the knife he had carried since he was a boy. As he turned it over in his hands, the fresh scar on his forearm tingled, as if laughing. He raised the blade once more.
indent In the end, the deed took him only several minutes. The knife cut through his hair, cut away the weight he had been carrying for over a year, and piled it at his feet. Of all the sensations he had expected, the lack of weight was perhaps the most shocking. He felt cold, but he felt liberated, as if that simple action had erased over a year of mistakes. Quietly, the blonde rose, followed the ruined red carpet that led to the doors, and finally turned back. The modern-gothic structure stood as a monolith, a place of safety, but things could not remain this way.
indent A spark caught a match, and he set the carpet to flame. Ahren exited into the soft snow of the evening, shutting the doors behind him. The fire did not catch fully for a few moments, and then grew to immense proportions. The church sang as it burnt, its voice shattering glass, flame, twisting wood. Ahren stood there, alone in the snow, and watched—feeling as if perhaps he could now truly let go.
indent The thought was neither planned nor mechanical—it came in a soft voice, registering only in waves. So it was to his old home he went, walking as if in a dream. He didn’t know how he found her bones, buried under the snow. He didn’t know how he found the kerosene. Still, he took those things to the church, and for a long time did nothing but sit in the afternoon haze, smoking, contemplating his own death. He stayed there for hours. Magnetism drew him to the knife he had carried since he was a boy. As he turned it over in his hands, the fresh scar on his forearm tingled, as if laughing. He raised the blade once more.
indent In the end, the deed took him only several minutes. The knife cut through his hair, cut away the weight he had been carrying for over a year, and piled it at his feet. Of all the sensations he had expected, the lack of weight was perhaps the most shocking. He felt cold, but he felt liberated, as if that simple action had erased over a year of mistakes. Quietly, the blonde rose, followed the ruined red carpet that led to the doors, and finally turned back. The modern-gothic structure stood as a monolith, a place of safety, but things could not remain this way.
indent A spark caught a match, and he set the carpet to flame. Ahren exited into the soft snow of the evening, shutting the doors behind him. The fire did not catch fully for a few moments, and then grew to immense proportions. The church sang as it burnt, its voice shattering glass, flame, twisting wood. Ahren stood there, alone in the snow, and watched—feeling as if perhaps he could now truly let go.