His heart was spattered in rose petals, soft and sensitive. Vulnerable. He saw the world with cold, cold eyes. It wasn't that he did not care, it was that he cared too much in his heart. Only trapped in illusions with his mind, he fought blindly against the world. Sometimes, rarely, a sliver - he fought for it. His heart desired, his heart craved, his heart wanted love. But with a cursed mind, he imprisonned his sweet soul, and what was left? A charred spirit, bound in his own misery and sorrow.
Chris, he wanted the world. He wanted it in his hands, he wanted to hammer it into his own world. He wanted to be the one that would bring eternal hell to the world, perhaps nobody here believed in the power of their hearts. Perhaps nobody wanted to achieve a miraculous goal, words and thoughts were all that existed. Nobody pushed beyond their limits. But Chris, he wanted the world so much, beyond any person, anything, for it was love that drove him, he hated everyone so much, he hated them because he could not love anyone, it hurt too much when not one love filled his heart. He wanted to destory everyone, else make them crushed, make them like him. Unlovable beings.
Chris gained the power, it was always the heart that lends power, he had only to think the thought with all his might. On top of a mighty church tower, on the roof in the night. For darkness was what he loves, as lightning struck with melodious apparel to his ears, and the rain washed his fear way, the moon was just his army of the night - he wished and wished with all his might. He closed his eyes, believing with his heart that what he wanted would come true. The tower toppled, and he fell, but he would not open his eyes until all came about.
And down he fell, the air singing him to sleep for magic was gathering slowly. He landed on his back on to the ground laced with black roses, thorns pierced his body, the stench of the withered, decaying roses filled the air. And as a million thorns pricked him, his blood began to flow, he would have been dead, but then in his world, anything could happen. Soon the roses drank up his blood, and they become blood red, and he was dry, very dry. Gasping he wanted to get up, but he had no blood, was he dead? Calmly he watched as the blood roses drenched in his blood, began sucking it in for themselves.
Then quietly, he began to fall asleep as the air sang him asleep again. The roses began to flow with blood, but that of black blood. Dark and thick, it smelt of decay and death. The black, black blood began to enter his body through the thorn wounds, and he was now forever changed. The roses they decayed, they crumpled to the ground until not a trace could be seen. The air it carried the small molecules around the world, they changed the Earth. They destroyed the cities, they left their seeds, like poppies, and black roses choked people, they filled men's hearts with sorrow, anguish, it was just another Pandora's Box unleashed. Chris atop his throne of roses encased in the now scarred church, which was no longer a house of God, but the home of Satan - smiled gleefully, he was happy, he was filled with a sick joy. Everybody would be sorrowful, they would feel the deepest anguish trapped in their mind. He would control them, he would torture them with memories of their childhood, love, happiness, and pure joy.