servus; omniscient reader's viewpoint

PROLOGUE

ALEA IACTA EST.

there is no turning back.

;; None of the photos belong to me. 

WARNING; contains descriptions of death, blood, slight profanity, implied su/c/de.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━〆

WHEN DID IT ALL BEGIN?

Memories sifted through his fingers like sand. All he could grasp were splinters of memories - useless and unnecessary. Most of them were mummies of people wrapped and cut by the same cloth.

They were the people he's killed. Loved, even. And terribly came to loathe.

The world was different now - he could tell that much. He tried to commit the world he knew into memory; where grim skies still had its color and the ghosts that haunt him doesn't look like them. He tried. He pretended to forget that he wasn't the one that caused this - he wasn't responsible for the whole in the wall! But it made things worse. He snuffed out his own excuses before he'd break down and catch fire.

It took him eight hundred and thirty-one seconds to realize.

Things could've been different.

(Maybe then, he wouldn't turn out to be the monster he made himself out to be.)

Guilt crowned his head and its thorns pierced into his skin; yet there was no one else left to look at the weight of his disgrace. The rancid smell of death was all that kept him limping forward. It was the only thing reminding him that he was still alive. Every step stripped him bare. His palms were cold and clammy - slugs of liquid crawling from his elbows to his fingers. He didn't mind it. He shouldn't mind it.

(What good would it do to look at somebody else's blood on his hands?)

There was nothing else left to lose. It was a mistake on his part to form attachment, longing, and look where it got him. What's left of them were the skin under his nails and the skeletons banging against the doors of his closet. They should've stayed as faceless stacks of flesh he had to dispose of. Just mere strangers that had nothing to do with him.

If only they were insignificant, he'd do his job without worrying about the tears that welled up in their eyes when he came to them with the blade in his hands, screaming the least things he wanted to hear. Grasping him as if he were the victim.

(They were foolish. But no one knew that's what he treasured most about them.)

This story was a tragedy by design.

He blamed it all on the fucking < FATES > .

The < FATES > were cruel.  A clandestine nebula that would cause a great collapse if it meant creating a well-done Story; after all, morals played no part in their great plans. Everything about Them were disgusting. From what [NAME] knew, they were lonely beings, selfish enough to rid the world of its pieces for measly entertainment. And when they had greater plans, bigger stories to make, their word was the inevitable.

Alas, It was [NAME]'s role to obey.

It was his mission to put the world into homeostasis.

Even at the cost of -

(There was no stopping the life draining from their faces. Even at his final moments, he couldn't bare to reminisce the different look each of them had on their faces. One stared at him with a look of unbridled hate. The other gaped in disappointment, eyebrows furrowed but unusually calm. But he looked at [NAME] with those eyes. It was a gaze filled with pity.)

(Didn't even do a proper funeral-)

Collateral damage.

([NAME]'s hands trembled, blade almost slipping from his fingers — but he was too torpid to care. )

(Redemption was never that easy.)

The < FATES > laughed. It's all just entertainment in the end.

IN THE SILENCE, the metronome ticking in his chest faded into a mummed melody.

What remained of his (s/c) body was left alone, rigid, amidst a jaded battlefield.

[ Ple—... A—body .. L—tening .. —nt me SALVATION. ]

[ THE CONSTELLATION '???' HEARS YOUR WISH. ]

omg i,,, actually finished the prologue? i didn't realize how dark this was until i actually ,,, semi-edited this. woops.

〄 cowards die many times before their deaths.