Shroud

Shroud


His breathing is rough and labored; I feel his heart thump weakly under my fingers. His normally strong and proud body lies limp across my lap. I rub his feverish forehead, damp with sweat and guilt. His fingernails drip red; his arms bear slashes and bruises. The nature of such gore sickens me, deep into my soul. His assailant—his own inner demons. In his weakness, his uncontrollable fear, I too have shed my blood. But the wounds on my arm simply cannot compare to the wounds in my heart to see such unspeakable agony corroding an innocent life. The world is unfair—it would have to be for this dreadful affliction to exist. His eyes, the once bright and cunning eyes, clouded and lifeless. Skin, pale and clammy. A living body has never seemed so dead... Murdered by the usurping shadows in his heart—a heart rightfully belonging to me! There is no consolation for such loss. All I can do is hold him, praying he will overcome the darkness and I will have my friend in my arms once more.