Shifting Gaze

He rose from the depths of the hell they all reside in, torn throats bleeding out their last songs. The ones left over and alive thought he was the Saviour, when in reality, he’ll be the one to destroy everyone.

After pulling his spear out of a defenseless, small body, he tied his hair up. Long, ebony strands fall loosely out of the worn red string, and he growls. Slashing at the nearest corpse, his dark locks kill the string desperately trying to keep it in place.

A long moan issues from his mouth as he struggles to clear his mind. The cold-blooded fury of his cannot be controlled, but yet he feels guilt. It trespasses and takes over of his sanity; or what’s left of it. I’ll soak you in red, his evil side groans, and licks its imaginary lips.

Thick, shapely eyebrows furrow gently in concentration. To mere commoners, he looks as if he is simply sleeping, but truthfully, he is fighting a final battle of his mind – a territory currently un-occupied. He slips away.

Spiralling towards his own death, the path worn by the blood of those he had thoughtlessly slaughtered, he felt relief. His life, without a purpose, had been tiring. A lemon in the midst of his troubles was love. So he continued spinning down aimlessly, and died in the arms of his revenge.

~grace yin
Think Tornado + Shanghai 1943 + Simple Love + Clear Stars (or Starry Mood). Fuun.


  1. Words of despair leaked out of his mouth like the rancid taste of blood. He bathes in his own pool of unnerving guilt, feeling strangely comforted.
    I will kill, he thinks. Then he goes, tumbles into the unknown depths of Hell, forever trapped. Comforting goals give him a purpose, a reason to continue his path with so much force that he can rise from the grave.

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