“Bullets That Feed”

Benjamin J Leftwich

I failed to breathe the truth. My existence has become known to the wrongful eyes and their benefactors. Slowly pulling me down to the depths of the furthest haven. Whispers that mean nothing become something in the grand scheme. The wicked rule these lands as they pry and rip the useless. Piece by piece. Slowly and steadily. They get louder, but softer, and then back to the beating beats of hellish minds.

I’m told, 

“Your actions of purest intent, in your mind, are actually actions of purest ‘Evil’,” 

The very words poke my eardrums. The same thing I swore to hate with all my purpose is really just the embodiment of myself. I have become the savior of its demise. I choke myself, or at least try, as the very purpose of my living is now pointless. I cry!

“Pointless!” 

Silence whispered back. Cold as ever, but not all that unwelcome. Oddly, I stare. My fingers wrapped around my neck and its darker shade of color. Slowly losing my grip as the pain becomes more annoying than comforting. I sigh as my body drops to the ground. Its warmth was much needed, but its existence was frustrating. Holding me hostage in this cage of twisted chains. Metal beams sealed the sides. A stone slab, at least to my untrained eye, covered the top and called itself a ceiling. I couldn’t help but laugh. Beyond the beams was a void. I slowed down by breathing to try to focus on the sounds of nothing. My fingers began to claw at my stomach as the hunger sat in once again. I couldn’t recall the last time this entity of sorts fed me.