A little extract from something I wrote...

    

     The end of tomorrow is what she was. And here I am standing over her scorched body, laughing at her karma. They soon caught up to her, didn't they? Next to her, a hydrangea spouts from the ground. I bend down and pick the flower from the combusted bloodshed; I smell it. There's the perfume again. I reminisce for a moment and fall into a drunk like a dream before readying myself for such a loving speech. 

          I bellow, 

     The cruelty of our minds directed towards ourselves! I traded my words for your confidence, yet here we stand over our bodies wishing we listened. We are the end of tomorrow, but this ending doesn't have a beginning. Your monotonous fact was potent; still, I kept my actions dormant while you screamed in the back of my head as I lit the final fire. The final fire that eradicated any trace of the oxygen we had left, and instead made room for what we dreaded. 

     For one final time, I look at my skin on the sand. Then, I wistfully stare at the inhumane hand attached to my feuillemort arm. This body isn't my own. My skin is on the floor. And the torture isn't the way I look, it's how I'm conscious after our fiction became fact.  

       Oh, how wrong we were to think, that immortality meant never dying.