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Description
Disturbed. Foundations, built only a little while after the bright lights came, begin to crumble—too soon. Disillusioned. Golden fantasies are tarnished by the real; the truth demands an audience in the court of the soul. Disabled. He cannot, or will not just do. He lies in bed, mind sitting upon its hardened throne, chained to the cold metal by air, enveloped by the void—a suffocating emptiness that he knows should bother him. Dissatisfied. He grins. Disemboweled. The void grins back.

He walks along the shore of the river, feet touched by the lapping waves, but he does not dare to wade. It is not the river itself—the current is steady, the tide is low, the water is cool and comfortable—it is only him. He can see everything in the river, in the flow of life: the good and the bad and everything in between—but it is the worst that catches his eye. He sees mud below the surface, and slimy weeds, and knows—he knows—that there must be razor-like rocks hidden amongst them. A shadow is cast ahead of him, and he walks into it; a great twisted tree juts out from the rocks and hangs over the pebbles on the shore and the gentle water of the river, like a low-hanging cloud. Tiny crows with shiny beaks, freshly bloodied, rest upon the barren branches. They caw and guffaw and turn their heads to him, staring—the void is in their eyes, and it is grinning at him still. He scrambles away, tripping over smooth pebbles, stumbling into the shade. He seeks refuge in shadows of his own making.

Distressed—dismayed—disgusted—dispirited—disinterested, the chord progression of his soul. If you ask him about it, he’ll simply shrug and say, I am the way I am, there’s no helping that now. Does he know that’s false? Does he know that’s a lie? If you tell him that, he’ll nod in understanding. If you look into his eyes, you’ll see only the shadows of doubt—he made those shadows, too. Light tarnished and blackened by the inferno of his fear.

He does come out of his universe now and then, when he feels he must. Occasionally he actually wants to. It is not a real place; it cannot be seen or felt in any way by anyone other than him. But you can tell if he’s there. You can tell by the set of his jaw, by the corners of his mouth. You can see the shadows in his eyes, behind the irises which have lost their hue, behind the practiced façade.

He looks up and imagines a gargoyle, a fallen angel, sitting perched upon a branch amongst the winged, waiting scavengers. Stone claws bite into the wood, amber seeps out like syrupy blood. Stone wings fold in; frozen eyes follow the churning water, the roiling morass of life, below the twisted bark creaking in the breeze. It does not want to soar as it once did. It wants to dive into the river. It wants to be alive, to be of flesh. It wants to be warm even though the water itself is cold.
How odd, he says as he watches the stone angel only he and the crows can see, disheartened and somehow disaffected at the same time. Disparity, he thinks, and laughs. He sees his reflection in the water: a paragon of disparity, on display.
Look at me.

How hell has changed, he says with a mirthless smirk.
Once upon a time all were welcomed in the darkness under the world. Heroes strode the bright, bountiful lands with their heads held high; the lost and the betrayed wandered the shadows alone asking questions with answers they already knew; and the boatman plied his eternal trade. Once there were riches in the dark, beneath the loam and the rock and the rot—riches enough even for the dead. Then the walls rose; flaming chasms were carved in the deep, great pits guarded by the fallen and the furious where now only the most wicked are welcomed—welcomed by burning arms opened wide, raw skin blackened by hellfire, peeling to the bone.
When did Dis become this?
How was this Olympian’s kingdom, once dark and glorious, made so low? Maybe it was displaced, he thinks. Dis disassembled, dismembered, and dislocated disastrously to a whole new plane. Not below, or above, but right smack in the midst of things, in media res, amongst those who have yet to pay the boatman.

But he cannot see the boatman anywhere on this river, no one to help him cross to the other side, or to teach him how to swim—no one to save him if he should drown, even though he knows that he wouldn’t. He feels what feels like nothing, not even the expected bitterness, as he looks around. Shadows pour from his pupils and swirl about on the pebbled shore.
Oh well. That’s just how it is. That’s all he can say. Disconnection. He shrugs and slinks back to his soothing shadow world, and looks almost longingly at the waves licking those smooth little pebbles.
It’ll happen one day, he says out loud, hoping it will yet knowing it won’t. He knows that hope is a poisonous thing.
He hopes he’s wrong.

