blood must shed for time to reset

chapter 9

( The irony of us. The irony of what we will become. A prolonged destiny is still inexorable. Our fated demise, printed in the blood and your stars. )

WHAT IF ALL HUMANS WERE TO DISAPPEAR?

No soul left behind, just emtpy roads and cities of nothing. Would the world decay, or would it grow? Without the chemicals of man-made substances, weaved to rot and burn the planet, the soil beneath our feet could finally blossom. It's no secret that anthropoids vitiated the earth, albeit, with time and their absence, it could potentially blossom once more. Vines covering the bruises, animals and peaceful predators adapting, fresher air, safer countries.

Our flesh is a curse, and our hands are the enemy.

With power, we turn to corruption. The only way out of this mess? Extinction.

But people still roam, and the world still dies, so this conjecture is nothing more than a conspiracy, arising late into the night when conversations are getting deeper, and a lack of restraint is dimming.

Mateo wore red, trickling down his nose in heaps, leaving him dazed with force. He'd been punched, hard, in the face, and so as he stumbled through the corridors, clutching onto the bricked walls, trying to prop himself up did he realise just how stupid he'd been.

Picking a fight with a seventh-year, and then letting their fist hit his cheek timelessly, over and over until he was on the floor, was a foolish plan. In truth, he could've taken the student on ( blind, with one arm, injured ), but he longed to feel the pain, to feel the power of another making jagged contact with him. Mateo had passed the first stage of his grief, being extreme sexual urges, and so he fixtated on the next craving his body presented him with: anguish.

The boy needed a buzz; just a few weeks prior to entering Hogwarts, he'd chained himself to his bathroom floor and flushed out his system. Drugs seemed to of dominated his veins for years now, albeit with a task, and a slither of freedom, he threw them to the abyss in hopes of a better, processed brain.

He'd need it, if he wanted to take down his assigned target.

So, with the free time he'd accumulated, Mateo wasted it on whatever distraction satisfied his mind.... and so far, the plan was working well. As long as he was under someone, or in this case being beaten by someone, the thought of intoxicating substances couldn't breach his thoughts, and thus, lead him back to the beginning.

It was a hard battle, but he was fighting it.

Unable to move any further, the assassin lugged himself into an empty broom closet — falling to the floor in a shamble of mess and ache. Bruises laced his waist, teeth pained from being barred, and any energy was stolen from his tired, shaken limbs. He'd never felt more frail — like a little boy once more.

Then, pressed against a wall, Mateo Pierce began to cry. It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't full of agony and affliction. It was just mere tears raining from his blood-shot eyes, conveying the look of a hopeless male, trying to scavenge his way through life.

"Fuck." he muttered, brushing away the signs of emotion that littered his profile. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." he dug his head against the wall, pressing hard, hoping the whole skull would snap and break and destroy all signs of him.

No traces left behind of an unworthy soul, created to purge the world of others. His prey was deemed evil, but so was he. What made the two any different?

His pupils glanced down to the blotch that was causing his weakened state, and with intention set, he healed it. Though, once it was gone, he didn't move for another hour. Today, he told himself, today would be the day he got out of this shitty school. And what was the cost of his departure? A little blood shed.