[Drabble - Fool]
Title: Fool (for lack of a better title)
Rating: ... PG-13, I suppose?
Summary: Too much stress leads to too much cracking. No one is immune.
He won't go back, he can't go back, he shouldn't go back.
If he goes back, he'll die.
He could end it so easily. With a word, he could destroy them all. Children, all of them, nothing more than a screaming race of cowards and fools.
There were times when he wanted so badly to reach out and crush them, to grind them under his heel. To kick them in their collective faces and scream "WAKE UP, DON'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!"
Idiots, idiots, idiots. The fall of everything, the rebuilding of nothing, the cycle happening over and over again. He's no longer one of them, but still no better than them. Does that make it easier or harder?
The dreams he still sometimes have often are tinged with blood, and it's not his own. The sword is in his hand and it's like being back as the King of Bel, but worse. He sees the dead bodies around and knows that these are the people who died because of his failure.
It's as good as killing them directly. Their blood is on his hands, the blood of thousands of people, and he sits there away from it all.
He should have saved them, he should have helped them, he should have done something, anything, everything.
The voice that echos in his head knows. It knows that he's a failure, a small little boy who tried to stand up against forces that he could never understand. It knows, and it mocks him.
One human soul against everything. No matter how strong that soul is, it will never be enough. One person cannot do everything, after all, even if said person is God.
He's not sure if he's a person anymore. Sometimes he slips into the role so automatically that he feels like more of an idea than a person. Smiling face and pleasant demeanor, but it's all a lie.
He can no longer see the Death Clocks, but he knows their time is numbered.
It's just a matter of by whose hand they fall.
Rating: ... PG-13, I suppose?
Summary: Too much stress leads to too much cracking. No one is immune.
He won't go back, he can't go back, he shouldn't go back.
If he goes back, he'll die.
He could end it so easily. With a word, he could destroy them all. Children, all of them, nothing more than a screaming race of cowards and fools.
There were times when he wanted so badly to reach out and crush them, to grind them under his heel. To kick them in their collective faces and scream "WAKE UP, DON'T YOU SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING?!"
Idiots, idiots, idiots. The fall of everything, the rebuilding of nothing, the cycle happening over and over again. He's no longer one of them, but still no better than them. Does that make it easier or harder?
The dreams he still sometimes have often are tinged with blood, and it's not his own. The sword is in his hand and it's like being back as the King of Bel, but worse. He sees the dead bodies around and knows that these are the people who died because of his failure.
It's as good as killing them directly. Their blood is on his hands, the blood of thousands of people, and he sits there away from it all.
He should have saved them, he should have helped them, he should have done something, anything, everything.
The voice that echos in his head knows. It knows that he's a failure, a small little boy who tried to stand up against forces that he could never understand. It knows, and it mocks him.
One human soul against everything. No matter how strong that soul is, it will never be enough. One person cannot do everything, after all, even if said person is God.
He's not sure if he's a person anymore. Sometimes he slips into the role so automatically that he feels like more of an idea than a person. Smiling face and pleasant demeanor, but it's all a lie.
He can no longer see the Death Clocks, but he knows their time is numbered.
It's just a matter of by whose hand they fall.