Stories Of Another World

Ink

Words flowed on my paper like water going down the river. Small designs made of ink rested on My white paper, writing words who danced around my head creating universes and worlds.

The paper, now stained , held my thoughts . The words expressing my emotions who I had held bottled for so long. Those emotions that kept me up at night, now leaving me through the ink pen and onto the white.

The contrast of the dark and the bright made me think of the two sides a human can have. Where there is evil there must be good, and where there is good there's must be evil.

Some seem to forget that there are both sides in humans. They harm those who have wronged , even kill them. Ruthlessly ending one's life and then blaming them as the evil one.

At the end of the day neither of us is bad nor good, there are only bad decisions. But then again who is there to judge ?

Who will judge us when the time comes? A puny human? Worthless beings really.

Humans are expandable. War proves that. Humans,  They die, they hold no power. So what makes them worthy of judging others ?

But then again, believing in false deities , will do no good either. That god you believe in, might not even exist.

There is no heaven or hell  that you will go once you pass on. Only darkness trapping you. Darkness holding you down as you sit cold and alone, surrounded by nothing but darkness.

I know it.

The scars on my wrists can prove my experience with the afterlife. I traced my finger tips on them as I took a break from writing.

Shame.

They told me I was wasting my life  by doing that. They told me I was wrong.

But, am I not wasting my life when I repeat the same dull pattern forever? Am I not wasting when I have to go somewhere I despise just to survive?

Am I not wasting it when I'm not happy?

I sighed as I noticed the ink was running out. I looked at the man in the corner who had been sitting silently for the last hour.

I walked to him and woke him up. He looked at me with that strange look he always had. He shook his head at me and turned his eyes.

"I'm out of ink."

He lowered his head, hiding his tears.

"Oh no. Don't ruin your face with tears."

I picked a tiny glass jar and collected the tears. The beautiful dark that had painted his face elegantly before now rubbing away and falling into the jar.

"Don't cry you fool. The blood looked so good on your face and now it's almost gone."

I put the jar away and frowned at his almost clear face.

"We can fix this can't we?"

He whimpered like a wounded animal against the dirty stop of fabric that covered his mouth.

I picked my tools and went to work. The patting of rain on the window silenced his pathetic wimps of pain.

I sighed at the beautiful dripping sound of his blood hitting the floor. I walked back to my paper, took the bottle filled with ink and continued writing on my paper.

The ink on the paper dried slowly but if you looked closely you could see it was the blood of the dead man in the corner.