Things Fall Apart

14. Zero Percent

Kobra Kid was lonely, so lonely.

And everything was out of focus now.

His nightly bloodlust had overflown into his days. He could feel his mask slipping away.

There was this hole in his chest, where something once had been. And through this hole, Hatred had rushed like a small god and climbed into his eyes, laughed through his tears, and filtered his life.

What they tell you about the Wasteland, everything they tell you, it's Wrong.

It wasn't youth. It wasn't bright. It wasn't happiness. It wasn't freedom.

It was dry. It was suffocating. It was falling apart.

And everything was Wrong. Everything was Wrong.

Poison, Poison had to pay.

Because it had all been his fault from the start, hadn't it?

Everything was Wrong.

And two Wrongs had never made a Right.

And a split in the middle had never made two Wholes.

Poison had to pay.

Because they just were children who had ran away from Home.

Because their hearts were terribly sick now.

Because he had denied his own brother's identity, torn him away from home, captured his dreams and redreamt them, bottled up the air from his lungs and lighted out his voice, kept his heart locked in a secret place in order to keep it safe.

Because it was in that little wooden box they once found by the seaside.

Because one's life couldn't ever fit into such a small box.

Because he had lost the key.

Poison. Poison. Poison.

It wasn't Poison whom Kobra loved.

It wasn't Poison whom Mikey loved.

And they had never been brothers.

He was lonely, so lonely.

But where was his brother, now?

He had to come back. He had to understand. He had to find the key.

It had to happen again.

Kobra was breathless so breathless.

He only was 23 years old, but his soul had become too old for his bones. He didn't know neither what to do, nor where to go now.

He wore his heart up his throat like a noose slowly strangling him to death. Silence was thick and air had become heavier than himself. He couldn't quite breathe anymore.

He was burning.

He knew there were words that were craving to be said, but they were bigger than himself, and remained tied in shaggy knots in his chest, just like his hair.

He opened his mouth but no sound came.

And his lungs were burning.

He was the Silence, and he was craving to be heard.

Maybe it was because there had never been anyone to listen to what he had to say all along.

Only his brother, but he was gone. And Poison, Poison shut him up.