sunken {asha's last}

I was always the shade of grey on a spectrum of absolutes.

Colorblind to the truth, oblivious to inevitable; one lapse of focus between desperation hitting thin air and despair piercing my throat. Screams snatched by the finality of spear's point, I am left with nothing but defiance. Seconds breaking, seconds spinning, the end falling. I see Ansgar's eyes for less than a split second before it spirals down the drain. Silver fangs blur into a flash and a week's worth of phantoms chased in search of color just vanish. It becomes impossible to breath and everything just

collapses.

The shadow of the reaper's scythe looms over the corner of my eye. Fading rationale tells me not even the miracle of defiance can save me now.

The problem with defiance of the inevitable comes at closing moment and the finality that dawns at the failure of resistance. It is not insanity that grips the shaft of the spear, nor is it the hunger for a crown or the concept of the perfect career son. It is defiance - madness - the final problem with defiance is that it cannot save anyone; even if it's central to the running of the madman's mind. A mindless hand tightens around the shaft of the spear. The seconds of a creaking lifeline remains held up by nothing but flawed defiance; how could my final seconds of faith ever be placed in that.

Split seconds refusing to fade to finality, everything devolves into madness in itself. The reaper's scythe freezes. No attempt to bargain, no attempt to plead; my lifetime's sentence in a prison of black and white does not come to its predetermined stuttering close. Knees trembling, fist tightening - defiance keeps my vision straight. I just want to find comfort in a heart of ice that only thaws at the scent of blood.

My blood.

Another problem with defiance comes at the

end.

Breakdown, rust, monochromia - how long has caked blood along the scythe refused to be scarlet?

Adrenaline in my veins, a never-ending rush through my veins for less than second before defiance reaches finality and finality morphs into failure. I am half propped up by my final defiance and half carried by the ghost of Ansgar's nonexistent mercy. Madness; there is no mercy for the wicked after all. No, it's torture that my body does not twist and turn in mid air on its final spiral down to the ground. It can't possibly be mercy that it becomes impossible to take in air.

In the silence between placing my neck along the chopping block and waiting for the reaper to let his scythe fall; that beats everything

monochromia, phantoms, black and white

color that can only be distinguished on the basis of brightness

d e s i -

You could have made me human.

But humanity cannot be found in this monochrome reality. And it certainly cannot be found in an arena crawling with people like me. They would've had me fight who I was and hide myself from beauty. Seven days I held tools of decoration in my hand. Flesh my canvas, blood my paint. Brush strokes falling across this world of black and white as I ripped and tore. Red strokes falling across blank canvases, I could only distinguish shades on the basis of cries of agony and canons. Spitting in my face with the truth, I suppose I could never find beauty in shades of grey, nor could I ever find a crown.

Half-truths, riddles and mysteries; where is the method in the madness that leads to me drowning in my own blood?

Asphyxiation of the fragments of my pride, smothering the hope of a crown plated in crimson and a throne of broken skeleton; despite the defiance that follows I cannot bring myself to even sputter. Split seconds staring into the windows of his soul - the smoke and mirrors of divinity remain down and the unknown truth remains unknown. It was always meant to come to this, two opposing points of view but we were both ignorant to the higher truth.

I suppose we cannot all experience acceptance.

Kicking, screaming, drowning -

Asphyxiation; I will never stop drowning in this sea of hatred.

No heart to offer up to the reaper for another day, step one to acceptance is realizing that I am the sacrifice. To the reaper, to Ansgar's god, to every deity I spit on in the face of my own altar I build over seven days of death, sin and gore. I was happy to add the blood and tears of District Four to the stained glass windows and even happier to watch Sacha's blood run in hearty sacrifice. But I was always godless, never pinned down to a religion, never firm in a belief - grief was the only thing worshiped between those whitewashed walls and grey hollow bricks.

Asphyxiation, monochromia, drowning-

why is it crumbling  down before my very eyes, brick by brick?

I suppose another step to acceptance is realizing everything built in shades of grey will come crumbling down once the foundations become saturated with blood.



Corpses of giants, tall kings slain, it was always the essence of the grief of those that were left behind that kept their stories living on. No thought for legacy, no pride in remembrance, not even the thought of a white flag followed by the final tune of a trumpet keeps defiance burning strong. Flames ignited by adrenaline, words silenced by the point of a spear; the strength to call out cannot outweigh the reality.

I swear, there's a short lived pulse at the bottom of this icy heart of mine.

Father's voice an endless drum in the corners of my mind, mother's touch a never-ending trigger to crawling skin, sister's black heart the final obstacle to my own. When the collective realized their son and brother was carrying out his sentence in the black and white walls of untouched sanity, I wonder if they held a funeral for my mind or the Lumiere's name's legacy. Instinctive thought makes me think the former, unfeeling rationale makes me conclude the latter. In the present, it is not the son drowning in his own blood that brings tears to my father's eyes, it is the the fact that Asha's impure, colorless blood has now permanently stained the Lumiere name that brings a tear to his eyes.

It is a good thing I never held a second thought for legacy in my heart; a blank gravestone does not even bring a wave of despair through my veins.

