I, the Devil

The unbearable, frosty, yet silent gust entered through my door, as swift as darkness infiltrates light. I felt my lungs being sucked from the inside out, my very own fears choking me. The deafening silence, the lack of audible vibrato which I wanted most, at this moment, to warm my eardrums had forsaken me, leaving my ears a frigid, noiseless tundra. My mind was devoid of all thought but pain, a dagger resonating a sharp, high-pitched shriek which was the only sound I could know and not hear; the need of a gentle sound increased with every passing second. My shell of a body felt emptier than ever, and my blood began to freeze without the warm heart it needed to keep it pulsating. Staggering my feet, muscle by muscle and tendon by tendon, I suddenly felt gravity’s pull five times harder. Unfortunately, the noisy thud of my rigid body falling hadn’t satisfied my ears, my mind, or my heart. It only mocked me, turning up the tundra ten notches higher.

Staring into the ugly, fragmented reflection of myself with my blood-red eyes, I began to wonder if the burning crimson splotches I had came from my own being, or that which was lying beside me, cold, lifeless, and dead. My untainted sclera had joined the rest of my body’s bloodbath. Looking at my the image of my bruised, cut, vermilion hand which had been spliced by the cracks of the mirror, my face contorted into a dumbfounded expression of sheer realization, that of unearthing one’s own guilt. I was the monster that taken my own warmth, never to return. The gentle lullabies and little nothings that were always sweetly whispered, as smooth as silk, had been whisked away by the devil. The devil which went by my own name.

The Lonely Corner

In that little corner no one ever looked at, there lay so many memories of the past. Year after year, the blood, sweat, and tears of each of his students is put to the test. Can their work be so magnificent, so majestic, as to be collected and stored with his care? Unfortunately, it almost seems futile. The nostalgic collection of the hand-crafted displays, as flimsy as they may be, wore the odor of time’s passing like perfume. It’s a sweet smell, in a way. Though laden with glue and multicolored, pulpy construction paper, the bonds were wearing thin and would be blown to pieces in a swift gust. However, there was reason for his hoarding. For him, the child-like pride imbued within the fragile fruits of their labor brought back the memories of students... no, friends, from his “once upon a time”.

Near this little stack of memories lay a red backpack. One could imagine it on the back of a child, but the faint smell of medicine and gauze spoke for itself. Caked with dust, without ever a need to employ its contents - just as it should be. The faded vermilion fabric was hardly frayed, and probably will never unravel within the safety of the stronghold known as his class. Beside all this, lying right against the wall, was a cold, metallic cube stuffed with years, months, weeks, and days past. Its scratched, dented surface showed the hardships endured in his effort-filled sheltering and shifting of the contents within. Piles of color, mostly an arctic white, lay motionless within. The inscriptions within seemed to be from an eternity past, marked by the titans themselves; the few seasons that truly took the toll on these sheets were, in comparison, underwhelming. As the cold gates forever separated these records of time from our generation, they lay within the slowly rusting tower, as the next meal for the hungry children of silverfish. Who knows - perhaps the children will be perpetually fed, by the newest flock of hungry minds which put their ink to the snow-colored fibers.