Short Stories

Miracles

Quick clarification. Do not take the words said in this story literally. It is this character's thoughts

Miracles don't exsist.
Fate is fixed with no way to change it. It wears an outfit of pain and suffering for the unlucky.
Miracles are just some bullshit someone thought up one day to give hope to the hopeless and dreams to the dreamless.
It's all fake.
There are no miracles in reality, only fantasy stories written by those who seek to manipulate your thoughts with their false tales. There is no happily ever after for people like me.
The cursed.
The forgotten.
The unloved.
The abused.
The hated.
The feared.
The unlucky.
Miracles don't really exsist.

Siltafiir sat on the cliffside of what he had called home sweet home for the past 10,000 years. It was here that he waited. Waited for his soul life to slowly sap away.
He had lived quite a miserable life. Lots of pot holes on his journey that made being alive like hell. And other times there were slopes that took him higher to the clouds before abruptly cutting off and caused him to tumble to the ground. Plummet into yet another pothole of pain and loss.

He couldn't remember how long he had been alive, soaking in his regrets. He could have done things better. He could have formed a better outcome.
But fate likes to kick your ass and feet you to the maggots when you're unlucky.

Siltafiir clenched his hand and winced, pain burning in his chest. His time was running out.
He glanced beside him to an unopened champagne bottle that he had been saving. He wanted to take his first taste of liquor before he was gone. But, that would have to wait.

Siltafiir pushed himself to his feet and walked into the cave. An unmade bed of blankets and pillows lay in the corner, his blade resting next to it.
He picked up his sword and pulled it out of its sheath, examining the shining blue and purple tinted metal. The energy seemed to be growing dull along with Siltafiir's life force. How ironic.

Siltafiir lay the sword down on a raised stone platform in the center of the cave, resting the sheath next to it as well. Fate will bring someone to the sword, or fate will keep them away. Whatever happened, the weapon served its purpose and would soon be nothing more than piece of metal with a handle.

Siltafiir felt his chest burn and he began to cough. "Damn... This hurts..." he stumbled out of the cave and plopped back down on the cliffside with his champagne.

With a load of struggle followed by a few muttered curses, Siltafiir got it open and took a sip.

He placed the bottle down slowly, and swallowed. Closing it up again, he smiled. "Tastes like shit..."

Siltafiir lay down, curling up on his side. What a way to go out. Having his first drink of any "party" beverage and he hated it.
Siltafiir hugged himself, feeling his eyes water up as his mind wandered.
He thought about all those he lost in his life, the people he'd never see again... And those he killed.
Medisimo, his first love.
Zahrahmiik, his backstabber brother.
Sanyatta, his second mother.
Celibe.
Aaron.
Aphrodite.
Rose.
All the people he cared about.
Tears trickled down his cheek once he closed his eyes, letting his heart and soul die forever.

Miracles don't exsist.
Fate is fixed with no way to change it. It wears an outfit of pain and suffering for the unlucky.

So make something else. Something that is real that you will remember at death's doorway.

~The soul thief rests in peace with all his self-made miracles... His memories.~

Quick clarification. Do not take the words said in this story literally. It is this character's thoughts.

Siltafiir did NOT kill himself. He simply let himself die.

Hope ya' enjoyed~❤