Elekxon La Muerte 3

but what welcomed her when she opened the container was anything but edible.
torn pieces of what seemed to be posters filled the cold metal container.
she dug in.
layer after layer of ruined paper brushed her brittle hands as if taunting her.
outstretched fingers clasped nothing but edges of wasted paper.
she swam in a sea of mockery.
tears falling, cruising, leaving lines of anguish down her dirty cheeks.
frustrated, she lunged one more time, wishing and praying for anything that would save her.
anything that would fill the gaping hole.
anything that would appease the burning anger that was beating the hell out of her chest.
then, as if someone else willed it for her, her fingers gripped something solid and cold at the bottom of the can.
slowly, she lifted a small revolver.
ah, redemption.

There are some things that time cannot mend.
some hurts that go too deep, that have taken hold.
for some, it’s the sad realization that they can no longer achieve what they have dreamed when they were still able and young, either because society gave them no other choice but to abandon their hopes, or because dreaming about anything good is considered pure foolishness.
for her, for this broken sad little child, it’s the sad reality that even though she did not choose to be born into this messed-up society, even though she didn’t have any vote to anything that’s happened to her, she’s suffering as if she’s screwed up everyone.
as if it’s all her fault.
for her, it’s the gloomy fact that no matter what she does, someone, someone bigger than her, like these bastards on stage, will swallow her dreams just for the fun of it.

then with the same natural stealth she climbed the stairs and started towards the one who was spitting at the mic.
for the mass in front of her, it was just an innocent child walking towards the spotlight, maybe eager to meet the speaker firsthand.
but everyone was caught off guard.
it wasn’t long until the crowd started screaming unintelligible warnings at the stage.
oblivious, the speaker turned around and saw a little girl who was looking at him with crazed eyes.
he gasped.
and as she pointed the cold weapon at the speaker, silence and stillness ate the warmth of the night.
they’re all looking at her.
every eye trained to what she was holding.
“now they can see me”, she thought as she held up her hands without falter
this is the real image of what this rotten society is.
this is the disillusioned reflection of what these power-hungry morons painted.
this is their painting, their art.
they used our blood.
our sweat.
our pain.
and we willing gave them our trust as their canvas.
we, the faithful us.
“can YOU see me now?”, she growled at the speaker.
without warning, she pointed the revolver at herself, the barrel of the gun almost buried into her right temple.
then she uttered an inaudible curse before pulling the trigger.
no one heard the dull thud as her body fell on the dark, cold, cruel earth…


About delamorte

Eherm... A boy with a soiled face who's spent 23 pathetic years trying to make a difference... An old man trying to talk his way out of his own cage... And the Seer who's trying to poise these two alter egos' rage... You won't find anything interesting enough in me to ask about my real life facts. Trust me, things will get more and more boring once you take that path. Disclaimer : These are just random rants and stories cooked-up out of boredom and prolonged stages of catatonia. Please feel free to troll/criticize my works, i am but a poor soul trying to find my way out of this miserable phase some of you call life, your critiques shall serve as my guiding light.
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