His cry echoes in the marble and golden halls of
his hated prison. The warm light rushing into the room through intricate
stained glass panels is burning him, the reflection of the shimmering floor is
blinding him and the lavish velvet tapestries and woolen rugs are smothering
him.
He curses the one who imprisoned him, but can’t
remember who it was. Before his despair, he was free, happy, unburdened. Who
could be so sick, so perverted, cruel and evil, as to do such a thing to any
man? Who prefers cries over laughter and
sorrow over joy?
Stumbling, then crawling, covering his eyes and scraping
off his skin, he finally reaches his captor’s portrait. Its frame, beautifully
engraved, is perfect, like everything about this room. Such perfection only adds
to his anguish, yet he succeeds in raising red and swollen eyes to meet his
Tyrant’s painted frozen gaze.
Instead, he sees only himself.
~ To H. ~
