The End of His Watch

He is a mass murderer. He ripped his own heart out and left himself in a coma just to waste his days with the memory of red velvet on his lips. His death will be his relief, the end of his watch. For now his time will be spent in a torturous room of empty spaces. Spaces he will try to fill with the hearts of others, just to make the spaces bigger. His eyes flash red with past experience, creating a never ending tale of incompetence. The empty spaces swallow his life. It casts him on his knees to where he was born, in the dirt. His hands tremble to let the letters fall from his hands. He smells them for what he thinks will be the last time. These are his only peace in life for they smell like her, even after all this time. For that split second she is still there, and the spaces are filled. He tortures himself with the fantasy. With the dream. With the pain. There is no more wind in this room he is trapped in. No more journeys to embark on. Just empty motions and smiles of everyday life that matter to none. Just the taste of red velvet too heavy to bear. His hands coated in his own red blood, in his empty red room, seen through his empty red eyes. A room filled with red pain and failures to find meaning again. A meaning he once had. A happiness that set him free which he killed. A happiness he takes from others to fill his room but instantly disintegrates through his fingers. The happiness that once lifted him so high it was ecstasy. So there he is. Just waiting and watching the reminder that never leaves. Waiting to die. Waiting for his relief of his empty room. Torn and curled in the corner of his red room wet with red tears just waiting. Waiting for the end of his watch.