endlessghostfire
When the trees finally filtered away, and the stars began their dark decent into the horizon, the chains of his manacles stopped their loud screaming as he stopped and looked up. The lights of the world reminded him he was worth nothing more than the fate that brought him to that moment.
Flick. Flick. Flick. A shake. Flick. Flick.
Then finally flame.
He brought it closer to his mouth, long fingers cradling the device from the breeze, and watched it as it lit the end of his cigarette up in bright reds. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the device away from his face, keeping it in his palm just in case it failed him again.
The building was crumbling, the once beautiful architecture soiled by the explosion. It was a shame, really. The building had been known locally as the One who would last Forever. It had stood in the same spot for a couple hundred years, never wavering. The town was built around it, and the children grew up to admire the structure of its beautiful archways and intricate pillars. The explosion wasn't an attack, the news reported shortly after the building fell, it was an accident. The townsfolk never believed that, they knew what had happened to their beloved building, but wouldn't release the truth to any outsiders.
People think that drowning is peaceful. It isn't. It's a crushing weight upon your entire body, water filling every orifice and making you choke in attempt to get back the air that's vacant from your lungs. It's your heart filling with liquid, stuttering and slowing, as you slowly sink further and further underwater, flailing limbs weakening. The rippling sunlight fading into the navy blue of the deep ocean as your eyelids slip shut, the black following the blue.
Some people think being domestic is a good thing. I, however, think the exact opposite. Nothing scares me more than the thought of my life becoming boring. Without meaning. That's what I associate with domestic life. Driving the kids to school, going to work, coming home, kissing your partner on the cheek instead of the lips because you've grown apart in your domestic lives that you don't find passion with each other anymore. It's heartbreaking, and something I am not willing to do. Ever.
Competition is something that runs the lives of most companies across the world, and it has grown out of proportion. No longer do they care about the customers wellbeing, but simply how much better they are than their opposing company. Schools do the same thing, and in my opinion, it's worse. Here, they are messing with the lives of the next generation. They have already made education one of the most important and impossible things for a young person, but now they are completely disregarding their education for being the best school in the area.
Anything is possible, they said. Of course, it's not true. Flying Pigs aren't possible. Blue grass aren't possible. Someone falling in love with me isn't possible.
You usually know immediately when someone is twisted. Their smile isn't genuine, their eyes aren't smiling along with their face; if anything, they have an evil glint in them. But sometimes this isn't the case. Sometimes the people that you thought were just like yourself turn out to be the most twisted of them all, and it's these people you have to watch out for the most. Not the creepy guy on the subway, but your own friends, maybe even your own family.
The sound of glass breaking was deafening. Sharp shards came flying past me as I threw my body to the ground, crashing into the hard tile and shoving my head under my chest. The sudden explosions of bullets hitting the wall infront of me spit wood and paint everywhere, making the room seem like a tornado of debris was swirling above my head. I risked a glance to the side of me and the sight of my brother's bloody back made my blood run cold. He had adopted the same position as I had the moment the bullets started flying, but had faired much worse than I. His shirt had been torn, his left shoulder looked out of place as he held his arm up and over his head, and strips of his skin had been taken off as easily as it would have been to peel a potato. The round of bullets stopped, but we dare not move. Everything seemed to freeze, even time. It hung there in the dusty sunlight hindering us from doing anything but curl up onto the floor. I was almost grateful for the thick, mahogany table that had broken most of the bullets' journey. We probably wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for that thing. I made a mental note to send Ikea a thank you letter. After what seemed like a lifetime, I heard my brother finally shift, groaning in pain. This pushed me into action. I needed to get up, grab the documents lying strewn on the floor, and get my brother to a Safe House. I could hear people in the street below us beginning to panic, and felt a pang of guilt for the other inhabitants of the block of flats. They didn't deserve this at all, and yet some of them had probably been hurt purely because we had decided to use this building as a base of operation. But I needed to push through this, as surely the owners of those guns would soon come to the flat to make sure we were dead like they wanted. My mind flashed back to what had transpired only a few minutes before and shook my aching head in disbelief, I couldn't believe we survived that. Another groan broke my thoughts and I glanced sideways. Well, almost.
When the lights flooded the studio, all I could do was stare in utter panic at the thousands of faces staring back at me expectantly. Come on, you can do this, I mentally prepared myself. Not only thousands of people were watching, but millions. My face was being broadcast over live tv to the nation and I suddenly couldn't think of a single thing to say. Brilliant.
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