His eyes blinked a few times and then he sighed. The sound broke the silence in the room, slowly penetrating every corner of the room before the stillness overtook the air in one foul swoop. Simple and easy. But silence can be broken, shatter like glass. Thin and frail, the smallest of sounds could crack it and pieces will fly everywhere, disintegrating with the noise.
Red against the cool dirt filled whiteness of the floor, like blood staining a brand new blouse. It bled onto the hardness of winter, the cold brushing his back. The cold, barely something he felt anymore. His body, now white and marble, matches the coolness that burnt the floor.
The only thing that makes this blankness less hateful cries in vibrant colors. The rest, black and white, the open eyes full of nothing, but yet flooded with everything.
Oh woe is me, the silence screams.
He heard it, the deafening sound of silence. It was so loud, his ears betray him to hear static. Soft fizzles and gentle hisses. Outside of this empty vessel, there is breath. But nothing else. Cool flakes of wet coldness touch the skin, fluttering by with gentle touches.
Another sigh from his lips shatter the silence, ripping it once more only to let it fall back into the devastating deafness.
He wants to sleep. He wants the vibrant red to disappear, the colors of black and grey over take him, and suck him into nothingness.
Fake smiles and powered happiness; the concoction to perfection.
Was he one to truly admit this? Perhaps not, infectious hatred and perhaps less that symmetrical lies rip a soft line to let in the insecurities of love and hate. Good and evil. Happiness is only a lie, some asymmetrical broken thing used to lure others into oneself. What is there to truly live for, and what not to die for. Why are they made? Lies, deception and blackness.
Oh the blackness, it slowly brushes over, killing any color, making it dissipate into untold truths and broken lies. Oh jealous he was of such things. So easily over taken, the blackness took him. But the white always comes back to brush over him, drawing him back to the lovely lies, the asymmetrical smiles. Morning always comes after the night to pull the blackness he so easily embraces back into the shadows.
The words are like pain, slowly taking him down into the spectacular lie that he can live in for only so long. Deep and hurtful, but lifting; like soft white wings fluttering to momentarily lift him into the arms of love. He stains these wings red, and time and time again, the hands pull him back and wipe away the red. Soft and gentle, sugar coated lies are yet again brushed past his ears and the vibrant red yet again over takes the air, breaking his heart as he smiles at himself, seeing but a frown in the mirror.
His reflection is a lie; a pretty, yet petty lie.
The eyes close down upon the sugary words that keep passing him by; breaking it into nothing but salty water, over floating and starving. Suffocating.
The red can flow again, he is alone. The arms can't pull him back into that warm, soft embrace that makes the lies transparent, turning them into truths. Mistakes are brought to light, but hate dims the light, making mistakes reality. Making mistakes the utter and complete truth.
He hates it, this false sense of gentleness. Its dark, and untrue. He would rather the dark and not the light.
His eyes fall closed and hes asleep. Floating in darkness, the deafening silence wraps around him, and pulled at his heart, his very core. Breaking him into bits, and into his own little piece of truth.
Hes tired. Hes going to sleep now, away from them. Away from the arms. Away from anything but himself.