The most beautiful blooms will always someday wither and die, dry or be ripped apart by nature. She sat by the window, staring into the distance. Reminiscing. Reliving. Memories. Screams of terror. How could her best friend become such a thing? Her gentle best friend, the one who love those blooms, had become a broken, ragged doll, destroyed by the world he was 'destined' to save. No prophesy mattered. All that was left was an abandoned, dry husk of what he was once. She sat helplessly as a black haired figure strolled up to her rose, only to start ripping at them. "Not so beautiful anymore" he snarled at the haggard, helpless bodies of the blooms. "No, it only adds to their wretched beauty" he stated, licking his lips. These flowers were once his friends. They'd surely turn on him like the others had done.


She was only met with the frosty, hardened emerald, mistrustful of the world.

She couldn't take it anymore, and broke down crying, left with the sounds of his foot steps growing fainter.

I cry quietly outside his door as he destroys his room. His fury at the world that abandoned him once his usefulness had been up. They left him as an empty husk. My best friend, who should've been loved and cherished had been tossed aside like a rag doll. Rejected and hated. Seen as useless. He raged some days, but mostly stayed quiet, unblinking, reliving memories. The most hardened war veterans would've been in the psychiatric ward, yet he was discarded and labeled as a threat. He changed.

I want my best friend back.

He'd started to become calmer. She could only let him self heal, get over what they'd done alone. No one could experience what he'd gone through. She could only be a constant presence in his life. To support him quietly. She'd help her best friend heal, no matter how long it'd take.