Continuation of Oedipus the King
What remained of his eye was slathered all over his hand. It oozed out from betwixt clenched fingers, dripping a milky trail unto the barren earth. Blood poured ceaselessly from his eye socket, trails of crimson and carmine running together to smear a reddened mask along his face. Had he been able to feel, Oedipus would have been in great agony. But alas, he was numb. He fled. Into the desert, into forgiving nothingness. The skyline of Thebes had long since faded behind him, sinking into the horizon until it lost all definitive shape. Yet he stumbled onwards, the only pervasive thought on his mind relentlessly tugging him away . All he had to his name were the grimy clothes on his back and a fate fit for the cruelest, crudest of men. He had lost his kingdom, his daughters, his honor. What did one have if he had lost even his honor and valor? And so he did all that one could in his position: he ran. Death was preferable. Indeed, it was the desire for dea...