The Machinations Of Greed

Right to grieve, Right to breath

                                BP
                      OVERHEATING

Another message, and his body fails him. He hits the ground hard, becoming lathered in the mire below his feet, his view consumed by the night sky. Though it's beautiful, he can't afford to... stare. So he stands up, sluggishly, almost like he's confused.

He looks around, yet he sees no way out of this place. Just more misery waiting to embrace him. But maybe that in and of itself is a comforting thing. Even in misery, there is warmth. You just have to get used to it. All the layers of dust which will cover your body, all the dirt, all the grime, all the forgotten fragments of our world as it slowly fades away.

...They're things that tell you you can be forgotten. And it would change nothing, but really, should you ever even be afraid of being forgotten? No more prying eyes, no more watchful eyes, no more judgement to fall upon your soul anytime you do anything of any caliber.

But through all the grime and dust, he sees use. Bodies.

One... by one... by one. Brought to the base of the fence, rested against it, dragged through the endless muck. His hands have been stained with dirtiness now, cold, yet insulating, dried, yet moisturising.

And with heavy footfalls, he climbs atop the pile he built with his own hands, out of his own people. It saddens him. He thinks so, at least.

But he doesn't have a choice. He has to live, and so... one... by one... by one, he climbs the bars of the fence, holding on as tight as he can to the steel.

"...Freedom..."

He mutters to himself. It's what they call this wish. He knew it before, heard about it, but he hasn't 'felt' it before. The feeling of taking back a right which always belonged to you.

Finally, he finds himself posted at the top, his legs dangling on the other side as he rests his palms on the metal surface. It's just a fall that awaits him now, and then freedom. What he's constantly thought about is right before him.

After this, he could leave. He could go anywhere. He's dead, after all. A 'ghost' that no-one remembers. A memory of an object.

Yet when he raises his gaze, and his eyes are filled with light... something inside him screams to return. To forget all the stars in the ceiling, to stop dreaming big for what's ahead, or what's above, and to simply... come back.

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The roar of an engine booms through the air, and its headlights pierce the darkness ahead of it. The man driving sighs, his sky blue eyes looking out the window as he turns left. Graves are everywhere he looks, reminding him of where he is, and most importantly, why he's there.

Stopping the vehicle, he looks to the right to see a woman standing before an adorned gravestone, decorated with flowers. The statue of an angel, female in appearance, stands on the base of it, hands held in prayer, kneeling before The Lord with eyes shut and wings held close to the body.

"...Eve."

The man calls out to the woman, inspecting her appearance from the rear. A puff can be seen lifting to the skies, making it clear the situation to the man. She's angry, frustrated, and that's why she's smoking.

Her black leather jacket, hugging her body closely, conforms to her movements, stretching and ruffling as she turns around to present her form. There's a glare in her almond coloured eyes as she studies his expression with furrowed eyebrows. Her lithe figure and perfect face are put for display as the moon shines down on them brightly, the glow reflected by her long, dark brown hair, its length running down to her waist in a cascading waterfall.