When Glass Skies were Beautiful (DNF)

Chapter 8: The End of the Sky

Narrator:

      I could hear the silent wailing of the tragedy inside my soul. It resonated within me, even after departing from the flaming, broken building. As I left to collect the bodies' souls, I stopped. 

The boy with the caramel-colored hair lay, unconscious, a few inches away from the dark-haired boy. As I leaned forward, I expected crying, or anything of the sort. Instead of tears, blood gently rolled, dripped, and stained the face of the dead boy. 

Glass fragments littered his face and gown; his glazed, charcoal eyes staring unblinking at the ever-blue sky. His skin, streaked with blood, gently trickled onto the glass fragments, which simultaneously reflected the blue of the sky. 

I watched as his last breath left him, the caramel-haired boy clutching his lifeless fingertips.

      It used to sadden me to see one of my creation leave. Over time, however, I slowly grew numb to the coming and passing of thousands of souls. But never before I had never found a soul which had such beauty. Beauty is not in the face; it is the touch of skin against skin, the thousands of whispers in the dead of night, the intimate gaze of the windows of our soul. 

The charcoal-haired boy wore his beauty like dreams, his voice like rain, his fragile soul as dark as the night sky. 

But these things about him were unimaginable and incomprehensible to others. To love beauty is to see light, and only loveless eyes are blind to it.

      And this boy, the caramel-colored boy, had never been blind. 

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        "It was an accident."

       "Dream, no one blames you."

       Their excuses are thrown around in the distant corners of my brain. I tear them apart, excruciatingly, trying desperately to throw it back in their faces. 

They would never understand. I was a murderer. I killed him. I killed my light.

       I stare at the ceiling, unmoving. My face had been doused with tears earlier on, but was dry now. My eyes are tired, but I refuse to close them.

I feel myself trembling. My hands shake, but I don't stop them. It reminds me of the night George stopped my attack. 

       I roll over. I can't remember. I don't want to remember. 

I have to. George isn't here. 

He was gone. It was my fault. I used the cigarette. It was my fault. I had the addiction. No, my addiction did it. 

The cigarette did it. It was my fault. I remember.

       A bright, loud noise sounds. Light flashes in front of my eyes. I watch, in horror, as the e-cigarette explodes in my hands.

The last thing I see is George's horror-stricken face before I'm thrown backwards.

I smell smoke. I can't move. I can feel hands touching me, lifting me out off the ground.

 I can hear myself screaming, screaming for George. 

I have to get him. I need him. He can't get out by himself. 

       Then everything went black. 

       I awake, conscious, on the ground outside the psychiatric hospital. The gray building looks normal, save for the smoke, shattered glass, and decimated walls.