Our words were once kind, but they have since been laced with venom.

Our heart was once warm, but it now only burns from the ice it pumps through our veins.

Our pen once wrote praises, but now only blood spills upon the page.

Our smile was once gentle, but we have filed our teeth to fangs with our failures.

Our soul once knew love.

But it was only pretend.

Our resolve was once mighty, but it has been broken by shattering defeats, poisoned by false loyalties.

We wish to speak, but even our words have abandoned us, just as lovers past.

We wish to scream, but we will only be answered by the echoes of our fortress.

We wish to write, but cannot bear the pain to lift the pen.

We wish to have her.

But she has ran to the arms of another.

She once gave us serenity, but now only provides torment.

She once illuminated the skies above, but now we only cower in darkness.

She once held our heart, but now our hands bleed as we hold the jagged pieces together.

We were once hopeful to find solace in companionship.

*What a fool I am.

You made us bleed.*

Bleed from a place deep within us. Where it does not appear as a light red, or even crimson.

But a dark scarlet.

Darker than the void you so carelessly cast us in.

You left us with nothing but the company of the Solitude, who recites our failures to us with each nightfall like songs of victory.

Our only food was the shattered promises that you left behind with your departure, as they shred our tongue which spoke only words of affection and adoration to you.

Our only drink was the burning passion we once used to keep you warm during your cold isolation, which has now festered and rotted, tasting only of boiling venom now.

Yet despite this diet of agony and woe, we cannot help but love you.

But you do not reciprocate these feelings which we hold, you merely mocked them by filling our ears with fantasies and false assurances.

So we have grown tentative.

We have forged a fortress from the flesh of the fetid Solitude, to safeguard that which you have left in fine fragments.

From its bones we have constructed monolithic walls and barriers.

From its soul we have crafted chains and blades, to stave off those who would seek to destroy what is left of it.

We have assured ourselves that none shall have safe passage within, unless we so willed.

And yet when you return after months of silence with nothing more than your beautiful sapphire eyes, and your lips curled into a gentle smile, you have shaken the very foundation of our fortress.

Even the sight of your very name causes the whispers of the Solitude to echo in its halls.

We do not know what has brought you back to our tormented path, but know that it will not be as welcoming as it once was.

There will not be any words of gentleness or amour as before, but rather a single, bitter phrase.

*En garde.

The Destroyer of Pleasures.

What shall we say when it delivers us to the Perfection?

When we are handed our book, filled with our sins and favors, what testament will we have to give for our actions?

When the final grain of soil is cast upon our grave, what will we have left behind besides the broken hearts of those dearest to us?

Will we be able to stand proud before the Perfection, or will we be brought to our knees under the weight of our transgressions?

When the hour of reckoning is at hand, will our face be lit with tranquility, or shall it be twisted in grief?

We are unsure.

When the scales are brought forth to measure our deeds, will it be our wickedness or our righteousness that will crack the earth with its weight?

When the Perfection gazes into our soul, will it be illuminated with his smile, or destroyed by his wrath?

Who will be there to read the Chapter for us when we cannot read it for ourselves?

We are unsure.

Will we have earned the intervention from the one whose example we strive to follow?

When our tongue recites every lie we have spoken before the Perfection, what will we say to justify them?

When our eyes give testament to the tragedies they have witnessed as a result of our own actions, what veil can we call upon to cover our shame?

When our heart sheds tears for the suffering and grief we have caused it for the sake of companionship, who will come to our side to show the fruit of our efforts?

We are unsure.

With each reminder of the Destroyer of Pleasures, we have asked ourselves these questions endlessly. Yet the answer is always the same.

Only one response comes to mind:

*I'm sorry. I did my best.

What have I done?

A calamity has befallen me.

My heart lies impaled by a blade of my own design, beating in agony.

Across from me I see her, huddled over the blade, her hands crimson from its edge.

Her tears descend upon my heart like broken stars, burning into the flesh, down to its very core.

What have I done?

Amid her shrieks of pain, I speak words of remorse.

Amid her words of sorrow, I try to mend what has been broken.

But I have exhausted myself. I haven't the strength to lift my heart off of the blade.

In the midst of my struggle, I see a figure, one who I believe at first to be the Solitude, come to torment me with my failures.

But it does not speak.

Where the Solitude mocks me, the figure remains silent.

Where the Solitude glares harshly into my soul, the figure merely gazes.

It does not show its face, but it breeds a sense of familiarity.

A Spectre, in my own image.

With ease, it lifts my heart from the blade, but with its touch, the heart turns black.

It is devoid of any other hue, engulfing the cracks and scars that plagued its surface, it is unified by darkness.

It is beyond recognition.

The Spectre extends the beating void to me, in silent offering.

But I refuse.

I shall not allow myself to succumb to the cold absence it will bring.

I would rather endure, if only barely.

Yet, as I turn away, I see her. The one who once held my affection.

The one who tore down my fortress. The one who showed my future in her eyes. The one who left laughter and serenity in her wake.

With another.

Turning back, I take the creation of the Spectre, without hesitation.

As it takes its place, I hear the echoes of all the tender words she once spoke to me, yet they carry a harsh timbre.

I feel the fire of passion I once carried, yet it creates only ice.

I see the memories once cherished, but they have become pale and morbid.

"What is this feeling?" I ask the Spectre.

I cannot see its lips, but I know it smiles at the inquiry, before uttering a single word:

Hate.