We open scene on shattered glass cracks run the structure like a fragile web. To gaze at such a broken window is to look at the failure of this world, the traversity and perversion of humam existance. It is the ones that try and remedy these unfixable scars that capture the imagination to so many. All of the world feals it is in need of someone to say that this society is not the end game of where we live. But perhaps we are not drawn to this fractured scene because of the metaphore it wields to the mind. Maybe we are drawn to the cause of the fracture, what error has befallen the world upon this night?
So as we look down we search for the source of such a jagged reflection, that source being a bullet. A small piece of copper that had burrowed its way into this glass like a filthy creature. Perhaps this is also a metaphore for the one who squeezed the triger, maybe the animal most repulsive is the one claiming to be the smartest. Or maybe its not the bullet which apeals to us, maybe it is the reflection this shattered window serves as the canvas for. Ultra stylized violence having become so common maybe the eye just wishes to be ensnared by the next macabre scene. The scene of this night however is not like any other in the world, how it differs however remains to be properly imagined.
Behind this broken window is a standard room of a teenage girl not finding herself struck by the way of poverty or hardship. Neon like paint makes the walls vibrant testifying of the stylization of the woman. Posters of pretty stars and bands line the walls blocking off much of the agitating but apealing colors. It is a collage of peaceful life, though one could argue that its not quite silent. Along the myriad of stylized posters and luminous walls two things stand out like a sore thumb. On the dresser with a chair near by, old beautiful wood has lost its once glorious shine replaced by various paintings and murals. Like alot of artistic teens this girl had gone out of her way to make this item hers having spraypainted it in atleast a dozen ways. On its top one can find many drawings, some full and complete capturing the mind with a story never really there to be told. Things like an abstract art inspired by H.R Giger that even though it doesn't portray something directly the eye sees something horrific yet apealing. Or maybe the eye is drawn to the images of fantastic landscapes that look spawned straight from the creative writings of J.R.R Tolkien. One can find images of deception of the mind, of beauty to the visual senses and characters and designs that scream to be home to something.
These murals of wonder are not blown around by the fan they are held down by something. One of the most telling things of this teen, its nothing out of the ordinary really. It is not some anchient sword of a forfathher, not a amulet of a magical grandparent, just a humble instrument. A cordless electric guitar, its clearly the second most expensive thing in the room. And a keen eye could tell that its designed of rare metals and ivory. Designed and polished to a almost magical perfection. A talented eye could also tell it was crafted and tuned to perfection to ring clear as a choir bell. Granted its customization tells that its not seen a rich melody its origin is in the hardcore rifts and playing sessions. An instrument of rock crafted by a teen living up to the melodies of the bands along the walls. Carved with skillful cautious precision into the ivory is a image of a warewolf a monster thats also containg a feminine beauty. Its clawed hand seems off page in a fluid motion though one can easily make out it was holding a rifle of some kind. From the gun is a trio of hollow shell casings with the faintest trail of smoke. The image blending beauty with horror is done in the grey scale blending in with its rich fabrication. The most unsettling thing of it however is the wolves eyes, that seem empty as the shells.
Following the imagery along guitar and dresser one comes across the most priceless of things in the room. For their is nothing worth more then life, the owner of this pop culture room. Whos hands have crafted images that ensare the mind. Who clearly had a loving affinity for music and a dream for a career in such. She lays along the dresser deffeated and broken, her blond and black hair is a mess hanging down to her shoulders looking rustled and matted. Her clothing is torn nothing clear what was done though what the mind precives is likely true. She is clearly the victem of something no soul should bare her eyes look as if they were desperate to cry, wide with terror and yet something says she could not. No drops ran along her face, no smeared stains marked their presence. Her chest does not move no breath escapes her lips, is she dead? What is it that makes this feal so off, what is a miss?
Above a jade eye is a bullet hole, a entry that clearly had gone straight through. Looking upon such a wound you might imagine blood runing free as if tears of a broken soul. This is not the case however, no blood flows from the wound. It is simply black, like the darkness found in a empty jar. Much like the window we entered on cracks seem to line the young ravaged teens forhead. Like a porceline doll when broken, young beauty marred by the human world. The lights from the hallway and outside cast a strange portrait along her soft skin. And an eye twitches, followed by a gasping scream that crawls along ones spine. The kind that escapes into the ears of the sleeping and floods the mind with nightmares. A cry that shakes ones bones in the most traumatizing way.
Two minutes passed by of screaming another two of panting. And yet for her those pair of minutes fealt like entire life times. It was all a must to cope with the memories that filled her mind. Before even stepping through the house she was entirely aware this was a night never ment to be. Something she would never want to remember and yet knew she could not escape. No tear ducts escaped her eyes but she wished so desperately she could drown in tears shed. This was the straw that had broken her back, the thing that pushed her over the ledge. How is this so you ask? Thats a question that will be answered soon as she remembers everything that happend. In a way it was like dying, her life flashing before her eyes in seconds. But of course she was not dead there was something very perplexing of life when it came to her.
