The door was being banged with powerful blows, threatening to ram it down. Wails and screams and pleas on the other side. "I am a failure", said he on this side, standing in a pile of torn sheets of paper and broken glass, each piece reflecting his hollow face. The millions of visages taunted him, made him question his existence again and again. He couldn't bring himself to see them. "I've failed everyone!". The last words were barely audible. His sobbing was heart wrenching. The blade on his wrist gleamed with evil. It was, his lone Caliburn and his only Exodus.
Thud.
Millions of little red stars had emerged on the marble white floor. 'Maybe this last painting is fitting. I hope it's a masterpiece. What should I name it? A Crimson Way! Yeah that's it. I hope they like it.' A chuckle escaped his mouth, taking away the last of the air out of his lungs. The noises outside quietened, ears being pressed to the door. Even though no one could hear the red trickling down his wrists, as a single red moon grew larger on the floor, everyone could fathom the decease. Somewhere behind the door, a mother cried.
YOU ARE READING
The Crimson Way
Short StorySomething we all have felt like at some point of our lives. But very few live to tell the whole of it.
