the beekeeper.

chapters.

he was gone, but she was there.
the protagonist melted into tragedy as the mentor disappeared in the wind.
the savior appeared, helped the protagonist back up on his feet, and he learned to love again.
then challenges.
of course, what is a good story without conflict?
and oh was there conflict.
in the hero's mind, the saint became a devil, and in his paranoia he painted her a black witch of hate
when really, he was turning himself into a deprecating hypocrite only interested in other people's thoughts.
months, months flew by and finally
an epiphany
a realization of true agony that shredded every piece of him:
what he had done, how he tore apart angels
and why, why?
for himself?
the protagonist turned into an antagonist as quickly as he had became a hero.
and now, the antihero, sitting in a cold room alone
longing for that smell or just some sort of comfort
but there's no comfort in empty walls that only scream about your own stupidity.
drywall filled with memories of her and of him and of everything shared
and planks with initials burnt into them.
"you're going to be okay"
how could i be okay when i took a masterpiece, a plan of survival and of the future
how could i live with myself knowing i took it and burned it alive?
i'm no hero.
i'm no saint.
i'm an earthly embodiment of satan and she is living proof.