I don’t really know what it is with me and writing short stories lately, but I can’t
heart-rending. I would expound the meaning here, but I’m not entirely sure I even
understand it, so I’ll let it speak for itself. Thanks for reading.
Torch McFallon stood on the brink of a
ruined world. Only he could see its
devastation. To all other eyes it was a
utopia. Equality reigned supreme, quarrels were nothing more than things read about
in dusty old books, negative emotions had long since departed, along with feelings of
any kind. All was still, all was calm, but not peaceful. They all lived on, living forms of
destruction, yet too numb to notice.
The tragedy which Torch alone could see was that for the sake of equality they
had lost their excellence. For the sake of security they had surrendered their
freedom and their humanity with it. The pursuit of perfection had led to a sacrifice of
beauty. All was grey, all was silent. They consoled themselves for the loss of their
happiness by remembering that at least they could never again be unhappy.
Torch was not like them. He was unhappy, he was ugly, he was imperfect. But he
was free, he was able to feel, he at least knew what happiness was, and best of all, he
was human. He was alone, but at least he knew what friendship meant. He did not
have much life left in him, but at least he knew what it meant to be alive.
Torch knew that he was not brave, but he also knew that he was the only one left
who knew what bravery meant, and that alone was enough to keep him standing.
And there he stood, alone on the city wall. Below him lay the abyss on one side, and
the unknown on the other. His green tartan, as faded and darkened as it was, blazed
in vibrant colour against the lonely grey world.
He drew out his violin and brought forth one long, sorrowful note. Suddenly the
silent, clockwork movement of those beneath him halted, consumed in deafening
silence. The perfect, emotionless eyes moved as one, attracted to the voice of the
Torch played on, confronting them with beauty. The wave of sound broke upon
darkened minds, painfully reminding them what they had surrendered. The music
broke what remained of their hearts, and showed them that they had lost their
Torch McFallon’s final song was unlike any that had gone before it, and there shall
never be another like it. Such glorious imperfection, majesty, and audacity, mingled
with sorrow and hopelessness. Yet the beauty was too much for their twisted souls to
bear. So they rose up, all with one accord, and they killed him.
Torch’s light went out, the music stopped, the violin fell. Then one man wept.
Then another, then another, until they realized the horror of what they had done. As
the tears fell from their eyes, they thanked Torch McFallon, for his sacrifice had
made them human again.