( CW ) ( LAST SENTENCE ) And then he proceeded to lock the door , hoping that no one would ever open it again .

So my friend does n't have a reddit account so I'd thought I'd post his along with my own. 
 
 
 Mine: 
 
 
 “ You know? I used to love you. A lot. ” Giving a heavy sigh, Verity continued, “ We ’ ve gone through a lot together. And most of the time they were the good times. But now…. now you ’ re never here, and I think that ’ s my fault. ” Verity reached her hand out, hesitantly placing it on his jawline. 
 “ I ’ m really sorry, ” choking out the words now, “ I-I-I promi-ised to keep you at my side, b-b-but I failed you. ” Tears now streaming down her face. His face completely stoic and frozen. His body stuck in time, unmoving, seemingly dead. Verity now forcing her words out, “ I didn ’ t want-t-to give you up, but y-y-you bring back all the bad memories. ” 
 Verity turned to her side pulled a tissue out, wiped her tears and displayed a face of even greater sadness. Picking up the lid, “ I ’ m sorry it ’ s come to this, but I think it ’ s good bye. ” Placing the lid on top of the small box, she started to tear up again. She didn ’ t want to let go, she tried so hard to not close the box shut, but it was inevitable. She glanced back at the picture once more and then she proceeded to lock the door, hoping that no one would ever open it again. 
 
 
 Friend: 
 
 
 “ He ’ s coming, isn ’ t he. ” 
 
 
 The man didn ’ t answer. His eyes stared at nothing. His right hand -- black, black as sin -- opened and closed, slowly. Reflexively, 
 
 
 “ Not for years, ” he said finally, his voice hoarse from smoke. “ Not for many, many years. Maybe never. ” 
 
 
 “ Is that your hope? ” Laughter sounded, dark and malicious. “ That he never comes? ” 
 
 
 “ Sometimes. ” 
 
 
 Silence stretches in the empty room. 
 
 
 Finally, the man speaks again. “ Other times, I hope he comes. Soon. I hope he comes and kills me. ” 
 
 
 “ Him? The miserable wretch who crawled away from me in the flames? Hah. ” Grasping hands pulled at invisible prison bars, eyes aglow. “ He will die, slowly and painfully, as the world burns. I will kill you. I will kill you all. I will kill you all unless you set me free. ” 
 
 
 “ That doesn ’ t inspire me to grant you freedom, Hardensia. ” 
 
 
 “ I will burn you. ” 
 
 
 Slowly, painfully, the man settles back into the little corner between a stone pillar and a half-finished staircase. “ We shall see, I suppose. ” 
 
 
 “ Master! ” 
 
 
 The man stiffens. For the first time, emotion flares in his eyes. 
 
 
 The girl is young -- not even fifteen. She is as slender as a willow branch, with every bit of the grace and movement, radiating the same sense of fragility. It is a lie, of course; neither she nor the willow branch snap easily. 
 
 
 “ I saw you come in, ” she was saying excitedly, blue eyes warm. “ Your cloak was on the third staircase. It was burned. You -- ” 
 
 
 “ Leave. ” 
 
 
 The girl pulled up short. He has never spoken to her so sharply. “ Master? I -- ” 
 
 
 “ Turn around. Run. Now. Quickly. Faster than you ever have. ” He can feel the flames inside of him, roaring as they raged. He is nothing more than an ant, buffeted by the fiery winds of a volcano, fighting desperately to stop the unstoppable. “ If you value your life, my sanity, my soul -- run! ” 
 
 
 She does not run. She steps closer, tense excitement written openly on her face. “ He ’ s there, isn ’ t he? ” 
 
 
 “ Run. ” He is pleading with her now. “ Lyre. Run. ” 
 
 
 And then he groans. Snarls. Rage flickers across his face, but his hands are quick and sure, and he loops the chain around both of his hands and locks it tightly around the pillar, snapping the lock shut and deftly tossing the key across the floor. 
 
 
 And then he screams. 
 
 
 Lyre kneels in front of him, cautious despite her excitement. “ Hardensia. ” 
 The man ’ s eyes snap open. They are orange. He roars at her, mindless rage and fury, and she stumbles backward as waves of heat washes over her. 
 
 
 SET ME FREE. 
 
 
 His mouth moves, but it is not his voice. His voice is quiet and calm -- kind, even. This voice is violent in the most archaic sense, and she can not help but back away. 
 
 
 SET ME FREE, CHILD. SET ME FREE. SET -- ME -- FREE! 
 
 
 The chain is drawn tight, and the pillar shakes. The creature is straining against its bonds, furiously. Flames leap up around her, but the chamber is made of stone and water, so they flicker and die long before any harm can come to her. 
 
 
 And then the fit is over. He blinks, and his eyes are grey again, not fiery orange. They are cold, not hot. He doesn ’ t say anything. He simply stares at her. She meets his eyes at first, but when he does not look away, her gaze is forced down to the ground. 
 
 
 “ Look at me, Lyre. ” 
 
 
 Reluctantly, she looks at him. 
 
 
 The black hand clenches, and the chain snapped. He makes a careless gesture -- and the pillar snaps in two like a twig, collapsing behind him. 
 
 
 “ Strength isn ’ t borne of flame, ” he says quietly. 
 
 
 “ Then why are you the weak one? ” she challenges. 
 
 
 Something of the fire flares in his eyes, and the black hand lashes out unbidden. Lyre is caught completely by surprise, and it catches her in the chest, knocking her off of her feet and across the chamber. She turns to stare in utter shock, trembling a little. 
 
 
 She never trembles. Not since her father beat her when she was six years old and killed her mother in front of her. Not since she killed her father with a shard of glass so that she might never feel pain again. 
 
 
 “ Leave, ” he says simply. 
 
 
 “ I don ’ t want to, ” she whispers. 
 
 
 There is no fire in his eyes -- but the rage that rises in him dwarfs the flame. The flame is an ant to the dragon of this anger. Not a righteous anger, nor a mindless raging fury -- this is a terrible anger that stems from a terrible pain, vaster than the oceans and the skies. But his voice is quiet as he speaks. 
 
 
 “ You don ’ t want to leave Cylmar? ” the man asks quietly. “ Or you don ’ t want to leave Hardensia? ” 
 
 
 She doesn ’ t try to lie to him. Even though her name is Lyre, she does not lie to him. It is the greatest respect she is capable of giving. 
 
 “ I ’ m not wrong, am I. ” The pain is gone. There is only dull certainty, as absolute as fate. 
 
 
 “ No. ” 
 
 
 He nods, slowly. “ Leave, little Lyre, ” he says softly, his voice caressing her name sadly. “ Run away from the little man with his grey cloak and his black hand. 
 
 
 She nods, but there is no sadness in her eyes. Only calculation. 
 
 
 And he raises his hand, and the air trembles, and she is gone. 
 
 
 He walks forward, slowly and deliberately, to stand before the stone doors -- doors that once were white and trimmed with gold. Doors that once marked the portal into all that was noble and strong and good. Doors that now stood dull and dark beneath the ruins of a palace that had long since fallen. 
 
 
 He raises his hand, one more time, and with the black hand that is his greatest strength and greatest curse, gently tugged the door shut. 
 
 
 And he proceeded to lock the door, with chain and key, hoping -- praying -- that it would never open again. 

