The Sun's Frozen Tears; Ch. 1

Chapter I – Encounter

I have witnessed Death.

The mournful departure of colour from a once grand world; a world which was, from the start, set to crumble away as we are deprived of our infinite, fleeting moments and is awakened from the naivety of our childhood,the oblivion which takes over one’s being when Time has bestowed its verdict on Life.

Death is the end; a wall which puts a stopper in one’s being, as tall and as wide and as thick as eternity, with neither flaws nor hollow areas wherein which you can escape into in order to cling onto the last vestiges of dear mortality.

It is final...

“...Is it really...” a subtle, rebellious voice echoes inside me, “...the end? Isn’t there something more, and existence far beyond our comprehension, which waits after we have lost to the limits of mortal life, or are those thoughts plainly a source of comfort to grasp onto when we meet our fates?”

The thought resonates. It repeats itself over again in my head, echoing through the now hollow space within my chest. Nothing is else is left of me.

I have seen Death himself; his fearful aura, the wisps of his dark, ebony hair, his ravenous crimson eyes, his vicious, lustful grin, and his jealousy of Life – an irony in itself. Life’s striking countenance had piqued Death’s desire; a jealous, possessive adoration which imprisons countless in its spindly, alluring tendrils, and is never satisfied with its kill: on the contrary, it hungers more.

Out of its twisted love, it grabs at what it can, therefore putting an end to all of his dearly beloved. Hence, it is – though painful and filled with remorse – a gentle darkness which blinds even the clearest vision, penetrates even through the bravest heart, and instills unrest even to the most solemn spirit; a void in which no radiance can be found – and yet, its emptiness becomes a form of salvation to poor, defiled souls; a rest from the harshness of the world and of mortals, and a key to opening the doors towards eternity.

“Is it really?” The voice persisted, mocked. “Prove it. Prove your point to me.” A small laugh escaped from its parted lips. “You’re pathetic.”

These thoughts aren’t mine, I shuddered, struggling to force out my own voice, to at least retort his mockery in spite of myself, which was also gripping tightly to the last thread of hope I had inside me.

Death snickers, Death mocks. It moves its scythe closer to my throat. I withdraw slightly as the cool blade pricks my skin frivolously, drawing out blood; crimson, thick, and salty blood.

In my endless wanderings, I’ve come to meet a stranger. He offered me solace... warmth, courage, and of all things, hope...

...the hope that I have lost as I’ve witnessed Death’s jealousy take over everything I cherish through sharp tongues of crimson flames – the same colour of the hot blood which pulses through my veins, and the same shade of His fierce, sinister orbs – and take away my existence altogether. I have neither a name nor a being, for I have descended to nothingness; I have fallen into Death’s trap.

The solace he had promised was replaced with hatred, sorrow, remorse, and gloom, dyeing my all with black, inflicting pain and letting it resonate through the depths of my chest with each woeful breath I take in, for I have gripped onto a spider’s thread and, because of my excessive foolishness, have fallen down gradually into an infinite and deadly plunge, ending up as a bloody sight of broken flesh and bone for filthy maggots to devour and for everyone to witness in horror.

‘You’ll be free,’ says he. ‘You’ll be free, but this is the only way.’ He grins. He offers his hand.

I now lay at the bottom of the blackest void, in vain, all because of the falseness of the hope He had dangled in the form of a deceptive thin thread to help me with my escapade, when there were other means of lengthening the reach of the chains which binds me to my ground: by forcing it off my wrists by my own means, and meet my rightful end through the judgement of my deeds while I was still trying to achieve bliss and satisfaction, but I was deprived of freedom, and therefore, conjured me desperate to be free...

...Death had lured me in.

It is a most austere trickery in which no one can break away from. It is omnipotent. The mockery of hope.

I now lay, on a cold pavement in dear old Paris, my hometown; stripped to the bone for all I was worth, with only a little warmth left in dear little me. The last thing which came to mind – other that the gripping tightness in my throat and the stabbing pain in my lungs in every breath I took; the breath which was once the source of my life and my bliss as they entered my heaving, wavering chest – was the warmth of a home, the radiance which had been taken away so mercilessly from me, my youth, and my very right to live...

I shall send to Hell every existence which had condemned me to the path of darkness.

I swore, with the last breath of spiteful, cold evening air I took in, that I shall have my vengeance, even if I had to overcome a thousand years worth of pain, and Heaven and Hell itself, and endure through time. I will not forsake hatred. I will nurture it; feed it with the dark, dark memories of the endless suffering I have experienced by the might of their hands... I shall give them a taste of the bitterness they have so blissfully rewarded me with despite my innocence, and they will suffer thrice what they have perpetrated me with.

The angst of my own thoughts brought me solace.

The ashy, pale, and indigo tainted clouds loomed like gigantic ghosts over the town’s evening sky. The feverish sun have long set and gone, but the warmth which it had radiated through the day remained in the breeze which swept over my body, even through the heavy rain and the cemented ground’s harsh and whipping cold. The moon was high, high up the sky; casting the faintest, silvery, sorrowful glow onto my final resting place, as if trying to freeze my soul into my body and prevent it from escaping the agony of Death’s perverse passion.

“Breakable,” The voice cooed into my ear in its sultry, deep, and almost melancholy tone, and yet it teases me. “Pitiful.” I see the gleam of his teeth as he flashed yet another mocking grin, “A castle of sand which lies too near the ocean’s shore, and therefore was easily engulfed in its waves’ thrashing gloom. Foolish mortal,” Its menacing eyes shone through the dim light of the damp street’s lampposts. “Pitiful,” It says again. My mouth was dry. I swallowed. Never before did I feel so thirsty... and so afraid. Fear rendered my limp body numb.

I closed my eyes. With laborious effort, I let one last whiff of the sore evening air pierce my lungs. The sting it brought soon melted down to inexplicable comfort, as the colours of my unfortunate encounter melts into a monochromatic, drunken state...

Weeping clouds sailed quietly through the sky, revealing the moon from its hiding place.

A stranger stood in front of me. Of course, he is no longer a stranger, for he had unconsciously well acquainted me with himself. He mocks, he grins.

He leans close; close to my icy, colour-deprived mouth, and toys my pallid lips around with a sickly bitter yet hungry kiss. I dislike this conceited kiss. I let myself become one with the cold. I become the stone underneath my stiff and broken body. I become drunk with the heady, salty taste of my own blood. In the sea of dependence, I forget to even breathe. Nevertheless, I search for warmth. I struggle from his grasp. My efforts are left in vain. He releases me, but not entirely. He now held me in his hands.

Death has come to take me.

I depart.

I shall return. once again, to wake up from a troubled dream, and amend to all chances which were lost in my once futile presence.

For vengeance...

“...To die, to sleep.”