"Am I a man that dreamed he was a butterfly, or am I a butterfly that dreamed he was a man?"

A girl stands on a rooftop, wearing her love like the somber dress in which she is cloaked, drenched in dreams of yesterday and lost in the distance between lives. There is nothing left to love in this world. She takes a hesitant step closer to the edge, the one she's already fallen off of, trapped in an endless circuituision of unbearable despondency and a yearning for what is now lost.

Dreams of a time when she had everything still linger, forever with her, forever in her mind, never leaving her alone. It is why she is here, standing, misplaced, at the top of the tower on a lonely street corner, high above the flickering street signs and nameless faces going about their quiet lives. They are of little consequence to her now; she pays them no mind, and they return the favour.

The splinters of light where hope once broke through are all gone now, covered over and buried, nothing more than a smudge of sunlit grey amongst the toxic, chemical city sky. The girl has been here before—not in the exact location, but it's the same just as well. It's different now, though, now that she has lost everything and there is nothing more to gain. Unlike the times before, now there is no justice, no truth, no forgiveness, and no turning back.

This time, everything is gone.

Her god is dead and she cannot possibly live with that—the thought is unbearable. Going on living her hollow life, going on day to day carrying the burden of the thousand words they will never share…going on without him

The girl stares down at the city sidewalks, sick with the hundreds of empty dreams that in the end will mean nothing, praying for asphalt waves and preparing herself for the last plunge she is soon to take.

(What is she waiting for?)

Losing Light had been a fate worse than death, and had left her standing in front of a door with the path to nowhere. In the last moments of life, he had torn desperately at his heavens only to discover that he had built them too high, leaving them now out of his reach. He was destroyed by what made him God.

Her mind had walked away from her, then, all logical thought leaving her as though her mind was sold on the street for just a few pennies.

There was no longer any colour in her world, like a giant room with blank, white walls. Amid the ruins of her desecrated mind her body had been desperate enough to move without prior prompting, moving almost like an old wind-up toy that no longer works quite right, but just well enough to mirror what it had been made to do.

Unconsciously, the girl had climbed the steps, one at a time, reaching her hand to death like an old friend, a companion guiding her along a long-forgotten, well-remembered road. Like voices whispering in the attic it called out to her, spoke to her on the dying wind.

It will all be over soon.

Maybe death is the path to somewhere, and maybe it is nothing at all.

(But somehow, that's enough.)

She drops, then, and in that moment of terror and harmony and wonder all at once, she turns away from the long-abandoned weathered boxes where her memories were once tucked away. She is a falling star, now—fire falling without sound.

(Forever feels like falling…)

The end is in sight, has always been in sight, with death just a heartbeat away. Less, now, much less, and the girl is no longer anything but imperfections on display.

But the wheel that keeps this grey world turning never ceases.

(I used to be a puppet doll, but now I am the one pulling the strings.)

I've kind of had this idea for a long while, but had never before managed to get past the first paragraph. It's very angsty, obviously, and is sort of practice for a very complex oneshot about Wammy's House I'm planning to write as soon as I'm good enough at writing fanfiction of this nature to attempt it. Constructive criticism would definitely be appreciated, as are reviews. Feedback on this would be helpful. Thank you very much for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!

~Ratt Kazamata, 4/16/2012