wash away our sore eyed souls

D e i m o s

Send a heartbeat to the void that cries through you
Relive the pictures that have come to pass

There was an empty, hollow feeling around the corridor. Despite the individuals contained within, strong, compassionate, stalwart, passionate in their appeals, there was the dwindling presence strangling along the void: life without the exuberance, festering, withering, a decay amidst the pride. His eyes, tired, haggard, worn, drifted from one to the other, pondering where they were supposed to go from here, in the room filled with smoke and silence. He could feel the rush of his lungs ache and brew, scathe and wring out the fortitude, the ambition, always crooning and howling behind his chest, in the nefarious annals and canals of his abhorrent heart. The hovering, harpooning measures clustered along his shoulders, and he stared into the unknown, into the stories left unsaid, into the reach of claws, daggers, and insects, sapped, vulnerable, when he wanted to be unleashed, when he wanted to destroy, when he wanted to pick apart the world again and again for daring to… He ignored Jigano’s brief inhalation; the Reaper must’ve looked as though he’d been living death itself, instead of the mechanized weapon he so long preferred. It would’ve been easier to have been a colossal, detached machine inside that venomous fortress, maneuvering without pause, without feeling, without emotion, clinging to munitions and letting them reign over the structure, demolishing, consuming, devouring it whole. Perhaps then they wouldn’t have suffered. Perhaps then they wouldn’t have ached. Perhaps then some dreams wouldn’t have been shattered, left for dead. The beast did take the offered water (despite the need for something stronger, to blind and languish the entire incident away) with a nod, incapable of saying anything for now – not when the instances were split apart and fuming. It was cool and satisfying across his lips, down his throat, sliding over the poison and the raw, bitter taste in his mouth, but did naught to assuage the experiences, the taut, rigid distortion echoing in their hushed quandaries. Kiada’s appearance was another appreciative interlude, and needing something to do with his hands, he shifted the extra bottles of liquor along the table, ensuring they were upright. Then there was Amalia, quiet and shaded. He wasn’t quite sure what to expect, after everything, especially when he only had the pieces from his moments down in their homemade crypts and catacombs. But the sun wasn’t there, nor the stars, or any bright, blistering cosmos, except for Jyoti, a song on the whale’s blessing, enamoring and cajoling. A finger lifted to follow a pathway of stardust and light, maybe the only ones they’d receive that evening, before he pushed himself away from the table. It wasn’t easy – his muscles shook and his limbs quivered and every motion told him to stop, but he only shifted within a murmur; no hissing, no growling, no pain echoing past his mouth, when the misery throbbed and shook and tore through him. Only on a coiled, contorted measure did he finally cease, pulling out a chair beside the baker, placing himself in it like a shadow, like a piece of the darkness. His clothes, his body, his skin was singed, scorched, burnt, and charred, wounds slowly ceasing their agonizing trail of ichor – he was the embodiment of their physical suffering, but the rest seemed to hold the sentiments, the notions, the nuances – things that would come later for him, in his slumber, when he was by himself, allowed to scream without disturbing anyone else. One of his hands, still stained with blood, reached for one of hers, but his gaze pinpointed upon Jigano, lips finally maneuvering apart to break the unspoken chords. “What happened?” For now we stand alone, the world is lost and blown And we are flesh and blood disintegrate with no more to hate