The Bleeding Earth

Is the pain too good for those who die? Bringing them to ecstasy, the split second before the end of life. Did it all become clear? Did it all go black? Does it take away their fear? Does it send a shiver down their back? Is it the end of our life? Is it the end of eternity? Can we come back? I wanna know what happens when you die. I wanna know what
makes you want to cry. I wanna know what’s that I see behind your eyes. It makes me sick but... but... He made these arguments to himself often, when no one was around to hear him ask himself the questions he didn’t want answered. But, he must have said that word a thousand times, so much that it lost all meaning to him, "but..." he knew what came next, yet he didn’t want to acknowledge that he felt it. It had become his mantra, this poem of his.

Descendant had learned early in his life that nothing was permanent. At least nothing in his life. He thought quite a lot about what had slipped through his grasp, who had slipped through his grasp, and now, why. These were, for him, some of the darkest years, festering in a cauldron of hate that his heart had become, was the love he could have had for someone. Now, however, it seemed as though that was completely gone. Now, when his nightmares would come alive is when he would sing his song at tempting fate, taunting his own morality, and realizing he already knew the answers he sought in his heart.

He indulged in the pleasures and pains of the flesh, with contempt for both. Striking a match, he wet his forearm with kerosene from a dented flask , that at one point was used for a bum’s booze and still stank of bourbon or some other hard liquor, but now it served as a vessel of flammable fluids Descendant so adored; he passed the match from his right hand to the left. Waiting for the flame to reach down the match stick to his fingertip, so
he could watch the flames dance down his arm in a flurry of ferocious heat and light. The blue, hottest flames were the first to extend their grip over his flesh, then came the bright yellows and oranges of the burning fuel, and finally, as almost an afterthought the body almost forgot to add, followed the pain.

Pain, of this sort, was not from the heat, pain of this magnitude was not from the fact that his skin was boiling away as he watched, no, this pain was from knowing he did this to himself of his own will and he couldn’t care less. It amused him to lament over all the weird looks he got when he was younger for just the littlest cuts he would give himself. Now his body, and mind, was covered in scars from the wounds of his past and his fears
of the future, his fears of the bleeding Earth.

- Dillow

P.S. This is only the first page to a much longer story, which I hope will become a book, entitled: "The Bleeding Eart". Buy my book.