Wings

Fear death? Fear slaughter?

What a stupid, sensational sentiment.

Why fear the few constants life has to offer?

A growl bubbles up his esophagus and out through his teeth as he tosses back his head to glare at the sky, lips cracking as he lathes at them with his tongue, rust and copper plying his senses, daring him to open himself to the bloodlust within. His heart thumps, azure irises rolling as the flames lick his bones.

O, acquaintances...

How long has it been since the pain was simply that? How many years gone by that attempt to bury it and glaze it over, blurring the lines between ruination and pleasure? He can't remember the last time he paused before throwing himself into the void. Truly, he doesn't see the point anymore; why pause in one moment when in the next you will be gone?

O, grantors of dark disgrace...

His lungs squeeze and pump beneath the crushing weight of lead. The wind howls and he swallows around his desire to open his mouth and echo its cry, to expel all thought from his mind through this action. Time is precious and should be used for specific purposes.

But his mind is leaving him, separating from his body as his feet lift from the earth with the force of a three ton truck, leaving a crater in its wake as he shoots toward his enemy, face contorting into a malicious grin, blood running from his eyes and down his cheeks; the perverted tears of joy he cries for himself, knowing that this may be the last time, that perhaps he will finally be free of the burden he has carried from birth.

They may not wake him again.