She was orphaned at a young age her mother victem of lycanthropy. It happend when she was five years old. The claws had sanken to a point that she could see the ribs of her mother. And knowing of what it ment, mom fled never to be seen again. Mom and grandma had always said the family was cursed, really she never believed it not untill now. Upon the death of mom her father commited suicide, having taken a variety of pills. It was almost peaceful in design, and for a second she wanted to follow now. That however would never be, as fortold by the hole within in her head she was not like others. Mom and dad gone she was taken from her home to be in a orphanage, and yet she never broke. It was painful but something in her told her to just keep going. Tragedies befell friends as well as she spent the next three years in that home. And yet it never got to her, it was as if in the corner of her mind a voice said "better them then me" or "theyve gone somewhere beter don't weep for their passing." Never had she cried or been defeated by life, now all she fealt was as if she was no diffrent then the glass and its spindly fractures.
For the next nine years she had been with this loving family, at first it was forged of sorrow and mercy. They had been told the story and fealt for the girl. And for the first time now the artist thought maybe they should have never tooken an affection to her. It was within a year however that her family realized sympathy wasn't what the blond needed. Just to be nurtured and encouraged, she was unbreakable pain wasn't what to feel for her. However in those nine years, friends, family members, pets they all died. She never seemed to get sick, they all knew something was diffrent. Flawed was the core of this otherwise seemingly perfect life style. Then flash forward to this night, it had no reason or cause and yet it came to pass. And not able to weep, not able to break down in a physical way the emotionaly shattered teen struggled to her feet finding herself again the victem. Victem to an emotion she had never really fealt before, another one to be precise.
Going across using the railing to keep herself erect she passed by her adopted parents room. It was torn apart plucked of everything of clear value but nobody was there. And so she moves to her little sisters room, and for the second time she felt as if her heart should have stoped. But the drum of life was not in the chest of the teen. Her emotional state became undone, it seemed weeker then the most britle of things and yet she couldn't be broken. With fumbling shaking feet she makes her way down the stairs to find them ransacked like the rooms. Something catches her foot and she falls, her young grass hued eyes finding the next to haunt her.
He had given her the gifts to explore her artistic talent he had always helped push her indomidable will that now fealt like a slave. His head was missing atleast a half was. Haunting sights of unreal visions seemed to redecorate the wall. She knew that it was just smears but it was as if her eyes were morphing the stains into ghosts. Back resting against the walls she can feal her small arms ball up tighter then any vice. For the first time she feals fear and dread, their is a pull to stay against this wall. To venture no further, she would do any stunt and dare never afraid of a broken bone or failure. Always able to pick herself up and yet she fealt so much that she shouldn't go any further. A voice at the edge of her traumatized mind however said she must. Maybe her world wasn't over, if she survived perhaps someone else did as well?
Deceived was she to have done so, crawling on all fours not able to rise to her feet she goes more to the front door. A black stilleto is seen her mothers from a date with her father earlier. In a clumsy action she tries to race to her mother. Where her atire was a torn mess sugesting what had been done her mothers was not so fortunate. The sight of flesh going pale and entering the stages of decay made it clear. Torn and discarded clothing making it oh so evident. Red tears ran down her mothers face, tears that should of been hers. The hole squishy and real, a soft hand going to her own wound. She wasn't the same it was the hymn of the night and it made her unraveled. No longer fealing the indistructible rockstar she was. Her mom had encouraged music, spent a fortune on a guitar that made her eyes gleam once. But now that inspiration was gone, slain in a way she should have been. The sounds of a cry from one who physicaly can not echo through the home. A haunting chorus that attracts a man at the door that was on the phone.
She never heard what he said, never saw how he was dressed or looked. Of those who had made a illegal celebration of the house he was the face she knew. The portrait of the man who had taken something from her that allowed her to break. Her body was never ment to bare that the scene around her fadded away. Fadded to black suroundings meaning nothing to her, she charged at him. A flash is seen but she feels nothing and her small frame slams the man into the door. Wood erupts like a mirror being hit with a sledgehammer. A replication of the teenagers world, and as the two fall fists flail. Scoop up wood and slam it down like javelins. She has discovered the fealing of rage, and she lashes like an animal. Pummeling stabing scratching with a scream silent as death. Her hands become caked with blood from the outburst and when she halts it is the end of everything she knows.
There is no family, no friends, no home, and she has done the unthinkable. She is reminded of a drawing of hers inspired by a writer and a line in one of his books. "Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment." And with that thought Sarina Valentine goes to change her clothes, grabs her guitar. And she runs......