“My arm is burning, transforming into petrified writhing enmassment of muscles, rising and pulsating, separating from my partial bone, morphing and materializing into the only piece that belongs to my second being, my simple unself.”
He clawed into the wall, raging into its body, tearing it to pieces, his crimson eyes bleeding and piercing the souls of those who chanced to peer towards his deformed wake. Dragging blackest blanket of shadows and seeping undertow of thunder behind him, this bladed hilt wore mourn of dazed into the brazen hearts of his kill. Bending sheer rock or metal as if it was water, shaping and encroaching his desolate pining of souls.
Crashing past monolith after monolith of pure wall, sent down to keep out any mistrusted trouble, the great arm easily pulled him with such great hatred and perfect manipulation that he was more a marionette than a chain-pulled fledgeling. Bleeding coarsest blood of time, helping flood out the unseen tears with violent purple waterfalls, still pressed into his heart, he kept the humble rhythm, haunting and turning. Pulling and breaking.
“Hush;” the left piece fell into his mind, far from sprinting shocks of old-tale recollect. “Put it down, and then the path shall halt. Is that not what you truly wish? If so, then halt!”
The rampaging figure pitied and curled at the thought, but quickly uncoiled and grew a might. With greater eyes of trust, it said “The last of it shall leave him once I die, but to you, piece, I can fairly tell that I am not to have it. Keep out or I shall yet better my pace.”
“Apocalypse!” The same piece came booming. “That is all, but not the last, less you concede this ignorant practice. Stop or you will become too lost for the brightest light to save.”
The figure boomed, one last time, to tremendous girth.
“Sorry, I can’t keep the trust anymore. I know I can never stop. Please don’t help. I cannot become a puppet.” And with that final drive, the figure vanished. And so did the world.
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