[Columbine] And All Our Gods Are Cruel

“Which is colder, the hand or the gun?” - Anthony Liccione

Dylan was too long for his bed, just like he was too long for everything else. Sometimes, he liked to pretend that the edge of his mattress was a precipice from which he could leap, arms spread wide like a mourning dove, plunging into the void. Would the Halcyons wait for him? When he had good moments, his faith wavered, and it made him feel like a sinner. 

If he was honest with himself, he had jumped a long time ago, and now it was just the wait to hit the ground. It was no longer enough to imagine that he might slip across the veil, quiet and unseen. Unclear dreams smeared red over white purgatory; an explosion of color all his own, and each day was another drop on the canvas. 

His room was an organized mess. Papers cluttered the insides of drawers, and empty vodka bottles were stashed in the darkest corner of his closet--not that anyone ever checked. Trust. Was his mask that good, or was everyone else blind? He had come to believe it was the latter. Turning his cracked facade over in his mind, it was hard to imagine that no one had noticed he was falling apart. Did he want them to? No. But he did. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this: staring down Death in a match neither would lose. Somehow, he’d taken a wrong turn down an alley and ended up on a highway. He kept passing exit signs, but he’d stopped reading them a long time ago. 

A road trip to doom, and no one even knew he’d left. 

He kept telling himself that at least he wouldn’t die alone--as if that mattered. Dylan wasn’t entirely sure that Eric didn’t just see him as a means to an end. There was something desperately lonely about the Hurricane Boy, and it only ended in tragedy. If Dylan wasn’t so consumed by the Nothing, he might have felt bad about it. 

Aren’t we all just using each other? 

It was part of why he hated Littleton: self-righteous maggots that believed they could be saved. Redemption was something none of them deserved, and few would ever attain. What use was a God who made them all in his image? Lying, blind, immoral criminals. 

Angry, he turned over and pounded his fist into pillow. A God that never cared was never God at all, and he would show them what true power was. Death was the final gate before ascension, and wouldn’t he be doing them all a favor? No point in the blind living, and if you’re blind, there’s no point in living.

Reviews

[Ren Nightshade]

I really like how you shroud the actual plot in mystery. It grips the reader by making them jump to different conclusions, only to find out they may be wrong!
Keep up the wonderful writing Anubis!!!

[Relic]

I'm so glad to see you're continuing with this story. I'll keep reading.