The Degenerates

AN: I just wish to say before you should read this, that I was half drunk and listening to Meteora when I wrote this. So, hardcore matrix fans, those of you who know all about The Matrix, I give you my deepest apologies. Tell me then if I should continue, or whatnot. If you think it worthy then read on...

The darkness dispersed. Onyx melded with ivory as the dim lighting founded itself into a hybrid of dead light. His mouth gaped open wide, like the hollow of a deep well. There were rows, thousands upon thousands of people mis-mashed on the wall, their unfeeling faces, numb and placid with the drunken feeling of sleep. This was humanity, hidden in reality. The horrible dream that they lived. Sleep was the only escape, the only way that held humanity together. Dreams finally had been forgotten, sleepless and grey. They never experienced their own world, hazed and black, like dazed sunspots that made them self drudged graffiti on a cemented wall. They were never able to understand their own hell, never able to find their own Eden.

He wanted to scream at the steel mausoleum, wanted to tear it down with all of his strength. They were all wrong, they used him. He was never able to understand how they were able to find their thoughts through the only gateway that was their heaven, their escape. They inhaled breathless sleep, something that wasn't real, only false, their own fate digested by their god. Their own fate had been twisted against them. He didn't know what to do with them. He hated the society. There was no goal anymore, everyone was dead, no one could find their way out of their own pandoras box that they had opened. The mistakes that humankind had finally made were taken over by the monster that they had all made: technology. Magic and the Dreams, the premonitions, everything was dying that humankind had finally built.

There was nothing that could save them. If he was going to try to tell them, they wouldn't believe him, and drown in their own escapes, killing children in their froth-filled, brainless sleep that only consumed ten thousand lives every day. No one would wake again, no one would ever find their way out of their own hell, there was no escape from the mistakes that humans made. Technology would take over and kill them, there was nothing able to save them. The only thing left to do was to at least make some sort of mass-suicide, and even then they would not be free. Didn't machines make them live? Did they not give them life? Did they not save them from their own world, destroying and marring it with their rusty nails that they made out of their own bodies, crumbling their duress-filled plain through serrated malice which was perpetual to the only way to escaping.

He was too confused to speak, too perplexed, to frightened. He wanted to kill himself. He wanted to die. There was no hope for the humans. The project was a failure that could not even be saved by the strongest, the most hopeful person that ever lived. He wanted to feel that bullet go through his head, that dagger pierces his heart, but none met him and he fell onto the metallic catwalk, fragile and delicate, intricately made with the dead hands of children. An electric shock flew through his head as he was not able to consume all of this pain at once. He felt something die inside of his heart. He began to retch bile, watching the dying green fly through the grating as it just flew, down...down...down...never ending as humanity death was. Machines were always there to take them over. He curled up in a crude fetal position, he wasn't able to escape in time. The rough edges of the flooring of the catwalk cut his wrists as small veins of blood poured down his bleak flesh, not able to even survive off of the smallest morsel of sun, daily given out to the communists of the tangible world.

He wanted to stop, he screamed at the ceiling as he felt no desire to live, tears streaked his face, illuminated from the dead lights. Rheum fell from his mouth, mixed with his own blood from his raw throat and stomach, screaming in pain, retching and vomiting up all what the machines had given him, only what they had given him, not what he was given by god. There was no god at all, it was an image that people mindlessly followed. Not frightened at all by death, he stood at the edge of the railing, feeling another shock go through him. He saw the dim blackness, and the feeling of sickness found him as he plunged over the edge, feeling the sickening lurch take his stomach

"There is no hope"

He felt a screaming pain envelope him and finally a grey sleep as the warmth of blood drowned him in his own tears. He felt peace, he felt life, he felt everything at once. He smiled a blood congested smile, a faint ghost of a smile. Crying, he then slipped into the heart of death, not leaving a trace of life behind.