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.
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: