Eternity on Paper [COMPLETE]

On the Wings of the Brokenhearted

A man sits in a waiting room, patiently anticipating the sound of the bell that rings to the tune of a single syllable. The space around him induces both claustrophobia and agoraphobia as he notices the saints and the sinners surrounding him are dressed in identical garb.

It is quiet, but the air is thick with the nauseating stench of humanity. The man inhales and exhales rhythmically, while his mind wanders at the insistence of the metronome in his chest.

The hands of the man are covered in blood, but not his own. The different shades that coat his flesh bring to his mind two distinct faces, but he can't remember which of the stains are which anymore. That thought distresses the man, but he wonders if it truly matters. Torment has and always would ravage his being. Knowing the answer to the question that plagued his mind would not bring peace to anyone, there could never be peace ever again.

Trust never had a chance, but it was surely gone now. It would find its paradise in another and leave the man to the whims of fate, pretending it cared but always knowing better of its innocent lie.

For the man, solace would have to come from another just as twisted. But his curse was theirs, and he couldn't see them just as they couldn't see him.

To be born for the purpose of everything and nothing simultaneously was a terror only a god could understand, and that god would impose that burden upon those who were never anything but mere puppets from the start.

The bell rings, but the man can't find his halo nor his tail. He rises to his feet, but his mind remains seated, taking flight on the wings of the brokenhearted.