Ides of Sorrow (Sterek AU)

IOS 1

The colours were everywhere. They peeled off of the buildings like bloody, rusting strips of skin. They fell from the sky like tears of some long forgotten god whose feeble mind had crumbled like dust. They crawled out of the ground like swollen corpses, thick and bloated from all the years that they leeched colour from the world, gorging themselves on its long forgotten brilliance.

The worst colours were in his eyes.

Their pale blue piercing anyone who dared look at him and their soft powdery blue lulling anyone into a sense of security. If anyone survived looking into the man's eyes, they would see an intense sorrow and inconsumable rage buried deep within the irises. They would see a man longing for even a human glance, a soft human caress to take away the pain but that is not what would happen for Fate is not that kind.

He would never feel a human touch on his skin, he would never see someone look into his eyes with unadulterated love and he would never be noticed another human being. He would never be known again, his existence long forgotten in a world of technological gods and his heart ached. He ached for comfort, for the sweet release of Death but Death would not come for him. He knew that Fate would make sure of that.

There was no way to stop the colours.

The colours poured into his being, swallowing him whole in their mass of long forgotten brilliance. The colours clawed at his eyes, gouging them out daily, only to have them restored the very next day. They fell down his throat, choking him with their single minded intensity, leaving him gagging and spluttering, begging for the world to sink to a monochrome state. They wormed their way into his ears, nestling inside his head where they began to whisper sweet nothings, offering empty caresses full of sorrow and strife. They stabbed his heart like knives, a bloody red leaking from his icy blue heart.

The colour, the joy of the world, of those who chose not to see him, who chose not to see his deformity, who chose not to see who he was, who he truly was, they killed him slowly, drawing what little emotion he had left and crushing it like a trampled flower.

He was a corpse, a shell of a man and he was nothing.

He was colourless, monochrome.

He was nothing and he wanted to die.

But like colours, he would eventually fade but he would always stay there. He would always stay alive, scorned by the brighter colours. Scorned by the other brilliant colours for not being brilliant like them.

If you saw this man, you would quickly pass him on the street with a quick and pitiful gaze. You might walk a little faster, maybe run even but one thing is for sure, when you see the man he won't see you. He can't see you. He is blind. The man is blind.

He sits on the old park bench, staring off into space, wondering why no one will help him?

Is he that despicable?

Do people really just not want to help him?

People can be cruel and he knows that. He knows what people can do, he's seen what people can do. He's a victim of human nature and now human nature, the one thing that protected him has turned against him like a rabid dog, fangs bared and ready to strike him down.

The colours were everywhere and he could not see them, any of them. He was blind and the colours taunted him.