So Bitter, No Sweet

The candles burned low and bright, but they did nothing to illuminate the dark, dismal tomb. The dust danced through what little light that wasn't swallowed by the void. 

The monster huddled in the middle of the lightless void, sniffling and crying. Crying, certainly. The monster was not stone cold. Not like the others. This one was not always a monster. 

It wasn't a man. The monster was too deceptive. It was cunning, wicked, heartless. But it cried. Cried at every corner. Say what man will, but this monster had feelings. Never will one know. This monster is too rejected. 

Rock hard, stone cold. Feather soft, baby weak. So fragile, so light. Hummingbird flight, feathery brisk, yet rock solid ice splinters. 

The monster looked up at the roof of the tomb where it had been left to rot, broken, torn, scattered. It opened bright blue eyes. Innocent baby eyes. 

And thus the monster let forth a wailing cry as the tomb was flooded with moonlight. At the newly opened entrance a reaper dressed in all black loomed. "Come." He hissed, whispered, and yelled all at once. The monster let out a cry of torture as it was hauled to its delicate clawed feet. 

It was to be broken again, the monster. It did not want to understand the hurt of deceit once more. But that was unavoidable. The monster had but one name, too often spoken. 

"Come, Trust, you will be shattered again soon."

And the candles went out.