How Unrefined these flowers are
The irony was painful. He could no longer hold his gaze without breaking away in laughter or tears. But his sense of self disgust hardly even rivaled his sense of duty he felt for the people waiting on the other side, so close by and yet years away. Drawing on his loyalty however, warred with his selfish requests. He found it silly that he still privately yearned after such things as purity when he had scratched his name off its pedestal so long ago. Then why is this so difficult? Foolish. Of course it was difficult every single time.
Here he was, murderer of sorts, still unlawfully tied by the neck to a sense of what could be called “morality” and “justice”. His noose and his savior served only to insert himself into greater diabolical and psychological contradictions. He continued down the path, watching seasons die off one by one and wondering if the rain had always tasted like alcohol and if the clouds had always looked so unrefined.
His feet had never left imprints on the ground, whether the ground was stained with snow or his own feet lathered in blood. He would walk away with his transparent shadow one step behind him, and together they disappeared into nonexistence--where they always were. He had fused with his transparent counterpart into a ghost haunting the corners that the sun touched and exploring the places where it did not.
But now he left a footprint. If it left a mark in the shadows, it was darker than black. If it fell under the light, it cowered under the suspicious, wandering eyes of Innocents. His hand dragged along a glass window. His foot lifted off the ground heavily before coming into contact again, step by step, a physical touch confirming his soul was denser than lead. Perhaps with his presence, if he sang, the clouds might part for him, the holy martyr. Even though he had sinned. Even though he would not regret his sin. Even though he could never repent.
Flowers bloomed from white to red. Hands sought to nail a mask onto his face. He screamed very quietly, like a good boy. It hurt more when he heard cacophonous whispers of empathy blowing over his shoulders into one ear; empathy undermined his own sacrifice; he had no need to be understood underneath his mask. He needed only to continue on and protect.
He lived. Children drank the paint from rainbows. He starved.
Prayers went up in grey ashes and trickled back down to earth.
The flowers were still so bright red.
Someone died far away in the black city crack of buildings.
The untouchable and idyllic flourished in caged realms.
He worked slowly to unscrew his mask, wondering why he did so.