He was a home for abandoned sentences. His lips were made for silence, his ears created to listen to what nobody else cared to. His mind was filled with so much gray matter it was black. When fate created him, he was meant for the undersides of shoes, the ones that pounded the monochromatic pavement with vicious competition to others who also could not be bothered with the time of day.
But, with what fate also gave him, it created the demons which broke him. Feeding his fears. Fate added a twist, giving him everything to rebuild himself. And multiplied it by each day he spent in recovery. Equaling out to the most inspirational of beings. With his charcoal mind, his bloodied, unopened, lips, and all the scars that lead a map along his skin.
He knew. Knew of the terrors that stretch as they crawl out of the closet, the ones of which were not made for the faint of heart, nor the young ones. The monsters made of infinite mass, the mind produces more and more. He knew of nothing and of everything. His mind was made to go blank, but only when he was requested to let loose an onslaught of un-venomous words. His words compiled to a great nothingness by the days end.
He could not help it.
Today, of all days, was the worst, the proof was in what was being asked of him. Of his meant-to-be sole of a life. The monochromatic pavement was getting a splash of color, which started as red, and soon turned black in the burning heat of the sun which had only risen to make hell a hotter place.
The mechanical instrument still sat on his desk, holding the voicemail of which was a horrid thing. Cries of a female, of whom he had never met, sounded into the phone, being recorded as she fell into the grasps of the demons that climbed out of her head, onto the pages of which she drew on, and then into her eyes, ears, and mouth.
Forcing the abominations that had been whispering, to scream, to claw inside her chest, to roll out of her mouth in furious efforts to not have the strings, which have been attached so delicately, as though the strings were for a kite in the sky, cut away into nothingness. Her arms are already littered in her attempts. Her cheeks already stained red and with streaks that have started to erode into her skin, such harshness salt can be.
His arms reached up to his messy, long hair, pulling in anxiety. His face, so torn and ashen was it, that it declared the opposite to his gray matter. His mind splattered itself across his face in anguish. A decision is made, as he realizes there is no other choice.
His skeletal like frame moves for him, not allowing his mind to say no. His hands, both, as though the object is of utmost importance, lifts the phone. His lips touch the front softly, before he redials the number. Words do not answer as the ringing stops, sniffles allow him to know the phone was answered, assuring him it is not for nothing.
