A Swiftness Only Known By Death

         “And as I strike down with a swiftness only known by death, I weep.  I weep for thee!  For you shall never know a love like I have given!  This world has cast us out dear brother, and now you have cast me out.  Well no longer shall I accompany this pain, spreading like a plague, consuming my frail corpse.  Now that it has made it to my heart I can allow it no more; so in this moment remember what has truly died, not you but I.  It is a cold night, but not near as frigid as my soul.  Let my tears forever curse your spirit, and damn you to an eternity of despair, if but only a fraction of what I have known.  This will be the last promise I ever make to you, before we perish right here.  I shall take the love out of your heart and destroy it, like you have done mine.  Welcome to hell brother, the only place we shall ever experience hence forth.  My eyes flow still, like a child’s.  Young brother, why have you made me do this?  Why have you made me the monster I am today; corroding my insides, and leaving a wounded beast?  Goodbye my brother, my love.”
         With that our tortured companion brings the blunt object crashing down onto his younger sibling, instantly crushing his skull cavity and spinal column.  The loss of life in his peering warm eyes, now cold, was a vision only artists see in their nightmares, a disgusting form of beauty.  Repulsing while it draws you in hypnotically, engulfing your existence until all is consumed.  With this one must ask, what is love?  Is this tremendous affection not it; I ask because only love did the poor one feel.
         Having his very being destroyed until a malevolent force swept over him; forcing the only thing which made sense to the surface.  He was exactly the same as a child left with no parents after the drunk driver collided with their front-end.  Nothing left but emptiness and a loathing.  Completely alone, no depression or ill feeling could compare to the numbness.  Abandoned by the world he loved, lost to the ones who loved.  Falling into a hollowed piece of earth; being warmed by the wet, cold ground.  Hoping a fiery blast of solar emissions would twist and char his being. 
         Why would God allow him to continue?  There was no reason left other than, wait no.  It couldn’t be this, he can’t allow it.  But, before he has enough time to think, his decision has been made.  He knows what he must do, and with this our tortured companion moves to annihilate all that is and was love. 
         Frightening to even himself, he can’t meet his eyes in the mirror.  He thinks ‘ashes to ashes and dust to dust.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.  Why have you allowed my soul to die dear Lord?  Have I not lived a just and true life?  I have always stayed clear of sinful ways, and you let this happen!’  Staggering down alleyways scented with null-in-void men and their shattered dreams.  “If only to be granted one thing, allow me to never have known love, so you could not take it from me” he screams at the sky.
         The people of the alley watched from the darkness, never allowing a hint of their presence to be noticed.  Some of them knew what it was, they knew what he had experienced; mostly of their own accord.  The sympathy they had for the poor soul who had it done against his will was immeasurable, how unbearable life must be for this wanderer.  No way to rise up from this wearing down.  Their bottles would bring him no comfort, only death would do such a thing.  How does a man know alone until he has lost all?  A question pondered on by many a person.  They could see that the wanderer had nothing inside except the rotting. 
         Can angels falling from heaven hear their feathers break?  Does a mother feel life escape when the child dies in the womb?  Who carries them?  Guilt consumes the psyche over time when loss is the resulting effect.  Ripples of anguish bead out in globules of hurt.  Even death could show more compassion than what the world gave him.  To be feasted upon by the worms was a grand thought, to be used for something good.  No excitement or passion, just a dull and somber ache deep within the pieces of his heart left beating.  You can’t kill what is already destroyed.
         What of the murdered from the beginning?  What was it that he did which was so wrong; I’m sure you have asked yourself this by now.  He turned his back on his brother forever, never to look at him again with more than a strangers passing glance.  After all they had already lost, doing this and breaking the only promise that was left.  How can you expect the true victim to survive this?  “I will never look upon you as any brother of mine” were the final works spoke by the younger sibling. 
         All their life they had been broken, time and time again; with no one to mend the breaks in between.  Parents who molested, defiled, and physically abused them; creating prisoners of the mind.  Together they rose above, like the phoenix reborn, and conquered the obstacles which seemed like endless pits of madness.  A hopeless life they together escaped, but to what?  An existence of hourly tolerance threw hypodermic gateways of gold, with heaven flowing through their veins.  Even the sickness it induced was wonderful warmth which swept over the mind and body like the gripping embrace of a love not felt in some time; a love which has remained hidden until the magnanimous affection burst out like a shot fired, fired through the plunging end of their syringe. 
         First, blood is pulled back; flowing like a dancer on a moonlit evening, curling into the viscous poison.  Then without haste, an injection brings the rush of one million hellos and goodbyes, one million losses and gains, one million lives and deaths; contorting the part of human beings that is infinite.  Tears of happiness mixed with anguish paint the faces of two lost boys, wandering through life pained.  To exist is to suffer they learn over time.  Chance, for them, is a myth; one which had extinguished long before this current episode of cyclical torture began.  Out comes the syringes needle, taking with it all the problems of this world.  When all is utterly hopeless the mind creates a haven to console itself; that is where the pain feeds, and that is what these two were shooting for.  A failed assassination every time, but the feelings bought do help momentarily.  What do you consider happiness when all you have known is despondency?  Normalcy is what you make it, and for these sad souls it is eternal suffering.  But, all of this escapes with the small blood trail running down their arms; blood mixed with a lighter colored fluid that their veins try to suck back in.  Every emotion pouring out of them instantly before they hang in slumped suspension.  Reanimated in the mind wrapped by rotting flesh, and longing for tranquility they weep while corrosion moves through their veins. 
         Death was no release to long for, only a cold fact sweeping closer with each visit to bliss.  Junkie aches swallow the individual who emerges from the cocoon a burnt out walking corpse.  What a price for anonymity, weakening of the mind.  As snakes slither down false idol vines, a chilled wind pulls human characteristics away.
         How could our tortured main character avoid the inevitable murder of his brother given these facts?  He wanted only to release his brother and himself from this debauchery and emotional bloodshed that left them drained. 
         “I have always loved you brother, even now as you fall towards the ground lifeless, as your soul escapes towards the heavens away from this hell.”