Just a random short story

By the day, it will all be over.

The promised incandescence that dispelled the looming peril that lurked in the shadows is fading. The twilight sky, flourished in its wavy yet fainting rays of light, is getting overwhelmed by the desolate darkness that establishes a playground for the wicked or twisted intruders of the mind. The warmth that we seek has turned over, and the frigid winds are to blame. The warmth that we were promised has froze over, and now the icy chills of the winds shock our skin deep. This ethereal plain that stretches farther than any foresight any man may possess whispers. From the dunes, to the fleeting mirages, to the scavenging beasts that nocturnally roam, they whisper.  Whispers that no mind can shut or block out.

These whispers are new.  Often are barrages of demeaning insults and boisterous screams to be expected from this forsaken state, but these unrelenting beings do not stay put to their barbaric tactics. These beasts, opportunistic as they are, spot the blood stains on my ragged clothes, the moist cheeks on my face, and the flame in my eyes in conquering this twilight.
By the day, it will all be over, that was what I was promised.

My chest, with a gaping hole at where my heart once was, aches harder for every step I took. My body, falling into shock, flares up in numbing waves of dull pain, as if they are begging me to stop. My mind, shattered to glimmering fragments, is getting plagued by those whispers, those damn whispers, from the eyes from the distance. The day has dissipated away from my own hands, by my own hands, through my own hands, and I see no one else to pin the blame on.

What was suffering for, when it was for nothing? The essence of humanity? The determination to see light once more? The drive of life? Why do I toil when the fire in me dies out? What then can a man do, abandoned by the light of his life, to ease the pain.

My feet shuffled further into the desert, with a silence so deafening, with a burden so crippling, with a mind so disoriented.

By the day, it will all be over.
.
.
.
Will it be over?