Chapter Text
He is perfect, a masterpiece. His eyes are full of kindness, love and hope.
He is graceful and delicate, yet so, so strong. He is safe and warm.
He is perfect.
And a little wretched thing feels warm too, maybe for the first time in his short and miserable life. He feels the warmth taking root inside his useless battered body. And he wants to protect this feeling, nurture it, let it bloom into something grand and beautiful. He wants to offer it to the perfect being.
But it’s not enough.
Will it ever be enough?
If nothing else, he is willing to try. Because striving forward for Him is the only thing in his bleak and meaningless existence that even remotely feels like it would warrant a try.
He is going to give it a try.
He stares in wonder into those perfectly gentle eyes that for some unfathomable reason look back at him.
Not in disgust. Not in contempt.
They look back at him and he feels seen.
Right now he is not a cursed abomination.
He is someone, he matters and he wants to keep clinging to this overwhelmingly pleasant feeling he knows he wouldn't possibly be able to contain in his tiny and broken form.
But he is greedy. He wants more—how could he not when he realizes he has been starved for so long? But he knows, he knows this will not last. Nothing that feels this good could ever last. Not when things way simpler, way less pleasant ever do. And yet, in this moment, he is in awe and time stands still and nothing can take from him the overflowing joy he feels.
This is everything, He is everything and He is perfect.
----
He is everything.
And He is perfect.
And the little wretched thing tries. Oh he tries but he is so small. And the world is big, loud and deaf to the small things.
It tramples the worthless and frail under its heavy and careless steps.
It doesn’t listen.
Doesn’t care and doesn’t see.
Even his own damn body doesn’t listen and he is trying and trying and trying and...
It is not enough.
And the barely glowing embers of the warmth he has been holding onto seem to scatter, so easily, going out one by one until it breaks him and he asks
‘Why?’
He doesn’t expect anything. He never has, maybe since the very beginning, because he knows too well that the world is deaf to the small things.
But he is not getting anywhere, no matter how hard he pushes himself. He is just so damn tired and frustrated and his body is NOT LISTENING.
The warmth is about to disappear, maybe to be forever lost to him. The thought threatens to break something in him. He has been trying, he really has. And he is trying to hold on but...
But what?
He is venting and angry and disappointed and so so SO tired. And every damn day is a struggle against the impossible. And he is not so sure anymore how long he can keep going this way.
But then, there is something—a spark of something hopeful, lifting.
It gathers the scattered and barely glowing pieces together. It gives a reviving breath.
‘Take me as your reason’.
And oh, the warmth is rekindled and it reaches his limbs, barely, but surely. And it courses through his trembling body and oh, what was he thinking?
He cannot let this go.
He will not let it go.
This is the most precious thing.
How could he even consider letting it go.
It is seen and heard by Him.
And he will make damn sure he keeps on trying. Of course he will, he decided this a while ago. How could he forget?
He will keep holding on, he will keep trying. Why did he let the doubt settle in?
Even if everything wants to stand in his way, he will still keep going, just to spite the ugly beast of a world and those who play by its ugly rules.
Because He is everything that is good and He deserves everything good and he will NOT waste the precious gift He bestowed upon his wretched and undeserving self.
Because He is a gift.
A masterpiece.
And he is in awe.
And one day, he swears, he WILL be able to show his appreciation, his loyalty, his unwavering devotion.
The embers, still small, glow brighter than ever before.
For they have been blessed by the divine.
Devotion. Yes, that he can do.
----
He is perfect.
He is everything.
But something has shifted, hurtling towards a direction unknown.
There is a strange pressure in the air, a darkness gathering on the horizon, the smell of immediate rain.
A statue in His image is missing a piece.
He places a little white bloom to fill the empty space.
It’s not enough.
The flower will wilt and the hand will be empty again. But he tries. He will keep on trying.
The embers are glowing strong, even through the torrential downpour that arrives and threatens to drown everything it touches. But this time, this time the fuel is divine. Devotion has wrapped the warmth in a protective layer. Unbreakable. He has made sure, he will always make sure it stays like that.
Because He deserves everything that is good.
He replaces the flower. It doesn't matter how many times he has to. He knows it is not enough, but he will keep trying.
