The Ashes of A Self Proclaimed Martyr

  The purple black-winged moth screams.

  The mask bestows upon her the knowledge that this could never be undone.

  The conclusion is absolute and finally gets through to her, too late.

  Able to finally move, she quickly tries to fly back to where she came.

  The stars blacken as time continues to move.

  She flies faster than before but the mist is endless.

  She is no longer home.

  Tears blur her vision as she futilely flies through the Kaleidoscope of Existence.

  She knows the way back, the small pathway that contains home but it is no longer there.

  As she hyperventilates, she loses control and falls into the scalding watercolors, full of souls that now know no rest.

  She feels the hands of dead drag her down through their souls.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  She sinks and burns and sinks and burns and sinks and burns.

  Unbridled, a memory resurfaces. One of wrinkled hands hugging her, whispering unintelligible words to her.

  This situation wasn't like that most wonderful memory.

  She felt the warmth of those old hands, the kind that didn't burn but made her feel warm inside. She does not remember the words anymore but they were there unlike this sick quiet. Above all, she felt loved, even though it was the most bittersweet chapter of her life.

  Here, pulled by hands that hate her, she wonders if she'll die.

  Looking around the waters, she finds it.

  A yellow thread, almost impossible to see.

  She tries to swim near it, struggling against the hands.

  Suddenly, they let go of her.

  She knows, deep down within her heart, that the golden thread is offering her Death.

  She understands, she thinks.

  The world cries for retribution, if it will leave only ashes of it's own existence, then it wants blood in return.

  Through no fault of their own their lives and world are gone, that's too unfair.

  This won't everything or anything but a limelight is shining and she must step onto it.

  With tears still running down her face, she touches the thread and the yellow spreads through her hands, unraveling them.

  It spreads all throughout her, to her clothes and her lungs yet she still cries despite the absence of it.

  In the absence of sound, she hears nothing but the beating of a heart, even long after her own has become yellow.

  She looks all around her, taking in the sights of a cycle that she'll never be a part of.

  Her eyes are starting to hurt. And while she should probably close her eyes, but she doesn't want her last moment to be in the darkness.

  Within this moment, Edith Brightwing shines and is no more.

  The vessel of inferiority cries out for its' creator, lost in yellow hues.

  It'll never have the chance for the name it so hoped for.

  She is mourned in but a fleeting dream for when they wake to see the sun for one last moment, the memory Edith Brightwing is no more after the procession.

  It ends and the world sees the touch of morning light and the world briefly becomes alive with the full might of spring and the birds sing their last song as Death gains eyes and turns it's gaze towards the world that breathes its last.

  The existence of this world becomes painted on and the memory of everything fades as the river

  The fall comes to a close and winter's chill settles in evermore within the Workshop, it's new owner hyperventilating as it cries for what it has lost.

  A snowfall of twinkling ashes remain in the palm of it's hands, the world in its entirety.

  The only remains of the ashen, subsumed world is th

  e nameless vessel of inferiority and a heart still beating forevermore.