Masochistic hands, littered with scars, make their shaky way to the cigarettes in his right pocket. The lighter strikes and stokes the bouncing little cancer stick to life. He inhales deep and feels the familiar sting that helps him to remember that he’s alive, as well as that he will be dead someday. The world inside his head is so loud on nights like this. Impossibility is consumed by illegitimacy and he can’t even place the smell that has brought it all rushing forth. He hears someone crying softly in the corner of the room and sees tears dripping from the ceiling, though they never seem to land. He can see them still and he can’t break away from the crippling fear. If only he had died young. Then maybe he could have been saved. Saved by the magic.
Hand over hand he crawls across the vast expanse of cold stone that seems to stretch on forever. His fingernails are cracked and bleeding out. His lips are wind burned and blistered to the point of numbness. He knows in his heart that it can’t be this way, this can’t be the truth. His eyes on that night, they broke something free within him. Hope had burst forth at the beckoning of the suns tickling fingertips and just as quickly night fell and it was devoured whole. His face that night had known fear and had seen death. The magic had been built upon a lie and he saw it splayed across the concrete surrounded by crimson. His heart screams nightly with primal rebellion and jealous hatred and his soul feels nothing. If only he had died young. Maybe then he could have been saved.