Death strolled through as the king of his stronghold, his grim guards carrying his stench throughout wherever they marched, carrying their weapons of war; the deception sword and the bomb of drugs. Their battle cry of lies, a promise of a cure to sleepless nights. An army of people had formed, desperate to close their eyes... But when they did the effects were not as claimed. Unbearable hallucinations flooded the minds of those who had taken the pills and yet it was too late to warn others. We were taken away, to the beaming angelic hospitals, where our minds suffered terrible torment until we became broken. After that, we were brought to this building of the Devil's creation, with reinforced windows, locked metallic doors, guards at every corner witnessing every move, men in white coats, and the doctors. Yet with all their supply of straight-jackets and artillery, we rose up, with our cursed minds driving us with instinctual forces and for the very lives of them they could not fight back.
Shadows creep daringly, slowly seizing the light and containing it like a prisoner, sealing it away in the decrepit depths of this blood blemished fortress. Windows are barely held captive by walls that stand infirm; the outside ivy had infiltrated its way into the building over the years. All doors that lead to the outside are locked, blocking the entrance to those that would enter and the exits to those that would leave.
Dark bags hang beneath my endlessly staring bloodshot eyes. Not a single item of my shredded clothing isn't covered in the crimson liquid of the veins. Light thuds were like thunder in these silenced corridors as I continued to move on, watching them from my never moving position, the tatty shoes on my weary feet were covered in dust. Ice cold was my immortalized body which they risked to get close to.
Scars of the past are painted along the dead corridors with the red warnings. When told to run, they invite others to come. When told to get out, they stand around gazing at the walls like the words are art pieces. When told that they're coming, they stop and ask 'who?' when they should be running. They ignore all our warnings. Should they hear the echoes of our broken souls hissing, they'll suddenly go missing.
Everywhere is covered in blood, from the scratched walls, to the unhinged doors, to the smashed windows, to the wrecked chairs, of which the legs had been used to impale both guards and patients, to the blood-soaked bathrooms, to cracked freezing floors, to my murderous hands. Once a white rose, my face had been painted to that of a red rose, and the paint dripped until it dried, the droplets slashing and shattering on the stone tiles of this hidden dark abyss in which my soul still lives to ward away those that would try to enter this small section of hell on earth whilst my body lays limp, a metal clump stuck in my heart, fired from that booming weapon that the demonic reaper used to steal away my life.
