Fragile hands drummed on a delicate surface, raising question towards the familiar beat. With hollow eyes and a firm heart, a question was more aimed towards the steady rate of his desperate heart rate.

However, this was only a result of his thoughts being more creative than normal. His mind provoked him constantly, even to the point where he could not get certain thoughts out of his head. At the current moment, it was about an intriguing kind of demise, seemingly unexpected and bittersweet. Yeah. That's what he was thinking of. A cliché kind of romantic-drama death.

The sounds of his tapping filtered through his ears, mingling with the whispers heard in the night and the fire crackling in a nearby fireplace. It all echoed in a baritone quality, rioting through his eager ears, like he was waiting for something different. Like he was waiting for something unpredictable.

He thought and thought, but could only observe the interesting perimeters surrounding his figure, or whatever was within the short distance of light that the fire allowed him to see. Little silhouettes of his breath caught his attention as they gathered and fell with every exhaling motion.

He imagined he was in a different world, a world of light, blinding light. In this mysterious world he was placed on a sidewalk, rough and harsh against his pale skin. The air was cold in this imaginary world, pulsing through his veins, prodding and pushing at his nerves with every insecure movement.

However then he tried to envision himself with no senses. No temperature easing through his skin. No noise entering his ears and no sights spoiling his eyes. There wasn't even a taste in his mouth to remind him he hadn't eaten, or a smell to remind him he should. Then he wondered, if you live in a world without senses, is it possible to feel emotion?

It was such an empty world.

His hands strummed offbeat, off-course, pulling him out of his imagination. If it weren't for his senses, would he have heard, seen, or felt this, or would he just know?

Suddenly, he decided it was time to kick life up a notch. He'd use his senses and make something out of himself that he'd remember. It was time to live a little harder.

He supposed it shouldn't matter if exclamation marks were overrated, that commas were to desperately placed, or even that periods were too hard to describe as the end of a thought. They just weren't strong enough to make a difference.

Sometimes, he supposed, victims are our greatest commandment, our greatest devotion, our greatest strength. Whether it's through writing, thinking, or acting upon it, there was always a victim, through discrimination or even romance. He'd learned this and hoped that no one else knew.

"Maybe we're just influenced by disaster,” his small voice chuckled. "Maybe we just can't find a place to hide it all, so it becomes the main focus of our sensuality."

Content with his feeble answer, he set out a more enchanting incision into his thoughts, deeper than his imagination. One to hopefully bring him out of insomnia, bring him out of sorrow, and give him a reason. He dug through the darkest part of his mind, and with his shaking hands he left a mark deep within his past, wanting to change it all.

But what if he had gone too far?

Ripping apart a few mental scars, he added to the pain of not feeling anything at all. He dealt with his memories unlike anyone else, or so he had figured. His technique consisted of destroying them from the inside out, and covering them up with his insecurities. This was definitely the path to developing disorders of any kind. The problems would eventually come through in their true colours, and they would inevitably show him what sinning really was.

Hoping with everything for this to work, he made his way over to his couch. Despite the springs sticking up through the cheap material, he grabbed a small pillow and a blanket. He hummed slightly, waiting for it to all take effect.

Entangled in his heartstrings he ended up whispering the night away. It was painstakingly beautiful, the way he trembled under the sandman's own quivering fingers, like he'd never slept before. Sacrificing himself to the ebony embrace around his eyelids, he feared the side effects of feeling.

Because if he was the victim, how could he be the hero too?