Broken Images

They were just Broken Images standing before their own broken items. The window he looked out of was his way of getting out, her stories were the outlet she wrote.

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Everything was dark, pitch black.

Nothing moved, nothing made a sound.

There was no movement in the darkness.

This darkness was also known as death.

As they covered him in a body bag he prayed to be brought back.

He wanted to make things right again.

The only way to make things like this right again was for him to come back, angelically.

The way he went was not angelic, it was hell bound.

Who overdoses? 

People who feel hollow, people who feel like they need the alcohol to help fill them up. 

People who think being drunk, high, lifted can make them feel better. 

They do not think being sober is what helps.

People like these were the images carved into the blackness.

Nothing moved, nothing made a sound.

There was no noise in the darkness.

There is nothing to move, nothing to help him.

There is simply nothing in the darkness.

There is nothingness in death.

There is emptiness in hell.

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