- Devoted to Brandon Lee
A lonely crow began a slow descent across the rooftops, basked in moonlight. Slowly descending and landing toward its master's window, it dropped its eyes upon him, and its feathers fluttered in the breeze.
The clock struck dead at midnight, leaving only a dim silence in the apartment building. No sound entered the walls or creaked like the thunders of the outside world, being broken only by the sound of footsteps in the halls. All a world that was lulled into a sense of calm needed was a good memory to be reread. Just being alive didn't have to be an act of madness, after all.
The lone figure stood in the moonlight with a crumpled piece of paper in his hand. His eyes were shut, and he didn't move an inch. His breathing was like a phaser, almost mechanical, and his body was rigid in place. Thoughts were floating silently in his mind, speaking to him through the darkness. Wisps of long brown hair swept past his forehead, coming to a rest and hanging by his cheeks. It complimented his precise facial features; but if there was one thing he had been the object of, it was the beauty of the eyes, which at now the reflection of the moonlight made them appear as pale as snow. He was wearing a black attire, an open black jacket, a white undershirt, and pants, that made no statement other than he was a fiend.
Opening his eyes, staring at a Baphomet, he found the image to be quite unforgiving, disrespectful towards the salvation of man. Sin was meant to be forgiven, but embodying it into a horrifying beast was just a form of punishment – it was never intended to stand alone, to be a part of the enemy. No one would understand it though. No one understands what it's like to be the other guy.
He opened the crumpled paper, ashamed of himself for desecrating the practice. Hopefully it was renewed in the afterlife. In cursive, it read:
Prayer To Lucifer
"Lucifer, who is the salvation of man,
I abandon myself wholly to thy power,
And I put myself in thy hands,
Acknowledging no other God;
And since there art my god.
Master, help me!
Help me have success
And to be victorious
And be proud
Like the proud father of man
And now the Baphomet was showing him the beauty of the face, a hideous image devoid of any innocence in its form, so that any other form would be tainted and abhorred. If anything, Lucifer was the most beautiful of the angels, God's favorite creation, not an unsightly monster. But denying the higher power is sure chance for death in this world.
The decision was made.
He placed the crumpled prayer gently on the desk, just under the Baphomet, and hurried to his kitchen to retrieve a long stained knife, one that would pierce his flesh and sever his nerves to deny the feeling. His life was coming to an end. Nothing could save him. As he ambled down his hallway to the bedroom, the voices drawing him closer, different works of art draped the walls like graffiti. Some were hanging, and others were laying on the ground due to a lack of storage. They looked like the work of the damned, being drawn in thick blood and dripping black ink. A common theme was the Fall of Lucifer.
There, in the dust, a terrible tragedy. The Fallen Angel.
Entering his room with such malice, he immediately went onto the computer that sat on a desk in the corner, putting the knife next to him. He typed in "How To Tie A Noose". Immediately, at the top of the page, the Suicide Prevention hotline came up. Ignoring it, he could not find any information. No one likes to help the sinners. It looks like he had to take matters into his own hands. He got up and took the knife with him, dangling a guitar cord by the rotating blades of the ceiling fan. It was a pain to try and tie it, looping it over and over, but eventually, he succeeded in a very crude method, something he could manage.
He climbed onto the bed and stood on top of it, his heart beating as he reached towards the makeshift noose with his left hand, the stained knife in his other. It slid easily around his neck, gripping at him, wanting him to leave behind the world. His hands clenched into fists, but at that moment, something seemed to stir. A sharp sound pierced the night. Lightning. A million thoughts ran through his mind, the notable of which were a ringing gunshot, an elderly couple, a childhood friend, and a sweetheart, all of it being turned to mush.
They were never honest.
But then...all of that ceased. He simply had to remember, before he let go, was that —
"It's better this way."
He set the fan on a gentle rotation, and leapt. The guitar cord was tight, and immediately began to suffocate him. It was a miracle the fan was able to hold him. He went around and around, trying to make the cord tighter and tighter. Then, his hands began to go numb, then his neck, and legs, and he began to sink slowly. The only way to slow him down was to stab himself, to finish himself off. He raised the knife in the air quickly, and plunged it directly into his stomach. It sliced as much blood as he could get out, splattering onto the ground and the bed. Shaking from the constant twisting and pulling, flesh ripping off the bone, the cold blade running in and out of his stomach as it cut him like a steak, and all the while his airways were now enclosed, gasping for air, he found it was the easiest thing he ever did.
Blood began to spill out of his mouth, choking and spitting. Then he held the blade down for more. His thoughts made him slice and stab even harder like a butcher into meat. Finally, after only about two minutes, he went limp, dropping the knife onto the ground. He was still rotating around and around. Then it was all over.
The deed...was only the beginning
A deafening sound of rain on the window-pane echoed throughout the dark room. It was otherwise silent once more and dim. The crow watched the scene from the outside, perched on his windowsill. It uttered a caw, and flew off into the night.