Mon cœur, pas de cœur.

[Du Soleil.]

Note: Wrote this a while back, it's original. Not gonna explain the people in it because that's an unimportant fact. Buttt yeah, this was going to be longer but I lost my concentration and just never finished it, so I guess I'm gonna call this the "finished product" or whatever.

--

I cannot abide you.

I love you.

I hate you.

I always seem to revolve around to this same situation: the same repetitive feelings, the same swelling anger, the same cracking voice, the same thumping heart, the same cold laughter, the same brink of tears. Everything is so similar. It is like a water cycle. It flows continuously with fluidity and for a time, it feels peaceful and harmonious, but then the tides turn in and there is a storm. There are no words for this storm. No words but those that describe the deepest and darkest phantasmagorias of my mind. To have you know of these thoughts would shatter you into a thousand tiny pieces. You would not have the psychological strength to withstand these abominations, for though your soul is impregnable to the taste of Exodus whilst you glow like the Heavens, you would crumble, dissolve and dissipate into thin air. Do not think I would not catch you, because I would. I would grasp your mind and bring it into mine. I would give you the idealisation of your dismemberment. I would corrupt your mind into Darkness. I would destroy you from the inside, and eventually, dispose of your body so there would be no evidence of you. This would be proof that I would have defeated you finally, for it is the one thing I desire above all: Your Exodus.

Darkness would cascade from the skies like an impending hallelujah of caliginosity; it would splash on the ground with its inky heart and spread over the floors of the Earth, the brick walls of humanity, and the oceans of life; it would engulf all that lay beneath the soil, in the cracks of the sea beds, and in the glass of the sky; it would roll throughout the clouds like Zeus and with its rage bring a mighty roar of doom; it would cover the brightness of the stars and turn their luminescence into hollow cadavers; it would become everything and nothing, inescapable, unavoidable, inevitable. It would smother Light with a grin and snuff out that whimpering little candle that refuses to die simply because you remain. But this is not for much longer. You are aware of the fact. I see it in your face, in your eyes, in your heart and in your soul. I see how you have become blurred. You are no longer defined and definite. You are fading, fading so rapidly, and I shall do nothing to stop it, though I have the power. I simply refuse to give you the chance to live, and for two reasons:

I despise you.

I cannot endure to observe your Light become Darkness in order for you to survive.

Your death would be a kinder fate. Does this make me weak? Sometimes, I think so. I presume so. Sometimes, I deny this speculation, for I am not weak. We are at the end of the world, and I still exist. You have not managed to kill me yet. But there is your glitch, isn't it? You cannot kill. You will not kill. Even if your blade struck the heart of another, it would be you to feel the agony of your sin, and not your victim. You are too pure for violation and murder. I will not condone to have you defile your innocence for the sake of eternity. But you wouldn't have it that way either, would you? Of course you wouldn't. You said so yourself. I remember everything from the tone of your voice as you spoke softly, to the look in your eyes as you frowned intensely and stared right into my soul. You hand had rested on top of mine, our fingers intertwined as I stroked your platinum hair, urging you on with my best smile. Your lips parted slowly, and you licked them of their dryness, and then you cleared your throat, and you spoke. You destroyed me that day. You told me you thought eternity was a cruel destiny.

You asked me to kill you.

I said I wouldn't do that in a million years.

So, this is irony.

We are far away from our home galaxy, the Milky Way, I think. We are on the other side of the Universe. Probably. I don't know. I can't concentrate. I can't focus. Everything is so blurred. I cannot hear the noises that flash past my ears. I cannot sense the coldness that sinks beneath the plates of my obsidian armour. I cannot smell the hostility of this place. I cannot feel its screams against my skin. I cannot recognise the fact that it is repelling me from its surface, because I seem to stay attached. I seem physically oblivious to this place. I am nowhere but in my mind. I am blind. I am deaf. I am numb. It is difficult to describe, but if I could, I would compare it to a human's idea of Hell. It would be the last place I would desire to see, to feel, to be. I am alone in this place, I know that much, because I feel no other source of life or energy or enthusiasm. There is no sense of unity here, and this saddens me further than I think I already am. I am so sad because I can not feel you. I can not sense you. I can not hear your thoughts. Have you severed yourself from me? No, you wouldn't do that. Have I severed myself from you? Most likely. Yes. Definitely.

