Harper had decided that happiness was out of his reach. Everything in life was darkness. No matter how much he tried to see the lighter side, when he closed his eyes for sleep — or even just for a second of peace – he was back there again. Feet slipping in the puddles, each dark as beet root and smelling of old copper. Walls spattered. Bits of matter he recognized, but wished he could not, stuck to the screen of the television. That fucking cartoon playing, with the annoying theme song he could never escape. It came to him on his drive to work, tortured his thoughts in the shower. He could see the corkboard still, faded and stained Polaroids held up by rusty tacks, each bearing the image of the angels that now lay slaughtered on the floor. It was a picture he did not want in his head any longer, and he knew, as he stepped onto the chair and reached out for the noose, that it would soon be gone.

Elements: happiness, beet root, angels, tacks, noose