Antisepticeye One Shots

tired

He lay on the floor, just breathing, just blinking. A small wind up music box rested before him, his glowing green eyes reflecting in its rusty surface. A headless ballerina with a broken leg spun doggedly on to the plunk plunk of the box. His glazed eyes watched its every turn.

He wasn't just physically tired; he could feel the drowning exhaustion in his very bones. All his blood felt cold, as if it had frozen inside his veins. He could still hear the insane laughter of the previous night echoing in the stone chamber. Dried blood from his enemy caked his hands and the cold floor beneath him.

With great effort, he flicked his gaze to the corner across from him. There he was. The one that had held him back for so long, finally defeated. His head lolled to one side, hair matted and jaw broken, still oozing out blood. Multiple stab wounds screamed from his pale neck and arms. One of his legs was twisted at an unnatural angle, the other still barely attached to the rest of his body. The knife, still buried up to the hilt into his eye. Streams of red dripped steadily down, feeding into a lake that gathered around its deceased owner.

He had been waiting so long for this, but now that it was over, he felt empty. As if he had no more purpose. As if his reason for existence had taken its last breath with his enemy.

Now that he was gone, there was nothing. Nothing but this tiredness.

So he closed his eyes, and let the music play.