I am curled up into an indistinguishable mass on the floor of this unknown realm. My armour is curled softly around my form as it usually is, but today it feels especially uncomfortable. I find myself frowning at this, because it is something I am not accustomed to. My hands, which are planted uneasily on the unsteady, liquid-like ground, move quickly as I go to shift the plates around which encase my thigh. However, I find my hand coming in to contact with something: it is metallic, sturdy and it burns right through the tips of my gauntlets. I hiss angrily at this unpleasant sensation and my head snaps up to stare at the offending material. I see it more clearly than I have ever seen anything in my life: it seems to be the remainder of a lacerated blade, neatly curved at one end but savagely jagged at the other. I presume someone must have removed it from the rest of the weapon. My curiosity absorbs me, and I move my fingers once again over its luxurious surface, and once again, the heat of it rips straight through me like a thousand knives. My hand flies from the surface like fire on the skin, and I observe my hand carefully. Around the edges of my fingers there are scorch marks which have left them deeply blackened, the skin scarred and distorted. I scowl at this. I am contemplating whether to move away from the scorching object or allow my curiosity to catch me once again.

I sigh. I frown. I move my face closer to the broken blade. It smells like honey. This scent is pleasant to me, but also very unnerving. I inhale once more and the perfume that is honey again crosses my nose, but this time it is accompanied by something. Initially I am unsure of the exact fragrance, but then as my eyes lock on to something inscribed in the surface of the blade, I instantly know what the other scent is. Sunshine. It is warm to the senses and it creates a warm atmosphere within me. My heart starts to pound, my veins start to pulse, my head starts to swim. I begin to understand the severity of the situation. I begin to remember things. I begin to stare more intently at the scriptures wrapped around the broken blade, which resemble mine so very, very much. They are in Latin, unlike my opted Japanese tongue and your French verse. They depict the honour and absolution of Light. They sing of truth and freedom. They speak of love. I am aware of this, but something within me dawns. What should I call this? Comprehension? Discovery? ...Realisation?

Oh God.

I am up off the ground faster than Zeus can pierce me with lightening. I am stood now, to my full height. I am more aware of senses now; the lack of heat, the lack of light, the lack of a soul. I am panicking as my breath bursts out in short, quick sparses, curling up in the back of my throat as my eyes frantically absorb the situation. The first thing I see is the floor. This is most obvious as it blares at me like a siren of war - it is silvery in colour, and shifts about my feet like lava. I suck in a sharp breath and jolt backwards a step, and the fluidity of the floor follows me, but I do not sink. I turn my head upwards as I frown in desperation, hoping to discover some form of horizon, but to my dismay, I find none but the repetitive surface of the floor. It looms above me in all directions. I have no choice but to look to the sky, and I find that it is inky in colour. I expect to see stars, but I do not. This is my way of trying to locate some form of proof that this is not really happening, that this is yesterday and that this event will not unfold. I know I am on the Sun.

I look down.

I see nothing but you: an image of your form burned into my memory for all eternity – I know this. I see you now. I see your perfection. I see it all, but I know I am the one to have done this to you, for you do not smile. You do not hold that glimmer in your eyes. You do not glow with your ethereal Light. I edge to your side, my eyes fixed on your face, and I search for the sound of your ringing laughter in your memory. I am trying to connect so very, very hard as I squeeze my eyes shut in desperation, because I feel nothing from your mind. There are no bursts of memories or flashes of stray thoughts. My breathing becomes quicker – I am panicking now. Why can I not feel your mind? Why can I not sense your soul? Why do I seem solitary in my existence now? I open my eyes, and I kneel at your side. My knee rests by your shoulder as I gingerly move my hand towards your cheek. I gulp and find that my throat is dry. I am nervous. Maybe you pretend that this impossibility is true. Maybe you shall burst out in your soft, bubbling laughter in a few seconds. Maybe. My mind wanders as my fingers make contact with your cheek, and I expect the usual burning, lacerating heat of your skin, but I find something else: ice. Your skin is cold, as cold as snow and as pale as it too. I know what this means.

You are gone.

Time slows stops.

My eyes widen.

My mouth opens.

I scream.