OBLIVION [Thomesa]

twenty six

_______________________________
In that night,
a young girl wept.
She dreamed with her eyes wide open.
They tied down her arms and her legs,
to keep her from running
or from hurting herself,
Or others.
And when she remembered,
what she had done,
who she had become,
she sobbed until she was sick.
Lost,
lost,
lost.
And no one was there to hold the hair back from her face.
_______________________________
Silver frost feathers across the rooftop, towering above the earth.
Even now with the fallen night, by the light of the stars,
and the snow glowing white, a dark form was visible, a shadowy figure.

The window slides open with a slithering creak,
a shadow draped across the floor.

A hospital room -
it's something he's been seeing too much of lately.
Sterile, detatched, emotionless. Like him.

But it has witnessed
death,
and tears,
and joy,
in the wrinkled sheets
and papered walls.

Just as much as his soul had seen.
Beneath the the stiff glare,
blood, was caked to his side, ribs were cracked,
and burns adorned his back in deep red and purple splotches.
Scarlet pain, that sunk into his skin, and stained at his spirit each night.
A pale face gleams whitely in the darkened glass at the door.

Sonya peers in -
seeing nothing but a closed window,
and a sleeping boy.
The haunted face passes on,
silently moving down to the next door.

He stares at the face of his friend,
Sleeping.
Under medication.
Dreamlessly,

But the pain has not left him. Not really. And neither did the scars.
Dreams of fire, pain and desire, failed to delve deep enough into the medication's haze, and brush beneath his eyes.
And he slept dreamlessly. Artificially painlessly.
But, hopelessly;
For it was all a lie.

Why shield a sleeping child from a painless bullet to the back of his head, only, to wake him up, turn him around, so he can be aware, so he can see it coming first. And feel fear, and feel pain.

The nightmares were accumulating,
the water was rising.
And even a hero
will drown.

But for now, the boy sleeps,
and for now, the world pretends it can.
The lights are off,
the city din is hushed,
but no one is really sleeping.

They are waiting for the inevitable strike,
that would signal war.
And when the boy wakes,
and the place erupts,
there will be madness, and terror,
and screaming.

He had gone through surgery for twelve hours -
People's traded in and out in shifts,
when tiredness bit at their eyes,
and their hands began to tremble,
and salty sweat dripped down the skin of their back.
And, of course,
they had felt the presence that had glowered,

Not one dared ask him to leave,
not one dared to make a mistake.

Not one,
Couldn't feel the intense pain emanating from the tortured soul.
Minho,
did not move as hours passed.
As hope for the boys life slipped in and out of reach.

Once, a someone'ss hand twitched,
severed an artery accidentally -
Minho had thought it was over.
But Thomas kept fighting,
always stayed alive.