Glorious Form Of Execution. (Dark)

[Fkeu'itan]

An empty, cavernous room.
Save for one dim light,
Suspended from the ceiling.
Emitting a dull glow.
Seeming to be flickering.

A man sits, beaten badly.
Bound to an old wooden chair.
Eyes once filled with;
Love,
Honesty,
Hapiness.

But now also,
Corrupted by fear.

I recognise him.
He is me.

*click*

"Looks like this is it."

Another man - masked - stands
Wide postured,
A cold,
Hard,
Callous machine,
Held in a rough hand.

Sequences fall,
Into their sickening place.

I recognise him.
He is me.

But the alternate,
Holds something far more sinister
In my eyes.
Hopelessness,
Lonliness,
Pain.

He has;
No future.
No desire.
No life.
Things that I,
Will also soon be blessed with.

Time passes,
But ever elongates.
Minutes to hours.
Seconds to days.
Miliseconds to weeks.
Still progressing nonetheless.

"Who would have thought,
It would take this long?"

My double inquires,
To unknown listeners.
An exuberantly dark smile,
Spreading widely,
Across his obscured,
Shadowed face.

"So brave, so hard,
Did you fight."

The weapon,
Brandished in his nervous hand
Begins to stir,
An angered beast,
Waking from a deep sleep.
It's coming.

"But battles always have casualties..."

I say to me.

The weapon now charges,
Mercilessly.
Moving forward.
Pressing hard to my,
His,
Temple.

Another lengthened milisecond past.

Leaning in, now whispered;

"...and wars always have victors."

The trigger is pulled.

A shot rings.
Echoing out forever,
Into what is now,
An endless black sea.
Save for one flawless plane.
It has ended.

All that remains
of the bound man,
Is a perfect smattering
Of dark fragments
And deep, viscous fluid,
On a virgin white wall.

Dropping the metal,
He turns to face.
He slowly reaches up,
To the balaclava.
Revealing my grinning face,
There is a shock.

This me was not the impostor.

I was the truth,
All along.