The Wicked

No one mourns them. No one cries they won't return. No one lays a lily on their grave. The good man scorns them.
Their lives are lonely. They die alone.
After all, no one mourns the wicked.

Nobody missed me. Nobody knelt beside me in my last moment, or held my hand as death stole over me and wrapped its cold fingers over my heart. There was nobody there to comfort me in my last moments, to soothe my cries and hold me close as my blood drained away in the rain. Nobody tried to save me, nobody fought to bring me back or begged the gods to spare my life. There were no tears to mingle with the blood on my brow, no last words of love whispered in my ear, no fierce sobbing to remind me that I would be missed. No, I wouldn't be missed, because there was no one to miss me.

Nobody cast me so much has a second glance. As I lay dying, nobody saw the pain in my eyes, or heard me crying for mercy in the dark. And how I cried. I screamed as if I were possessed, crying aloud for someone to come to my aid and relieve me. I thought they would come, you know. I thought I mattered to them. I thought they would care. I thought they loved me.

How wrong I was. I had served my purpose, and now I didn't matter anymore. I was like a broken tool, or a lame horse, or a dog that's missing a paw. I had done what they wanted, and now I was nothing but a useless wretch to be tossed aside and forgotten about.  I had mattered once. Once I had been a favourite, a best friend, a confidant, a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, a grin they loved to see, quick feet to dance beside them, a voice to laugh, sing, cry and comiserate. A heart that beat beside them, even in the darkest hours.

 I was their friend.

That was what I thought, as I lay there watching the blood drain away between my fingers. I thought they would come for me now, ready to fight and defend me as I had done for them so many times. I had called their names in the dark, over and over, uselessly, wistlessly. But all that answered me were the taunting echoes that mocked me as realisation smacked me in the face with a clawed hand. They wouldn't come for me. They didn't care.

They had abandoned me. They had what they wanted from me, and now they wanted nothing more to do with me. I could have been a fly for all they cared. They wouldn't be the ones who lifted my limp body from the ground, or stood by as I was laid in the earth. None of them would lay a lily by my headstone, or stand up and tell everyone that I would be missed. Nobody would shed a tear at my loss.

I died in agony.

I died friendless.

I died alone.

I died the death I deserved. Or at least, that was what the world thought.

Nobody mourns the wicked, after all.

The End

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