The Emperor's New Clothes

Lee was left sapped of all his energy on the table.

He felt as if his brain was leaking out through his ears. He felt as if everything part of him had been taken apart, examined thoroughly, and then had all the pieces shoved back into each other, with almost no rhyme or reason, the bare minimum to assembling a human being, though Lee felt barely human in that moment at all.

Nothing about Lee felt real anymore. He wanted to rub his arms to make sure that they were still there, as Lee watched the sliver of his wrist relive every single injury that he had sought to hide from his mother and sister.

His hands held the splashes and stains of ink from faulty lessons that he had forced himself through to learn how to write properly in secret by hoarding the broken ink stones from the school, inevitably messing up with his amateur and too small hands. He had remembered the sinking pit of guilt whenever he had to enter the classroom while he hid which he studied in, every single day.

Everything about him had been laid bare, down onto the table, for the God of Secrets to read and consume at his leisure. Lee watched his blood pour out of his body, flying out from the wounds on his body, splashing down on the wood and swirling around, making the shapes of characters and words.

Lee clenched his eyes shut, trying to blot out everything that was happening to him, everything that was happening to his body. He could hear every roiling splotch, every viscous blob, and he could physically feel every single sound within his bones, within his remains of his brain.

The smell was worst still, a cloying, tangy iron that rose and waned at random and thick enough to choke Lee's throat, clotting it with the scent of death, and feeling solid within him, in a place which demanded clearness and flow.

It felt wrong, like the nature of life had been violated. The sanctity of the self had been flayed open and left stripped bare of dignity.

Everything about Lee had been ripped out from him and exposed. As if there was nothing left to him, and smaller, less than he was.

Every thought that Lee had hoarded to himself, every observation, every nook and cranny of himself, was now left out in the open to be scrutinised, gawked at, and laughed at.

And laugh did the God of Secrets, who lounged back in his seat, reclining contently like a particularly vicious cat that had just gotten its way.

He had the audacity to even fucking giggle slightly, before sliding out of his seat and leaving, pulling the privacy screen back slightly, displacing it and letting the view of the restaurant flow in, their hums of activity and life, displaying their tangibility and a small slice of their lives.

Lee was left there, partially hidden yet completely unnoticed, in the dark, completely alone, his blood laid down for his hands to potentially scoop up the droplets and pour them back into his body, if he wished, with the map of his life, underneath it all, leashing Lee to the path that he would now walk on.

Lee, despite the pain in his neck, despite the pain in his shoulders, despite the pain that rushed down his body, through every muscle, vein and nerve, he turned to look at what had been written. He turned to look at what was the eulogy of his life, and what the God of Secrets had seen of him, and what he believed that Lee could be.

The writing was flat and dark in colour, with the brush strokes thin and delicate, looking as if they would be disturbed at the slightest trial and hardship.

The words, Lee realised, pushing himself up, choking on his sobs and his screams and yells, were for him. They were as much a message, as a criticism. They were as much a hope as a brand of failure.

There was a sudden gust of wind from the window beside Lee, whipping up his hair and the blood on the table, looking as if it were a whirlpool made to defy gravity.

The clearness of the air invaded down into his throat, clearing it of the blood and making him clean, closing his wounds, and laying down a balm to heal, to sustain, and to nourish.

The blood which now flew, above Lee's head and high towards the ceiling of the restaurant, turned white like pure snow and paper, transforming into the petals of flowers, flew out from the room and into the sky, flying higher and higher, further and further away, up towards the heavens where the God of Secrets would hold them close in his own personal collection of stories.

Everything that had been stripped from Lee flew into the world, looking like a flock of doves, and beaming down at him below.

There was nothing left for Lee anymore. He could never return home. He had no past. Everything was now in the open, heavy but still flying out on the wind.

If anyone had managed to reach those scraps of Lee's life, before they had completed their journey, they would know of the pain that Lee had faced. If anyone had managed to reach those scraps of Lee's life, before they had completed their journey, they would know of the sins that Lee had committed. If anyone had managed to reach those scraps of Lee's life, before they had completed their journey, they would know of his isolation and his journey.

He no longer belonged to the will of the planet, but the heaven's itself, wherever it would take him.

And he felt light, calm, and felt that he was free to go, content, into the world, and ready to carry out the bidding of heaven, wherever it may take him.