The man gazed over a balcony overlooking the city skyline underneath him, outstretched stone huts that were still lit, and beyond the houses were farms and open fields. The sun was setting behind him, and the cool breeze tousled his hair, nearly toppling his headdress over. As he gazed pridefully above his home, the moon began to rise, casting a solemn gleam over the smoky rooftops. Soon, the hustle and bustle from the few night stragglers were extinguished as the man sighed in awe and relief. The stars smiled upon the man in the silence and he walked back in, tucking in his robe and adjusting his headdress. The man was ready for a tranquil night of sleep. Alas, the blood runs like fire over a stinging wound, and the man would have new wounds to mend the old. 

A bang, a crash. A yell, a cry. A drop of sweat, a drop of blood. The man wakes to the chaos, wondering what could possibly be going on this time at night. His door banged open. A guard was on the other side, his face frantic. The clothes the guard wore were all mismatched from his normal uniform - the white was stained with red, the blue turned purple, and the bright red was brown. The man followed, listening to the music of the fratricide all around him. It was different when it was next to him. Before it was all beneath him, like herds of sheep mocking the pigeons. 

Winding staircases and gold plated banisters now were broken steps and cracked walls. Paintings of epic battles were slashed and defeated. The man was in many of the murals. In one particular mural, he was next to a glorious throne, sticking a pole onto the vivid chair with his might, with beautiful aqua and yellow tapestry hanging from the walls. But now the man’s face was slashed, a dark hole replacing his dashing face, and the chair was set alight. Yet the guard and he were still running … running…

The cries grew louder, rushing like blood, their collective cries chorusing into one, throbbing, heartbeat. The dirty blood rushed from the heart in a multitude of directions, first to the escorting guard, who fell, clutching his musket tightly; then soon rushing to the man. He barely escaped the flood of red before escaping into his wife’s room. She seemed to be having a jolly good time, despite the commotion outside. Her face was stuffed with white frosting and yet she was still beautiful as always, wearing her most exquisite of gowns as she often did, her hair still plump as if it were a bouquet of flowers. Grabbing her by the arms, he took her back out, down the perilous wide corridor where they were met by the bloody shrieks and cries once again. They started sprinting. Sprinting towards the third tower - which could provide an escape, a backdoor to freedom. The velvet floor pounded underneath them, and the blood began flowing towards them. They were so close … the man could practically taste his freedom… 

Suddenly, thunder broke out behind them. His wife was consumed by the flowing liquid, her blood becoming a new stream that coincided with the old. With a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning, her head was simply blown off. The man couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think…

The man arrived at the doorway. Down these mismatched, mossy stone stairs was freedom. It reminded the man of the dirty blood behind him. Filth. Dirt. Nothing. The man turned back on his dead wife. The blood was rushing ever nearer, feasting on the injuries his wife and son had sustained. The man turned to his right and looked at the golden barred balcony. The sight was beautiful. The man, mesmerized, walked away from the disgusting stairs. He leaned against the bar, not even turning back to his escape. It certainly was a beautiful night tonight. Underneath him were the outstretched stone huts and the open farms beyond them. As the man gazed wistfully off over his home, the moon began to set, giving rise to a blood crimson sky. It was a perfect scene. So the man grabbed the bar and majestically vaulted over, feeling the breeze stinging his neck, and tumbled down into the infinite sea.