Description
Disturbed. Foundations, built only a little while after the bright lights came, begin to crumble—too soon. Disillusioned. Golden fantasies are tarnished by the real; the truth demands an audience in the court of the soul. Disabled. He cannot, or will not just do. He lies in bed, mind sitting upon its hardened throne, chained to the cold metal by air, enveloped by the void—a suffocating emptiness that he knows should bother him. Dissatisfied. He grins. Disemboweled. The void grins back.

He walks along the shore of the river, feet touched by the lapping waves, but he does not dare to wade. It is not the river itself—the current is steady, the tide is low, the water is cool and comfortable—it is only him. He can see everything in the river, in the flow of life: the good and the bad and everything in between—but it is the worst that catches his eye. He sees mud below the surface, and slimy weeds, and knows—he knows—that there must be razor-like rocks hidden amongst them. A shadow is cast ahead of him, and he walks into it; a great twisted tree juts out from the rocks and hangs over the pebbles on the shore and the gentle water of the river, like a low-hanging cloud. Tiny crows with shiny beaks, freshly bloodied, rest upon the barren branches. They caw and guffaw and turn their heads to him, staring—the void is in their eyes, and it is grinning at him still. He scrambles away, tripping over smooth pebbles, stumbling into the shade. He seeks refuge in shadows of his own making.

Distressed—dismayed—disgusted—dispirited—disinterested, the chord progression of his soul. If you ask him about it, he’ll simply shrug and say, I am the way I am, there’s no helping that now. Does he know that’s false? Does he know that’s a lie? If you tell him that, he’ll nod in understanding. If you look into his eyes, you’ll see only the shadows of doubt—he made those shadows, too. Light tarnished and blackened by the inferno of his fear.

He does come out of his universe now and then, when he feels he must. Occasionally he actually wants to. It is not a real place; it cannot be seen or felt in any way by anyone other than him. But you can tell if he’s there. You can tell by the set of his jaw, by the corners of his mouth. You can see the shadows in his eyes, behind the irises which have lost their hue, behind the practiced façade.

He looks up and imagines a gargoyle, a fallen angel, sitting perched upon a branch amongst the winged, waiting scavengers. Stone claws bite into the wood, amber seeps out like syrupy blood. Stone wings fold in; frozen eyes follow the churning water, the roiling morass of life, below the twisted bark creaking in the breeze. It does not want to soar as it once did. It wants to dive into the river. It wants to be alive, to be of flesh. It wants to be warm even though the water itself is cold.
How odd, he says as he watches the stone angel only he and the crows can see, disheartened and somehow disaffected at the same time. Disparity, he thinks, and laughs. He sees his reflection in the water: a paragon of disparity, on display.
Look at me.

How hell has changed, he says with a mirthless smirk.
Once upon a time all were welcomed in the darkness under the world. Heroes strode the bright, bountiful lands with their heads held high; the lost and the betrayed wandered the shadows alone asking questions with answers they already knew; and the boatman plied his eternal trade. Once there were riches in the dark, beneath the loam and the rock and the rot—riches enough even for the dead. Then the walls rose; flaming chasms were carved in the deep, great pits guarded by the fallen and the furious where now only the most wicked are welcomed—welcomed by burning arms opened wide, raw skin blackened by hellfire, peeling to the bone.
When did Dis become this?
How was this Olympian’s kingdom, once dark and glorious, made so low? Maybe it was displaced, he thinks. Dis disassembled, dismembered, and dislocated disastrously to a whole new plane. Not below, or above, but right smack in the midst of things, in media res, amongst those who have yet to pay the boatman.

But he cannot see the boatman anywhere on this river, no one to help him cross to the other side, or to teach him how to swim—no one to save him if he should drown, even though he knows that he wouldn’t. He feels what feels like nothing, not even the expected bitterness, as he looks around. Shadows pour from his pupils and swirl about on the pebbled shore.
Oh well. That’s just how it is. That’s all he can say. Disconnection. He shrugs and slinks back to his soothing shadow world, and looks almost longingly at the waves licking those smooth little pebbles.
It’ll happen one day, he says out loud, hoping it will yet knowing it won’t. He knows that hope is a poisonous thing.
He hopes he’s wrong.