Tales of Stakes and the Heart - by Mannytheplaywright

This is the story of a man that died. He was stabbed seven times. Not the same knife, not the same murderer, but the same body part, and the heart. The first stab.The first time his heart was ever at stake. It was either the stabber's betrayal or his delusional thoughts, he couldn't tell. Blood spilled, Hope became hopeless, but redemption began with the second. The second stab.The wound of the first remained as he laid there, breathing and bleeding.A flicker of light shone through his dark fogged mind.He believed to be rescued was fate, his heart couldn't welcome help. What could have been fate became a facade. Anytime hope tried to reach him, the wound only cut deeper. The third stab.Fate seemed faithful this time. Hope as bright as the morning sun. He felt the wind seeping through the holes in his heart and inflating his lungs, He felt the heat of the morning's sun and the evening's dusk.Nothing has changed, he laid there remembering even after sparks of match sticks. The fourth stab.He began to rot, he smelt his own decay.The flies that perched have birth offsprings in his abdomen, the maggots began to dig into his intestines.He could only feel his hands on dry grass, as he squeezed the autumn leaves they shattered.He began to think of himself as the stench of this world, a necessity, to remind the living of the woe we inflicted ourselves. The fifth stab.As he laid in his egoistic rot and fatal odour, he heard movements from the tall grass. The wild dogs have come to eat of his rotten flesh.They took his legs with collective aggression and a mix of agitation amongst themselves.They ate, were not filled, but ate and left his bones to not be buried.He saw them, he watched them, his ego quenched, he was rendered powerless. The sixth stab.The maggots have gotten to his head, they had gotten to his brain.His memories became foggy, he felt pain, then numbness, then anger, then disgust, hate, hope, euphoria, depression.He couldn't think, he couldn't feel, but could only act.So he raised his hands to his face and saw them. He used them to cover his eyes with the little strength had left.He couldn't watch the sky anymore, it'd only show him what he had become. The seven stab.He laid there, the spring grass began to grow between his bones, the soil began to engulf him.He was, laid, silent, no thought, nothing.He might've found peace in this chaos I thought, but I only watched. I saw the stab, the lights he saw, the holes in his heart, the flies and maggots, the wild dogs, his hands over his face, as he died, decayed, and only his bones remained. I guess there's nothing more to say. Only that the world stabbed, he watched himself rot, and die.

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