Son of the Devil's Wench

The cool rain that fell over the empty, gray, street was soft against his battered skin, the gentle 'Pitter-Patter' of water against his face made even the current morbid situation somewhat better, even in his dull, broken eyes.

It was soothing for him, walking through the darkened streets; hair plastered to his white face and neck, eyes red and puffy from tears, voice broken from yelling. But calm now, just from the sounds of the clouds crying and the grizzled, brokenness of world around him.

Pain didn't even register anymore, not after tonight, not after the knife and the whip, the red fire poker and the salt, after all that, the rain was definitely just the numbing pleasantness after a brutal storm, this was almost normal life.

He stumbled, his knees hit the ground first, the skin already ground, red raw and bloody. It was at that contact that his voice first broke through the rain, first broke through the shrouded veil that fell around the gray, broken street, first broke through his barrier.

A wave of pain circulated as he collapsed on the wet concrete, a ruby sheen flooding the rain washed street as he lay, crumpled, on the ground.

Coughing, grating, wheezing, sobbing, great rivers of red...sorrow.

That was all that flowed from his mouth as he lay finished on the ground. But his mind was active, his mind was trying to figure out how this could have happened, how his world had risen and fallen in such a short time...

There was only one answer, it was his fault, he was the reason, it was he that was at fault for everything.

And because of that fault, he decided, that his life wasn't worth living.

His live was useless.

Why not die now?