F-15 to F-18 for violence later on
Too long ago for words...or at least words that could express the agony suffered then...I lived...and died...fighting for something I cannot remember.
Act the First
I sit alone in this dark place, looking into the fireplace from the seat of a large chair. Around are books containing centuries-worth of knowlege and writings within their pages and ink. Above is a dome of glass, a portal to the sky, which pelts whatever beneath it with heavy torrents of rain and sleet. It is night, that much is certain, yet the clouds that herald the storm that brews within them swallow the moon and stars, making the sky a churning black.
Candles burn in the hallways leading to this room, making shadowous devils dance on the walls and materials lining their domains, laughing in the bleakness as they perform at their masquerades.
The flames reflect themselves in my eyes, which have the quality of a dead man's in their lost gleam and luster. They are now a hateful crimson, like dark pools of listless blood. My body does not ache, yet I bear the scars of an entire war in my flesh, an embroidery of carnage that reminds me of what I have done. But, for all the reminders on the page of this book of life that is my body I cannot remember how or why these are here. Remains of the surgeries that saved my life? Or tokens from God that He gave me for living past some unearthly event?
No matter.
They are here and they shall remain.
If I cannot be reminded of how they came to be, then I shall not ask the question for the same answer.
Rising from the seat, I douse the flames with a simple twist of a key. The devils hide themselves as my shadow swallows them in the candlelight. My steps are rushed, my strides wide apart.
The forces of the supernatural surround themselves around me as I push through the darkness of my domain. It is mine, not theirs, and I will keep it that way. They fear me as they trickle away like smoke does a gust of wind into corners and cracks, shunning my presence. They know why my scars dot the surface of my skin, yet they do not speak, do not answer my questions.
No matter.
They are here and they shall remain
If the shadows do not tell me of how my scars came to be, then I shall not ask the question for the same answer.
Dead Liberty
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