If you want to read more about my works or just to support me then here is my patreon:
"https://www.patreon.com/c/Doflamingo4
________
*"At any street corner, the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face."*
— Albert Camus
---
There is a kind of silence that feels like it's been left behind by God himself. Not the silence of cathedrals, where whispers curl around stained glass like penitent smoke. Not the silence of snowfall, soft and forgiving. No—this was the silence of abandonment, cruel and unashamed, full of splinters and the weight of things unsaid. It was the kind of silence that settled into the bones of the university library at 7:48 PM on a dead Thursday evening, when even the books seemed to question why they were still there, their spines stiff with disuse, their pages yellowing in quiet protest.
I sat alone.
The lamp above my table buzzed like a dying insect, its sickly yellow light pooling onto the cracked leather cover of *Greek Tragedies: Volume I*. The book smelled of dust and forgotten hands, its edges frayed from decades of students flipping through it without really seeing. My eyes weren't reading. They were more like vultures, circling the words without consuming them, picking at the carcass of meaning without ever truly feasting.
*"So,"* I muttered to no one, my voice hushed with the pretense of reverence, *"Paris gave the apple to Aphrodite. Over a pretty face. Men went to war for a silhouette."* My fingers traced the faded gold lettering on the cover, feeling the grooves where time had worn it thin. *"I'd have burned Olympus down and taken the apple for myself."*
My lip curled into a humorless smile.
What a joke.
The chair groaned beneath me as I leaned back, its wooden joints protesting like an old man's knees. The air in the library was thick, stagnant, settling over my skin like a film of dust. My mind wandered—as it always did—into that decaying alleyway of thought where everything smelled faintly of rot and meaninglessness.
*"Justice,"* I scoffed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue. *"An abstract concept invented by fools with power to excuse their cruelty."* I flipped a page, the paper whispering under my touch. *"And crime?"* My finger dragged down the text, smudging the ink as if I were defacing a saint's portrait. *"Crime is just courage without permission. The only real difference between a murderer and a judge is the robe."*
Outside, the rain began.
Soft at first—just a whisper against the high library windows, a hesitant tapping like a child's fingers on a locked door. Then, as if gathering its nerve, it grew angrier, pounding against the glass with the fury of something scorned.
I turned toward the window. The world beyond the pane was warped by the water, reality itself dissolving into streaks of gold and white. Streetlights smeared into haloed blurs, their glow bleeding into the darkness like ink in water. Umbrellas moved beneath them, black and shapeless, their owners hunched and hurried, as if ashamed of being caught alive.
*"Look at them,"* I whispered, my breath fogging the glass for a second before fading. *"Trying to outrun the truth. Pathetic."*
For a moment—just a moment—my gaze softened. Somewhere beneath the layers of scorn, beneath the laughter and contempt I kept tucked under my skin like a collection of knives, *she* surfaced.
Her.
Not in flesh, but in memory. A ghost painted in late spring sunlight, leaning against the sun-bleached bricks behind the art building. The way the light had haloed her, turning loose strands of her hair into filaments of gold. That smile—sharp and knowing, carved into her lips like an artist's final, perfect stroke.
Aimed at someone else.
Never me.
Hell is empty, and all the demons are here,
I whispered to the void when she disappeared.
The people I see, the air I breathe,
Are echoes of a world that's lost its sheen.
The voices of hell are calling me,
A symphony of sorrow, a cursed melody.
What's the purpose of heaven when my angel is gone?
What's the reason for living when hope feels withdrawn?
I seek her presence, but she left me in despair,
A hollow world, a soul laid bare.
The shadows of your absence haunt my nights,
Dragging me deeper into the unknown's fright.
Bless my soul, for I loved her—
The one who became my universe, my center.
I wrote herpoems, each line a plea,
To capture the light you unknowingly breathed into me.
Her resence was a beacon, piercing my dark,
A fleeting warmth, a fleeting spark.
But she never noticed, how could she?
To her I was a shadow, a silent devotee.
Another face in the crowd, another nameless sigh,
Lost in the sea where dreams go to die.
So I remained silent, my heart locked away,
Behind a mask of indifference, I withered each day.
Now the demons dance where her light once shone,
And I wander this hell, forever alone.
What's the purpose of heaven when my angel is not here?
What's the reason for living when all I feel is fear?
The shadows of her absence are all that remain,
A haunting refrain, a never-ending pain.
I exhaled, rubbing my temple as exhaustion crept into my bones. The weight of the day—of every day—pressed down on me, a relentless force that seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. Perhaps Camus was right. The universe didn't care. Life had no inherent meaning. And yet, despite the absurdity of it all, I still clung to stories, to books, to the faint hope that somewhere, in some reality, things could be different. That somewhere, I could find a place where I belonged.
I smiled—sharp, crooked. The kind of smile you give yourself at your own funeral, when you realize no one else showed up.
*"I could have had anything,"* I said aloud, my voice nearly cracking under the weight of the admission. *"Everything. But not her."*
The library didn't answer. Of course it didn't. Nothing ever did. The gods were dead, or sleeping, or drunk. Or maybe they never existed at all. Maybe the universe was just an old, abandoned theatre, and someone had forgotten to close the curtains.
I stood up slowly, the chair scraping against the floor like a dying man's last breath. The book remained on the table, splayed open like an unwanted gift, its words still whispering tragedies I no longer cared to hear.
I didn't belong here.
Not in this university. Not in this world. Not in the story someone else was writing.
The rain greeted me like a slap to the face as I stepped outside, cold and bitter, needling my skin like a punishment I hadn't earned but would suffer anyway. I didn't bother with an umbrella. Let it drown me. Let it wash away the stink of this place.
The street was nearly empty, the few remaining souls scurrying like rats beneath awnings and overhangs. The world smelled like wet concrete and tired exhaust pipes, like cigarettes ground into puddles and the sour tang of last night's beer.
I liked it.
There was honesty in decay.
I walked with no destination. Just *away*. Away from the girl who had never seen me. Away from the silence of the library, from the books that only ever whispered other people's wisdom. Away from the hollow ache of a life that felt like a borrowed coat—ill-fitting and never truly mine.
The rain soaked through my clothes, my hair, my skin, until I was nothing but a shadow moving through a world that had long since stopped pretending to make sense.
Then—
A horn.
Not the polite beep of a distracted driver, but a blaring, panicked scream of metal.
Tires skidding on wet asphalt, the sound like an animal being gutted alive.
A flash of headlights—too bright, too close—filling my vision until there was nothing else.
The air turned solid, pressing against my chest like a hand shoving me backward.
There was no time to scream. No time to react. Just the soft, dumb thought, half-formed and already fading:
*So this is how the curtain falls.*
And then—
Darkness.
---
[ End of Chapter. ]
---
If you want to read more about my works or just to support me then here is my patreon:
"https://www.patreon.com/c/Doflamingo4