I: Blossoming Lily of Death

—Snow.

Of white ever immaculate, a flake – petal of the unsung Paradise – falls upon this land of the colourless. Of white ever innocent, the concrete expanse – grey vestiges of dreams past – is enveloped within, flake by flake, leaving but ashes.

Of white ever impure, a hand – translucent and fragile – takes hold of mines; wonder shared, warmth shattered. And like a flower blooming, I breathe in – for the very first time – of an air so very cold, yet so very tender.

“—Doll. My beautiful ■■■■.

“Hearken to My: deadhead and depurate the filth within – the flowing claret of corruption – known as the Vermillion Veil. Restore the balance. Restore life. Restore Death. May My Flame hallow your hollow soul, My Apostle of Ash.”

A melody – gentle and sweet – caresses my being, comforting my everything, telling me of my very purpose within this world. Yet—

Endless, a flurry – petals ever pure – scatters the horizon within, leaving only white and my oneself.

—it all disappeared so quickly.

Promptly, a hand – mine – so very small and frail extends itself towards the once gentle paradise, grasping and grasping desperately at the nothingness of terrene. Hence, I couldn’t help but to disgorge my very world to the outside – yet no words would come out, only a silent stifle strangling at my neck.

But even then, falling down and down, hundred little crumbling florets – of ivory ether – merge within my unfeeling hands of pale.

From it, a flame – shaped like spider legs – of scarlet scintillate gushes forward, setting the snow ablaze. And from it materialises a grim albeit gracious scythe of red, extending towards the infinite Firmament, standing tall, always tall.

And ultimately, a flame is lit under the sere snowfield of grey, relentlessly burning up white – yet, of that flame only comes forth a cruel cold, ever-merciless, enveloping all and anything.

Then, I wonder... what truly is warmth?

-x-

Upon the unending trail of white, I walk on – left and right, right and left, again, again – with but my bare feet, always gripping at my scythe of scarlet. Upon the unending pattern, I search existence – the blooming thorn of truth – as I march on the path beyond end.

Walking. Walking. Walking.

Yet, the same endless sight greets me back: towering pillars of grey and metal, alongside those fallen blocks of rubbles – long covered by snow unfeeling. Upon it simmers decay and decadence, whereupon lies insignificant objects of all sizes.

But strangely so, I can’t help but to approach them. As such, underneath the languishing remnants of stone – upon which the lilac light shines through the sparkling stained-glasses – I stumble upon a little being of fur.

Cleft and cold, jilted and jagged, the small creature – whose life has never been – is round, adorned with four little extensions, two up, two down, alongside an oval face at the very top with two ears.

‘To my beautiful Evelyn, I will always be there for you, I will always pray for you – for ever more. I love you.’

Of colours magnificent, a battered picture – tainted by ink – is attached to the tiny being of fur. It shows a tall and dark-haired woman in glasses, adorned within a white blouse, holding up what seems to be a little girl in a black orange overcoat – a smile insouciant on the woman’s face, whereas the girl’s face is no more.

Oddly enough, the background exhibits a luxuriance unfound: a garden of flowers, of all colours, of all wonders, just like a bouquet eternal.

Love?

I then depose the photo and the small animal toy back upon the forsaken altar, to where they belong. Yet, at my touch, the altar crumbles – stones rumbling – whilst the fur tears up. But even so, almost by instinct, I quickly catch the picture back.

Colours…

As the dust settles, the cloying smell of iron permeates all throughout – putrid and pungent – plunging its teeth deep within the back of my tongue. Of it, Man finally appears.

And so, I couldn’t help but to see all of it, anything and everything, as I sit before the construction of flesh called Man. And at very last, I forward my hand.

Heat lingering, the melting moist of blue unending, the forlorn child of welkin white – of black and orange scattered – a little girl, of black hair, and eyes of azure incessant, holds so very dearly on a note.

Unmoving and unresponsive.

I take it with one swift movement.

Hearts of red, soiled by a plea of aquamarine – leaving but a fleeting blur behind – upon which snow uncaring quickly covers all.

Love…

Once more, my eyes appose themselves upon her withered flesh – of which a scarlet thorn blossoms, flowing down and down. Promptly, I reach it, gripping it with unshaken force. Immediately, the scourge gnarls at my hands of white.

But even then, as soon as it began to eat at me, a flame – of red resplendent – scorches the thorn away, flicker by flicker, up until flesh.

Human…

Despite it, thousand overflows glow underneath the lilac light, melting away the image of a restless girl into red. Of it, the residual heat envelops the air – stained yet stanched – leaving but the afterimage of a Monster, growing and ever growing.

Man and Monster, as one.

Beating, burning, a whisper – sweet and nostalgic – ushers me within its serenity. Of it, I ready my scythe before swinging—

Restore Death.

—and at very last, the note reveals its flutteringly soft words: ‘Mama, I love you.’