The silence is what killed him. Thats what was the problem. His mind had dulled to a deaf beat of insanity. His sadness dripping like a dew drop from a morning blade of grass. Beautiful but full of humid like suppression that tugged hard at his heart. Moistening his heart's veins and then filling them unsuspectingly to overflow his emotional roller coaster's fuel system. Sending him over the edge. Now was one of those moments. Sitting in a leather chair was the man of the darkness himself. Head bowed before a dark room around him. The walls consumed to the roof with shadow. Only his skin, his pale skin could shine like a beacon of hope in the shadows. But sadly thats where it ended for hope. Within that pale man's chest walls. All hope had fallen from the edge of his sanity.
"Why must I do this to myself...", he muttered in a drunken haze.
His hand slid from his chest to the ground. He was laying horizontal on the plushy leather chair. His head tilted to what seemed like an endless black sky. He blinked a few times, inhaled and exhaled slowly and blinked again. He was the one that caused this. Not the enemy. That enemy that was scattered around. The ones that hated him, even tho there were many not counting the ones that hated him cause they had to but because it was just a part of nature. He was a part of nature. His body, his power, his living existence. He was the dark opposite.
"Tell me...Why does it continue to be this way...", he spoke lowly with his eyes closed now. The room grew darker, his body almost seeming to float in the abyss he was in.
The dream came back to him.
He was standing there in front of a grand oak tree, it limbs cowering high above him. His body at its ground. His tiny human soul yet again. He was there.
The moon shone through the coarse tree limbs, images of sadness and hate scattered within the shadows around him, the smell of burnt wood and bamboo behind him. The smell of burnt flesh and hair still skimming the breeze here and there from the distance he was now in. His head was in his palms, wet from the rain of tears that was coming from his face. He was alone. Images of his mother's face flashed through his mind quickly dancing almost in a teasing mannerism. Ones of happiness and the ones...the ones of her face in fear. Her blood was still on his robes. She had died for him...for him.
Yugure opened his eyes. Half the room was black to him. The other he could see the glow of his skin in the blackness he was around. His hand felt his face, running his fingers nervously over his left side. The bandages..., he had almost forgotten about them again. A meek smile crossed his tired lips.
"Yet again I get lost in my own memoirs. Such a funny thing...", he spoke to himself.
He sat up and turned to sit properly in the chair, his hands on his lap. He stiffly shook his head, his neck cracking a little from the discomfort it just went through. Chairs were not always the best place for a lounge. Yugure looked down at his chest, white strips of cloth criss crossing to the left side of his body. He had started doing this mainly to comfort himself. It was almost a habit now. He looked up as the room oddly had a sliver of light coming from the far end of it. He stood up from his chair and clenched his fist, shadows quickly gathering at his feet like a flooding of thick smoke. The light disappeared. Yugure stood in his darkness as it consumed the room whole again. He sat down.
"Why must my eyes play tricks on me...", he asked himself in a whisper.
Because you have meddled in the dark arts ancient one..., a faded voice shifted through the room. It started as a scratching pitch and soon flowed like water from the ear.
Yugure stood up again, his back shivering slightly by the unexpected answer.
"Reveal yourself!", he demanded, a rage of humiliation curdling in his stomach.
There was silence. Nothing but silence and his own breathing.
