Red Hole
Okay, I might edit this later, but this is the start of a new story I'm working on inspired by an RP and music video by AFI. Hope you enjoy it.
"I should have killed her when I had the chance."
The words echoed hollowy against the walls of stone and dirt, bouncing like soft raindrops against them as they were swallowed up by the eerie silence that heavily weighed upon the boy laying against on of the walls. The rise and fall of his chest, the faint, sluggish flutter of the grey curtain of lashes, the twitching of his left index finger against the cold metal that laid in his lap; these were the only signs that the boy in question was alive. These involuntary actions plagued him as the beads of soft sweat trickled down his pallid face. The droplets traced dusty courses down his brow and carressed the bridge of his nose only to dribble softly into his full lips. About him were the signs of war; maps of strategy, boxes of ammunition and explosives, photos of soldiers, and boots, oh so many boots, lining the walls like tombstones with a flower twisted between the laces. The boy's blood and sweat stained lips parted again, "I should have killed her when I had the chance." His fist clenched lightly around the metal in his lap. His finger carressed the trigger as the weapon was slowly twisted back. The barrel pressed gently against his chest; and his lovely eyes turned, falling onto one of the dusty photos lying in peaceful slumber against the dirt of its grave. The eyes of the young woman smiling in the picture pierced him; once more the words were spoken, a soft plea and regret. The barrel grew violent and pressed against his chest firmly as his hand clenched about the handle. Closing his eyes, his face became calm and his lips parted briefly as his finger twitched upon the hooked piece of shimmering metal. The weapon slightly jerked; though not even a flinch cross the boy's lovely features as warm, cerise liquid began to bubble quietly from his lips. And upon his flawless chest, appeared the symbol of all he had stood for. Everything he had striven for was stained on the crisp white shirt as the blood pulsing from his chest formed the dying breath and the red hole.
----- Prior
PATER noster.......
Our Father.....
Qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum...
Which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name....
Adveniat regum tuum. Fiat voluntas tua...
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done..
sicut in caelo et in terra...
on earth as it is in heaven..
Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie...
Give us this day our daily bread...
et dimitte nobis debita nostra sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.
and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who tresspass against us.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem..
Lead us not unto temptation..
sed libera nos a malo..
But deliver us from evil...
PATER noster......
PATER noster....
PATER noster....The raindrops orchestrated a chorus upon the top hats sitting idly upon the uncomfortable chairs; they had been pulled together quickly at the expectation a large crowd would surface to honour the soon to be worm digested shell of what used to be a towering dictator. These chairs stood like silent sentinels amongst the indifferent rain that beat down like icy daggers through the coats and scattered umbrellas those rich enough held above their lofty heads. These chairs for the most part remained empty as the multitude who joined in the veiwing of the delivery of the main dish to the vermin below proceeded. The prayer was softly recited, over and over the verses rode the backs of the wind.However, the tears of Heaven did not collect those of the innocent victims of its wrath. It was currently unfashionable to shed tears; unprofessional.
They could mourn, but certainly not now. Oblivious to the voices of the rain and wind and lowing priest, the boy stood, staring down with a quiet expression to the wooden box before him. It was a lovely creation, smooth and made of dark coloured wood, trimmed it was with pale, nearly white wood; bordered with black roses.
The boy's eyes, scarred with the death of innocence, shaded in the color of clouds above, were fixated upon the wooden cocoon that contained the dead man. Every sharp detail struck these calculating eyes; cold they were and frozen in their form of calm. The rose petals drooped gently beneath the raindrops. As they peeked beneath the edges of the black dress shirt, his hands lay limp and pallid; his slender fingers gently pricked by the thorned stem donned by the dark rose he clasp in these hands. The eyes lifted beneath a curtain of pale lashes, and the whisps of silky, ebony hair fell away from the handsome face as his head inclined toward the young mother at his side. The wife of the deceased was wearing black save for the white laced gloves embracing her trembling hands as they were suspended in the air by her lips. They furiously and deftly moved in a language of their own, translating the empty void of grief into words. A silent prayer.
PATER noster...
sed libera nos a malo...
The boy watched through the corners of his eyes, and in his perpetual silence he stared upon the silky coffin. He stepped forward and knelt down slowly in the damp grass, laying his cheek against the smooth surface. His pale hand lifted heavenward as he placed the rose upon the carved designs where the still heart would sleep in the silence that had sheltered the boy. His full lips brushed carelessly against the damp surface and he rose again, dark pants damp from the bend of the knees down. "I promise," The words came with a will of their own, softly drowned in the rain fall. "I will fulfill your dream, father..."
"Sir?"
The voice drifted weakly through the fabric of the boy's memories, and his eyelids fluttered, casting his pale lashes over his eyes briefly as he stared once more, no at a coffin, but his reflection. Long, groomed bangs fell over the left side of his face, masking it in curtian of black as the rest of his hair was obediently tied at the nape of his neck and spilled like ink over the white collar of the coat that embraced his slender frame. The garment was a pure and perfect white without a blemish marring the flowing fabric. Brass buttons glimmered gently as they stood in two rows racing down the left and right of his chest, fastening the two sides together. At the shoulders, there were two white bands doubled over and bound at the base of the collar by a pair of brass buttons matching those lining his chest. The sleeves fit snugly against his thin arms; the cuffs were fastened to hug his wrists. Strong, young hands protruded from the white sleeves and ended in long nails that were painted white. These hands lightly clenched as he rose to his feet, letting the coat drape down to his ankles. Gently, he twisted his head to look over his shoulder, "Yes, Bacchus?" He whispered lightly.
"The guests are waiting for you," the general replied calmly. "I've come to escort you."
The boy swivelled completely on his heel and faced Bacchus, his brow raised in vague amusement. "Of course." He said diplomatically. As Bacchus turned and slid through the door, the boy gave one last look at the framed photo resting at the vanity mirror. The captured moment of time where the ghosts of a smiling child and a sadly smiling father lingered behind a coffin of glass.