TW: VIOLENCE... Please don’t stab me again. The wings on my back ached, the tissue torn and mangled like a bird of prey, no, like I was prey. The oil-covered snake had tried gouging my wings like he did my eyes, devoiding me of divine status, not like I had it to begin with. Now slick with the regret of someone else’s actions, I sit here alone in my dimly lit room. The only thing I could view now was the sunset’s light taunting me through the window, like if I had succeeded in the murder, of both parties, not just him, then I would be at peace. The Lombard would rot and so would the Claythorne. Both would feel the repent of their sins and never had been struck again, as the first strike would be the last. But my hand slipped. My plan had backfired, as the bullet landed through my eyes, and 2 years later, my wings. The tendons holding my wings to my back strained, and no one was there to allow the peace to resonant. Of course. The dissonance within the arguments had quieted to the thrum of static pulsing through what might be the last time I feel the plume against my back. I felt it fray, I felt it rot, I felt it die. I felt the need to do the same, yet I persisted like a small roach. I would have survived catastrophe after catastrophe just as a punishment for my thoughts, not of my actions. I didn’t deserve them anyways. I didn’t deserve the wings, nor did I deserve anything that had been brought to me. My heart hurt again, traitorous thing. I shouldn’t be upset. I should be happy that my suffering had only increased. There was a lesson to learn from this and this lesson was to quit while I was ahead instead of letting the rage blind me, figuratively and literally. The last thing I saw was red, the poor decision as I tried to inflict my current pain onto my other. One cannot say that they miss their eyes now that they realize that they can feel the pain resonate within all parties now. It was like the eyes was holding something back in my divinity, or lack thereof. I felt the bullet pierce my neck, yet my finger had eclipsed the trigger. I felt the cold of the trident against my hands, yet I was the one being impaled. I felt the plume in my hands, thick and fluffed, yet my wings were being pulled from my back. Now, the limbs held on by the thread of my sanity and hope, which was dwindling quickly. I collapsed onto the floor, hoping to have the last thing I feel be the hardwood before me, rotting with my own rot. The dead along my chest was a knife severing my wrist, pulling the skin from the vein and separating the head from the beast. The warmth started flooding my chest, then the wings, then the head. Pristine pale plume was plastered with this putrid plasma. The reddened plasma that was ingrained into my memory since the first attempt, then the next, then third. Night in and night out, when the moon illuminated what the sockets detected as light and the ichor drained from the ‘enlightened’ being. I, now fallen from what seemed to be the grace of Harmonia, now lay here to rot until Apollo and Atlas find the shriveled plume. I have yet to know what may behold after these next couple of days. It was always an elusive thing, as it slipped me by as the snake sank his fangs into my wings, pulling at the appendage and stopped only when the man holding the world on his shoulders said to. Not because the snake felt sympathy, no, although the name Apollo suggested otherwise, but because the mediator said that I mattered slightly more than what others may think. But how am I supposed to know my worth when I now lay in the blood of my own hatred?
