Church Bells & Faces

No one will ever bleed like you do.

The church bells chimed for the first time, and the crimson of flower petals falling from the world above, began to settle on the black, smooth surface below. Just like drops of blood, dribbling from an open wound onto Death’s own face.  Slowly but surely, building up to cover the wooden overcoat, in piles of red, in little puddles of blood.

The faces all around were dark and wet; they were the ones who had gifted the flowers. They were the ones who were bleeding today, blood was drizzling from their open wounds and down upon Death’s face. Whether they were actually there or not though, was a mystery all its own, they all looked transparent. As if your hand could pass right through them.

It was time for the faces to sit now, except for one of them, one of the faces, he stood up the front. This face was not wet like the others, nor was it dark, he knew even less than the others. He said something to the faces, but they could not and would not listen to him, they were too busy with the flowers, too busy bleeding.

There was a smile here, and a smile there, did they really mean it? No. And yet, did they ever mean it? Probably not, but after all, that had never really been the point had it. The faces liked to smile, that was why they were smiling, they were not smiling because of the one up the front. The one up the front was not talking to make them smile, he was only talking because that meant, that the faces had an excuse to smile even though they were wet.

The church bells sounded once more, now the faces got up and left, even the one up the front, he left too. The hole was wide and deep, and now it was lonely too, without any of the faces for company. There was one last rose that fell by itself, one last splash of blood for Death’s already burning face. This one was quick and dry, the water was already gone, it had left an awful long time a go.

Now there was a room, this room was filled with the faces; they stood all around, drying themselves as they talked to one another. One would speak and the other would laugh or smile, it was not real though, and they all knew it. The one who had been up the front was gone, he had left, because, as was stated he knew even less than the others.

The faces came and went now, each with a touch or a smile, some kind words or a joke maybe, nothing changed. The flowers were gone yes, and the bleeding had stopped for now, but the wounds were all still so fresh. One of the faces almost made a difference, like a doctor helping to treat the wound, all the same they turned out to be a bad doctor, again nothing changed.

The last of them were starting to become dry, they must have thought that they were better now. They must have thought that after all this pain and all this bleeding that they could finally be happy again. They were only lying to themselves, not about being happy again however; they had been truthful about that. They were lying about the pain, the faces had never really bled, they had only lied, their pain was a lie.

The church bell tolled for a third and final time, and I sat with the faces, I was one of them in the end. My wounds were fresh though, and theirs were false, so they could not understand, I was alone. They were all so close and yet so far away. That is how it had always been, and that is how it always will be.

Author's Note

Unedited.