Nothing will keep him from trying.
For Him, he will give his everything.
----
Not enough.
Not nearly enough.
He is still too small, weak.
He is not worthy.
And the storm is closing in terrifyingly fast. He cannot outrun. Nobody can.
He is perfect.
Strong and resilient and so unbelievably kind.
He is everything.
But the storm is too massive, too suffocating, and no one is strong enough to put up a fight against such a monster of a thing. It brings along erosion so utterly devastating that no matter how perfect and strong and unbreakable something is, it is just not enough.
And enveloped in the raging storm, the world is even more blind and uncaring.
He tries.
He tries to pick up the shards that fall. They are broken, yet so precious. But he is still so small—a pathetic child that can not keep up. His too small hands cannot contain the increasing number of broken pieces of perfection that the storm relentlessly keeps chipping off.
He is not enough.
His frustration and ever-present anger stoke the still small but steady flames the embers have become, inside. His hands hurt and bleed as the precious jagged pieces he gathers cut into his skin.
But he holds on.
He will catch up.
He will put the pieces back together again.
No matter the cost.
Because He deserves everything good.
The storm rages on, relentless, leaving more and more broken shards of the ones inside in its wake. And the world remains blind and deaf in blissful ignorance.
He is not enough.
But he holds on.
He will keep trying.
He has to.
----
‘Little fly little fly’
He is not enough. He never will be. His body refuses to listen. When did it ever? Too weak. Stupid. Too easily broken. Useless. He is so angry. Pathetic. He has to hold on. How disappointing.
‘̵W̷a̸n̴t̸s̸ ̶t̶o̵ ̶b̷e̴ ̸a̴ ̸b̵u̴t̴t̵e̵r̷f̵l̷y̴’̸
He retches blood and he feels something grip his chin, tilting his head up. It hurts. His body is not listening. Why is it not listening? He has to hold on.
‘̶̪͍̀Ĺ̵̝͈̿̈́́̚͜i̵̧͕̰̺͋͋̔͊͗t̴̨͙̟̯̱͋̑͠t̶̫͔̱̑̏́̒l̴͇̅̆̃͑͆ẻ̶͚͕͍͌̈́̇ ̴̭͙̇̽̄͠ͅf̶̛̘̜̄̒̄l̵̞̄́͌y̴͖̙̽͋̕ ̷̖̫̼̌̈d̸͇̣̠̙̭͆͛͘ò̴͖̈́͒͑͝ń̶̻̩͙̻͓̏̑̈̚’̶͚͖́̃͜t̸͍̹̝̹͎̕ ̴͙̘̞̪̕ÿ̵͎̫̹́̌̀̎͝ò̴͓̜̤̝̆û̷̡̫̺̞̓̚̚ ̷̰͉̋k̸̖̊̋͊́ͅn̴̡̤̘͍̲̓̑ò̶̯͔̃w̷̞̩̳̾͘͝’̶̨̥͐
The noise, voice? Someone is singing. It might be just his ears ringing. Useless, useless. Not enough. Never enough.
‘̸̥͌T̵̳̍r̶͇͆u̶͇̎l̶͙̀y̴̼̕ ̵̞̓ḋ̵̮ō̶̰ ̷͎̄i̸̞͊ ̵̫̿p̷̝̉ì̸͍t̷̙́y̶̬͝ ̴̛̤y̸͙͋o̷̳͐ǘ̴͕’̷͓̑
He tries to open his eyes. This body is not listening. The noise is closer now, scratching, digging inside his skull. It hurts. Or maybe it’s the crackle of something foul burning somewhere close. I am something foul.
