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The newly fallen snow was as white as milk. Crunch. Crunch Crunch, it sounded as people created an uncountable number of footprints in it. It was odd, a sudden peace lay over the snow as if to comfort the poor and lull them into eternal sleep. The lights weren’t shining, in fact they had stopped working a long time ago, and nobody had ever bothered to fix them. The poor lined the side streets, much like rats in the sewer. The moonlight was reflected off of all the closed windows and giving the street a ghostly feeling. The first of August. The date doesn’t matter, but its a nice detail. Hénry Lémanche was wandering the aforementioned street. It was, at the time completely deserted. Except for Hénry. The single thing on his mind was life. What did it mean? Whaat followed? Was he simply a puppet in a power-crazed gods scheme? What happened to those who disobeyed the orders given? All of these questions whirled around Hénry’s head like a whirlpool. His head was a scratched up, torn up whirlpool. He reached the bridge. It was a large bridge spanning several meters over a lake without a name. As he fastened the noose he thought about what he was doing. Killing himself wouldn’t resolve anything, it would simply make matters worse for the people close to him. But it would however relieve him of the voices and questions swimming around the whirlpool. The next day. A scream was heard, then pain came. And thereafter silence. Eternal silence. | ||||||||||||||
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