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Author Topic: -His Guardian Demon- [Storyline]  (Read 375 times)


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-His Guardian Demon- [Storyline]
« on: October 16, 2014, 12:52:53 AM »

Shallow breathing.

Eyes that water, a constant drip.

A suffocating room.

A cell with white walls and beeping, buzzing machines.

He is a small thing, a contorted thing, a broken thing, a twisted thing.

Hands that do not feel, skin a thin tapestry of stitched together flesh.

He is trapped in the meat of himself, and the meat of himself has gone rotten.

He longs for sunlight. He longs for the slightest breeze. The smell of earth and water in his lungs. The brown and orange of the trees as the leaves fall dead.

He wants to feel.

He wants to see.

The nurses won’t have that. The doctors won’t have that. They worry about his health. They fret about his fragility. He is a boy in a glass jar to them; a delicate thing…a battered, bisected butterfly that will never fly again…but still exists, trying forever to flap useless, tattered wings.

They care about his health.

They do not care about his happiness.

Heavy footsteps pierce the monotony of other endless day.

His demon.

Pale, monstrous, enormous.

Teeth like knives, hair like snow.

His demon is hooded, his demon is silent.

His demon understands. There is no guardian angel for a boy like him, no great feathered wings to shield him against the world. There is only his demon. The horns that weigh down his head are heavy, comprised of all the sins of his past. His burden. The dark deeds, the toxic memories, the old stains of blood that mark his white hands.

They both suffer in silence, he and his demon.

He is being carried.

He is being placed into a small wheelchair.

He is being rolled out of the cell, out of the glass jar…out into the world.

It’s a little park near the hospital, nothing special. There is a stream…and a few trees that hang heavy with brown leaves. Some have fallen, some remain.

It is nothing special.

To the boy…it is heaven.

He drinks in the scent of fall.

He touches fused fingers against the bark of the trees.

He listens to the babbling of the stream as his demon pushes him along a little trail.

He watches the birds fly, he watches the clouds pass.

And even on skin so burnt and ruined…he feels that slight breeze he so desperately wanted to feel.

He looks up, smiling.

His guardian demon.

Bringing him to heaven, but never passing through the gates himself.

HOPE amongst hellfire.

The boy never forgets it.