‘̴̛̣̤̰̼͌̃͊͝ͅY̴̡̼̜̗̒õ̷̳̹̝͉̞̏̎̌̐u̵͖̟͌̅̈́̃̌ ̴̜̟́̒̉̐w̴̻̞̳̋̑͂͘i̷̭̙͚̱̋̂l̷̫̿̑̓̏͑l̶̡̪̦̉̃̋͘ ̴̧̙̲̘̍̎͗͆n̴̤̞͐̚e̶̗͗ͅv̵̡̯̊̈́ȇ̶̢͖̬̅͗̃͝r̷̢̺͉͊̐ ̷͔̭̰̀̂͗r̵͇̮̂̒̈́͗͠e̸̡̪͔̰̽̅a̷̩̳̦̓͒̅̚͝c̷̯̳̹͝ḫ̵̡̱̞͝ ̷̞̯̈̑͝͝t̷͔͗͆̕h̷̩̰̜́̀̀͘è̷̦͇̂ ̴̩̭͇̋͝s̶̬͕͈̬̫̽̓̚k̶̛̥̏y̷̩̲̙͈̎̿͐͝ͅ’̵̦̺̏̈́̆ͅ
It’s distorted. He can’t see. He can’t breathe. His heart tries. It's not enough. There is only pain. He tries to grip a half-crushed white flower, still beautiful in it's ruined state, with his last remaining strength and unbroken fingers. One last time, for Him.
‘̛͖͉͊E͔̘̍͌̇͊̿ą̜̘̱̥̌̀ͪ́̋̉ͦ͌ͩͫ̀̚͘͜t̥̀͆̀̅́i̻̥̗̩̖͓͚͖ͩ̍̐ͭͫ͑̓ͮ͟ņ̝̂̈́̈́g͈͚̖͊̿_̷̝̼̯̗̂̂ͨ̆ͭ̏͒̆́̀ͦ͐ͩ͘̚͢͠ ć̵̨̨̘̝̞̬͚ͩͦ̄͐̾̉̇͘_͚̻̦̽ͦ̆ͅò̸̸̵̸̢̧̱͎̺̲̗͙̣̟̝̖͔̗͆ͧ̃̉̔̓̅̓̕͟͟ŕ̶̵̨̧͚̯͚͈̤̠̟͚̪̰͎̬͇̦̳̫̮̩̹͎̝͎͙̱ͯͣ͂ͣ̋̀͐͛ͫ̀ͩ̔ͨ̅͝͡͠p̵̸̹̤̺̦͍̭̣̫͈̞͍͓͓̃ͭ̌͑ͯ̄̓̀͆̆̈́̾ͬͫ͋͑ͥ̒ͨ͑ͤ͘͞͡_s̷̷̞̺̖̺̙̻̐̇ͤ̔͛͐ͣ͌̋́̎͋͑̿ͨ͘͢ͅ_̠̹͇͉́͐_͚̘̺_̯̼͔̜e̶̶͖͇͉̜̘͖̠̿͂ͨͦ̄͒ͤ_̨̨͉̱̬͖̼͍̣͉ͧ̂̾ͧ̚͠s̘̺͖̫̜ͦͭ̄͘ t̢̘̝̪̰͚̄̆̃ͪ̕̚ͅi̋͒̀_̴̡̨̨̪̙̤͜_̨̡̹̰̘͖̜̠̳̻̦̠͈̣͌ͥͮ͗̂ͨ͗ͨͥ̽͒͑́̈̇̎ͅl̵̴̲͉̙̼̠̤̩͖̼̺̟̤̲͈̑̉̃ͥ́͐̽̈́̋̇̋ͪ͊͗̾̕͢͝ y̴̸̵̴̡͕͎̯͈̰̯̺͇͕͙̬̗̺̣̘͚̞̪̘̳͚̓̈ͦ̅̌̐ͭ̏̿ͤ́ͯ̿̍̕͜͡͡ͅȯ̡̩͈̱̠͚̺͚̙͐̀ͯͯ̑̀̌͂̑̒́̚͡ư̗͜ d̶̴͚̗͕͛̽͌̔̏̄̍ȉ̛̬̼̩͖̼͐ͧͥ͐ę̸̷̷̧̨̢̨̼̗̙͖̘̠̺̲̭͇̖̗̍̅̂̊͒̊̓ͬͨ̈̌ͭͭ͂̚͟͜͟͞’̷̩́͢͜
It whispers, and the words crawl and squirm inside his fading existence as the thing lets go of his chin.
Rain falls. He falls.
He is blind and deaf and broken beyond repair.
But the fire inside is strong. His consciousness fades but his devotion holds on. And the ever-present anger stirs, constructing a tether as it whispers promises of something more.
It’s not enough.
It’s not nearly enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
It's not enough.
I am not enough.
Not yet.