Narzack

Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time does not stop for a miserable wretch. A creature disgusted with what it could have been. Moving slowly, Tom replaced the book. He would not destroy it as he had planned. No, the book would remain unharmed for all time, a testament to loss, a reminder of the depths to which he had fallen.

Tom rose and walked to the window. He gazed at the city in the distance, a metro of hope and dreams and joy and magic and happy endings, where the hero slays the dragon, the princess finds her prince, and the hideous monster becomes noble soul.

Out there, in that place of one man's gift to all generations, curses are lifted and endings are storybook.

"Here," Tom whispered, "I am the curse. I am the nightmare, destined to fall to Hell and writhe in the flames of judgment." He hung his head in despair. "I am in Hell. This existence is a dream of pain and fear and hate. A dream from which I cannot wake. I had a taste, a bare glimpse of what life was supposed to be like. But, that, too, was taken away. A cruel illusion."
A tear fell from his eyes and broke on the windowsill, the salty water running over the lip and dropping to the floor.

"I hate it. I hate this. I hate everything. I hate myself. I despise, I loathe this demon that I am." Hissing, Tom pounded his fist on the windowsill. The metal slide cut into his hand, sending a spike of pain through his body. He latched onto the pain; he held it deep inside, cousin to the misery that dwelt there. Again, he slammed his hand down, again, the pain shot through his body. Again. Again. Again. Again. Until his blood ran down the wall and pooled on the floor.

Chest heaving, Tom inspected his hand. It was a bloody mess, the flesh torn and bone exposed. But, still, deep inside, his shame and sorrow burned hot and real and unending.

Once, he was a good person. Once, he was happy and proud and kind and good. It was not so long ago. Not so far away.