I hold Mitchell Laws' ace of spaces at the bottom of my possessions along with the eye of the storm. The final wishes of a dead man scrawled along the surface, I wish I held it up my sleeve. If not to pray that the dead would reject me from their ranks and push the restart button. If not to live to fight another day; idealistic thinking of a madman, I can only rely on my own defiance - but I cannot even draw air into my lungs. No hand to complete the ace of spades, no chips to cheat death with, the final wishes of a dead man cannot save me now.

Like defiance, the problem with belief comes at the endpoint - the realization that one is wrong and the steps to acceptance that come after.

Structure collapsing, systems failing, I cannot even beg for a final chance to see the sunrise. If not for the colors that brought about a sense of tranquility that could not detonate, then for truth of a burden of the final moments of this existence to be illuminated. If not for the aesthetically pleasing opportunity, then for the possibility that Ansgar's god could distort the meaning behind an existence rotting within whitewashed walls under the crevice of insanity. In truth, I pray that the ace of spades paired with the eye of a dead man's storm can at least preserve some form of this burdened mind. I do not want to face the finality at the end of defiance.

Wishes and feelings invalid, I open my mouth to speak but re-seal my lips at the soft gurgle that escapes the back of my throat. It is not wishes and feelings the reaper wants, it is an unfair bargain and the threads of an unanswered question. It wants the remains of a system I almost put my trust in and the ruins of a black and white place of worship I built for seven days out of colourless bricks formed by grief. Not even the ace of spades paired with the eye of a storm can form a rewind button.



But the concept of restart brings about the concept of rebirth. The possibility of a phoenix rising through the ashes. Soot being reconstructed into bones and fire forming sinew and flames bringing about the possibility of hope that doesn't snuff out when the possibility of humanity is near. Restart, before monochromia, before asphyxiation and Mitchell stands by Jenoah's side. I can see the color of their eyes, the color of their hair, the fire in their hearts.

And I can see her.

D e s -

Fire in her hair, hazel eyes, undead eyes. Alcoholic kisses on the rooftop, the tastes of the apples and orchards of district eleven igniting a lust long since lost underneath varying layers of insanity. Threads of rationale burned by the blaze, I tore apart morals and values and left the ashes behind in the face of a downfall I thought I could see from a mile away.

- i -

Cruelty persists even at the finality of the end, the last letters to form the final correlation are snatched up before they can be made constant. Gripped by the flaws resting at the idea of defiance, the shaft shakes for a split second between my fist and the palm of my hand. One, two -

- three.

The issue with defiance comes at the endpoint. Realizing that what was resisted was inevitable and the despair that follows with acceptance being the light at the end of the tunnel. 'X' marks the spot, but my final destination is to be at the point of a spear held by the disciple of an unseen divinity. Career pride burned to ashes days ago, defiance turns into desperation and desperation quickly fades into despair. Three half-seconds spiraled down into the drain and my fingers loosen about the point of the spear and hand limp at the side.

I do not hear the tearing of muscle against intruding metal, nor do I feel the welling despair in my chest at the exit wound. Propped up like a puppet with fading defiance being the string wrapped around limbs, strings cut by sharpening failure, my knees buckle and the ground rushes up to meet me and the world falls


flat.



Pool of blood forming along with a lungful of gargles and snatched breaths. My eyes remain wide open at the white clouds drifting, if I knew any better I would say the sky was preparing to weep for me. But hold cold rationale and I'd question what exactly there is to weep for. Monochromia, asphyxiation, a madness with a questionable method. Loose ends left untied, broken promises that I would kill the boy who stand above me victorious and wielding a spear with a point bathed in my blood. Whitewashed walls that will never be painted red. The lost concept of rebirth through the ashes, maybe.

Look at the letters in correlation to form the name Asha Lumiere and there is a plethora of presumed definition and labels, when deceased is slowly added to shackles I silently scream.

Cruel stained glass windows, the 'what-ifs' and 'could-ifs' only manage to bring a wave of despair. Capitol champagne, color, a stable mind. Ace of spades, eye of the storm, a throat uncut. Razor blades, false god vanquished, his face not in the sky. Red hair, hazel eyes, nights on the rooftop.

The humanity that could have been achieved.



I do not cast a thought of what could have been in another life if that stained glass window simply shattered. That I could have been one of the tall kings that survived or held a piece of divinity in my hand with a goddess at my side. Two words 'I volunteer and the madness that overtook me was not one that could possibly have an reason. One soul saved, one black soul left to rot; but the fair trade is lost on this insane mind with nothing but blood on his mind.

I was born to die a monster; after all, I possess black wings that the reaper will slowly break apart. Two souls notched under my belt and their combined weight cannot even form a feather on my conscience - I lived and I enjoyed this last week.

Seconds fading to finality, I think I finally see the value in a heartbeat written off as numb at thirteen. Lungs failing, panic rising, asphyxiation; my life cannot be defined in the final seconds of drowning.

('So, Lumiere, for the sake of the salvation of what little morality you have, I ask you one final question.
'What?')

Countless split seconds, the scythe falls.

I suppose the final step to acceptance is the realization that I am what I am. I'm just Asha, no humanity to be found in heart of ice that doesn't even thaw in the final seconds slowly ticking down before his eyes. Never deceased until now but my twitches are final desperate attempts for air. I've spent seventeen years on the outside of a coffin but I'm just now completing the final cycle of four year's worth of decay.

('Where is the method to your -')

There was never a method to a madness found in shades of grey.