The Hope of Redemption

It was dark.

Slime and acid dripped from the ceiling of his heart, the echo of each drop shaking the hollow case to its foundations. One of its foundations toppled, in a heap it crumbled, his heart, in a moment, lain to ruins.

The acid gnarled at his flesh, biting, stinging, ripping to bloody shreds.

He lay in a heap of blood, the pain ebbing away into the caves of memory.

And it was over, wasn't it?

So Joseph was like that, in the midst of self-destruction. And there was no one to save him but himself.

No one to help.

No one to love.

Surely, he was dead.

Surely.

There was no hope. There never was.

There was a crack as yet another chunk of him fell apart, dust and grime floating above the destruction, mocking at the pitiful downfall of a soul, the winking out of a star, the snuffing out of a candle.

The death of him.

***

There was a girl.

And she held a beating heart.

She'd seen it through the algae-laden window of a deserted shop. It was alive, beating, not very strongly, but still, alive.

Then she realised she needed to do something; something instead of staring.

She realised she did not buy to admire but bought to redeem.

To give a new life. A new hope.

The hope of redemption.