Way Down We Go
His hands dripped with blood. The red liquid mixed with the stains that marked his flesh. A single drop of black blood landed on the shirt of the dead man below him.
The pain that shot throughout his arms was nothing compared to the pain and realization of what he had done. He killed the last and only man who had cared about him.
Lightning cracked in the dark clouds over his head. The thunderous mess threatened to make him go deaf. The storm had no rain, and it never would. Lightning was all that could be offered at the death of its master, yet even that would eventually fade.
Another drop hit the dead man's chest. It was not a drop of ash stained blood, but a drop of tears.
The roar of the goliaths echoed in the distance. Their haunting wails were accompanied by crumbling buildings. They would find their target. They would find the one they oh so much wished death upon.
Even knowing all of this, he did not move much. The rusted rebar left his grasp, standing straight in its new victim. He stood, his tears mixing with the stains. That was the only constant. Those damned stains.
He looked to the sky with rage, sorrow, and guilt. There was nothing more he could do. He could only let it all out. And so he did.
The roar of the giants, the thundering abyss over his head, not even the drumming heart in his chest could contend with his cry of fury. A cry of a boy with nothing to his name but the blood on his hands, the scars of the dead man's wrath, and the black gem hanging around his neck.
Shoop_The_Mystic · SF
