When Kenneth Burke brought forth his first definition of man, he ended with a final point that struck the hidden core of truth; humanity is rotten with the need for perfection. A rock is content to be a rock, the same a tree wants nothing more than what it is. A deer does not wish to gain wings and fly; it accepts its given build without the need for question. Man is the first to express its dissatisfaction with what the gods have granted them. We strive, we yearn, and in our endless labour, we rot.
For lust is never sated and, in its hunger, greed is born. It is this sin that is our curse and it is what brought forth our enemy eternal.
Death.
Life is the purveyor of success and of defeat, but always does it let us try again. Only when it’s snatched from us do our sins lay down to rest. We’re granted peace we didn’t know we needed.
The lights were bright inside, although the day still fiercely burned. The beds were crowded; the nurses overloaded with their work. Although they tried their best to keep relatives and crying friends outside, orders fell on ears deafened by distress.
One by one the patients were discarded as being ‘stable’, in ‘satisfactory’ condition.
Musho Misaki…
Christopher Andres…
Shiruba Ookami…
Andrew Baker…
Richard Hunt…
Jason…
Edgar Freeman…
Caitlin Davies…
Lydia Jun…
To the staff of the hospital, the list felt endless, yet even then, they could not rest.
They fought with the reaper himself, so many times convinced they had found victory in the bleakness of the situation. They were wrong, however. Harold Rider slipped away.
They would claim, of course, that it was due to his old age. The car crash had torn apart his leg; his body couldn’t survive the loss of blood. Weak, fragile… a man clearly past his prime. Fate was kind that they took him and not the younger victims that had been involved. It was a justification to the people who had toiled for so long, and still found disappointment. Yet even so…
Had you asked them in a private room, had they known you wouldn’t judge their thoughts, they would have revealed their confusion. His age might be a factor but it was not what took his life… no. What killed him was something more than what the staff could see.
For humans cannot view upon the sins of man. The greed that haunts our race, so often matured by the cynicism of growing age, that curses us until our dying day. It is the same infliction that might cause us to leave behind the innocent, to death and torture, when all we know is tested.
Should there still be hope… should the nature of our souls give rise to hesitation at our choice, then perhaps the world will grant us one more chance; life, a second try.
But should there be nothing left but what it is that makes us human, cursed are we. Our enemy eternal emerges victorious.
We find ourselves, not dead, but not alive. We are turned into the mongrels that our hearts define us as.
For every sin, repent is needed.
The hounds snapping at your heels, the coyotes made of sand; these beasts, are we. Our festering regret is what spurns our teeth and claws. Should we capture you, we can sleep assured that you will not be cursed to a fate such as ours. We are your chance at a second try should your hearts not make you pause.
‘One will survive’, the birds, they wrote.
But demons were never known for telling truth.
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