Shut Up

The world is breathing.

And he breathes with it.
And he remembers, God, how beautiful Your care that he doesn't forget, that he loved this air.
This air that smells of rain and wet concrete. This air that rejects the dust the world would normally breathe.

And, despite the time of day, he sees everything radiant, as if it had inhaled the light during day and it now exhales with content.
Perhaps it's his wings that give off the light, or maybe he imagines it all, but the city sparkles, welcoming a soul it once harbored.
Though it may seem inconsiderate that he refuses to let his tongue react, it is rarest of pearls he offers instead: a smile.

How long has it been since he last smiled?
His lips have already become unused to such an extension of the rebounding muscle that it now stings, but he welcomes the pain with the same warmth the streets have welcomed him.
Pain has been, is and will always be part of his core, mending whatever pieces of him remain.

A tiny, white feather flies in front of his eyes, battling the wind to return to the white unity from which it detached. And, as he turns his head to see why the wings have renounced a part of their crown, a bitter smile replaces his previous content.
His wings are deleting their own existence, falling and vanishing in the world they don't belong to.
But he gives it a deeper meaning: having accomplished their purpose as a mean of transport, they detach from a soul too imperfect to have them...
...a meaning only his diseased brain could think of...

With a last effort to restore the previous sensation that managed to restart a dead heart, he begins walking, having a single destination to fuel his steps.

He needs to see her.
He needs to erase those vile images that have been imprinted in his brain painfully.
He needs to see her safe
and smiling
and having somebody to replace him with...
...and he needs to know if she's forgotten him...

He grabs the railing with desperate fingers and begins skipping the steps by two, least worried that he might fall, least worried that his lungs might explode. He's dead. He can't die a thousand times; the cycle of death will have to stop at some point.

And the door is open; HIS door is open.

His eyebrows twitch as the muscles of a dead heart begin convulsing; something that is dead begins to move, stretch into a realm it does not belong in.
And a lifetime of pain washes over him...

The smoke seems to form a noose around Johnny's neck, yet he's not a bit bothered by it, because it has merged with the skin and become part of who he is.
But his eyes...what happened to your eyes, Johnny-boy?
Why are they as dead as mine?

Looking past the blonde, he sees light, but it fades and not grows, fueled by...by...
...what are you doing, little dog?
...are you getting rid of me so soon?

Her hands tremble as she drops the picture frame in the trash can and the clutter of metal against metal is like a clash of trains next his eardrums. It seems to pain her just as much...

And then she turns to a black T-shirt.

The color in itself is a memento of a period in his existence, but mixed with that ketchup-red that stains the fabric, it's a memory.
He wore that shirt to the celebration of their first album being released.
He wore that shirt in bed with Emma. Discarded it just as quickly as he had pulled it over his head.
And he gave her that shirt.

A world of memories ravages his brain and the only physical reaction is a lonely tear rolling down his left cheek.
Why would you throw me away, Em?

Having ridden her fingers of the heavy memory, Emma begins emptying the mattress of the rest of the heavy memories it holds...a guitar pick( the pick he was given by Robbie and told to pass on to someone who really loves music), a bracelet( the friendship bracelet that she said would keep their souls connected; she had one and he had one)and a drawing( a drawing of her sleeping; a drawing that cost him 45 minutes of life with her...).

And then...she picks up his diary.
Diary is...not the best choice of words, seeing as a diary is a notebook, when his diary is a mess of pages he ripped from his existence and tied with a feeble string that he sees has been eaten by time.

Don't throw away my diary, Em!
Please, don't throw away the last of me!

He begins trembling at the thought of a complete deletion of his life from that world and his hand instinctively extends to prevent that from happening.
The muscles in his legs become numb with the idea, then become hot and convulse as his heart had done, but before he can do something, Johnny jumps at his sibling to stop her from throwing him away.
He grabs her wrists and she looks up to see the emotion-polluted eyes she hadn't seen since Mike died.
Reflected in such eyes, she begins crying; she doesn't like what she sees...
And Johnny cries as well.

"Don't throw it away", he pleads, closing his eyes to spare his heart of the pain of seeing his sister cry.

The diary falls from her grasp on the floor, just inches away from a cold death in the trash can.
Johnny picks it up and opens it.
After wiping his eyes roughly, as if disgusted that he has such a weak soul, he begins reading.

And my soul gains color with each sentence of me he reads.
Please...
Don't forget me...