Most of us are dead, we walk through corners of the world staring at the faces of people who are only left as ghosts. As for me, I never died. Because I was never born.
It was a birthday. One on a gloomy day, with clouds hovering over the sun that had laid its head to see no more of the creation of man. Even the cloud was a shade of grey, and they were heavy, barely enough the hold themselves up. They struggled, fighting the rapids of the sea winds as they cried their ways through the sky.
A man, with red frost glazed over his pale white nose. His voice crumbled as he attempted to speak, his neck parched as it had stung, gasping painful airy breaths. He attempted to find is voice, put his slender hands had clenched hard on his suit’s dim black tie.
“I don’t feel much alive, sir.” The man, in his harmless voice that had higher then grown, let out. He hurled away a seed like transparent substance that fell over the end of his dotted noise. His gloomy grey green eyes scanned it, like it was every so precious for him to twist his eyes in its direction. A distraction from the world around it, empty but loud. A train speeding like a bolt, red with whistle or two for a demand.
Another grey-eyed man had chuckled, almost with an unwelcoming grimace entered his own pale face. He was well over the original man’s height, but he wasn’t much tall himself. His shoes were tailored black, strings folded over each other to form wings. Looking down, it was the only thing the original man had noticed.
“Your mother said the same thing.” He laughs turn quickly to coughs; coughs that laid uncovered. Each one that had left his mouth were like the winds, the tides curling over each other to find a target to ever so devour. And even then, its victim was left undiscovered as the cycle had continued.
“My mother’s dead. She was killed.” The original man said, his voice turning more boyish, grimmer and more uncertain of what tension he had caused.
The grey-eyed man had lifted a cigar to his thin pale lips, letting out puffs of white smoke from his lungs, looking away from the young man he had looked to divert himself from the sight of the neighboring conversation.
“Tragic events. I still wonder how.” He finally responded to the original man whose eyes were wide, his pupil’s smaller than they were before, looking up with a little scoff on his face. The man’s was face was ever so damaged, his skin peeled from the left, his eye damaged from incidents that were left unknown. It was a pale grey, his healed skin, sewed on carefully. But it seemed he had no desire to cover himself, his horror to the lively world.
Maybe it was because it all that they feared of him, it showed who he truly was.