The Red String

It was the red sting of fate that held them together, tied into a beautiful, simple knot on each, final finger. For the longest time, the string had gone unnoticed, unseen. It was unapparent, transparent, and it was terribly unclean. It wasn't until the tugging and the pulling became so unbearable that either of them could see who it was, standing in the line of duty, with whom they were meant to be.

He was small, strong, stoic among the ages, and he was tall, lanky, forever bound by bonds and cages. They were a pair, yet not partners, a piece of six. Quick. Five, four, three, two, bodies snapped like sticks, twigs, branches of the tree of life, a battle that concluded, never ended, in mere strife.

The rage was strong, but the blood tasted bitter. He needed to progress, prolong, for he was not a quitter. Hit her, kill her, eradicate her he could not, but the knot, the knot that is not, had brought upon the hot, summer evening that even they had long forgot.

The string tangled about their bodies as they moved slowly, quickly, never sickly. Illness, no, they were lovesick. Alone and dazed, beyond the heated the gaze, there was sadness. A sadness that no one could compare, the emptiness within a lustful stare. Care, oh, how he cared. He could never spare the care that he had to share. To share with someone, to share with no one, to share with the man that never smiled, he beguiled, he was trained only to glare.

A blessing of a burden the string became, for fame, to tame, he needed to be slain. The cries of a mutant, how it caused ears to bleed. To bleed. The blood of comrades, the blood of the fallen. Was it his fault? By his hand? His command? The demand for something more grand that even he could not withstand?

A soldier or a lover, which would he choose? To lose, infused with ability to confuse. Grief and anger, to out balance the other, a brother, a mother, someone else's lover. To protect, to serve, the promise needed to be kept, he slept, he wept, his arms grew inept.

The first strike missed, followed by the second, the third. A bird, with its wings of freedom it flew, the wind, too, and beyond the walls it would travel unto the sea of blue. Blue, like the color of the skies. His eyes. Oh, how he loved his eyes, never hiding behind disguise.

"I'm sorry."

They were the words that hurt him, had burned him, overturned him, for this was his oath. And both the oath he loathed with disgust, the robust scent of the time he had spent loving, wanting, wishing for more. Maybe someday. Maybe never. Always, forever.

The red string, once taut, fell limp. Unraveling from the fingers, once strong, had long ago lost the flow, the circulation, holding to low expectation. A rush, in a hush, of unwanted life, a reminder, a choice, beneath the fatal cut of a specialized knife.

Praise and applause from the ignorant, the civilians. Could they not see? Could they not see that it was he, he who was so young, so ready, he who had been their hope? The embodiment of everything and all they had longed for? The chore to restore everything back to what it was before?

No.

Praise the killer. Praise humanity's strongest. Praise the slayer of the red string of fate.

Hello there! Chappy here!

Wow, I'm so sorry. This turned out so much more angsty than I had initially planned. Whoopsies.

And wow, wow, wow to the way that my poetic side took over with this one. I'm sorry if it made this difficult to read/understand!

Anywho, thank you very much for taking the time to read! I hope I didn't crush your souls too much!

- Chappy