Dead Asylum

A Story by Donovan Salter

It was his natural asylum from the concrete jungle. His asylum, yet still among thousands, but it was where he was alone. Alone, with the slight scent of Cartier wafting towards his nose and his favorite Faber-Castell pencil gracing the pages of a black wire-bound sketchbook, which was nearly full of drawings. The cologne reminding him of who tried to be and the book was full of who he truly was. There he was, sitting in his asylum, on his bench with a delicate hand gracing the page of his sketchbook, a soft lead forming dark grey lines. The delicate drawing was soon being illustrated by a heavier hand and grey lines turned to black. The pencil was being gripped tighter with anxiety. And his hand was heavy with the weight that comes with the lack of fulfillment. He had never thought he needed something so desperately, until they met. He needed it so much it manifested a pain deep within, a pain that only he could understand. The sketchbook was now wet with tears that were slowly dripping down his face. He slowly reached into his black leather backpack as tears came rushing down. Nobody in the park saw what was in his hand, as was his plan. Screams echoed and people ran. The pain, deep within, was now splattered upon the park bench in a bright red abstract. Love hurts, but no one said it kills.