Hard to wake up  

rm_shizki 32M
0 posts
1/2/2006 5:51 am

Last Read:
3/5/2006 9:27 pm

Hard to wake up


It's hard to wake up and realize that you are a cold-blooded murderer. Cold-blooded. That's the way it has to be, when you kill someone. Lots of someones. You have to be dead yourself, in a sense, so that all those deaths can't touch you. You have to be soulless. So that, after you wipe the blood from your sword and wash your scarlet-stained hands, you can continue. And you can sleep peacefully in the relief of oblivion, undisturbed by the razor-sharp blade of remorse that can kill, if not your body, then your sanity in an infinitely less-merciful manner than the deaths you have inflicted on others...
But the soul can't really die, it can only sleep, suspended in an icy cocoon, waiting to be reborn in all its terrible raw beauty; waiting for an unwitting spark to wake it and set it free so it can rage up, white hot, out of its frozen confines, burning through the numbness and...
You look up, wide-eyed and innocent. Sometimes, You can almost remember what it was like back when you were a boy, without a single drop of shed blood on your conscience. Full of righteous rage, ready to change the world... and too willing to kill your own soul for the sake of what you considered a greater cause.
Once the decision was made, it was easy. You buried your own soul far from the reaches of any human feeling. You became no longer human, but merely a tool. The instinctive will behind the sword and nothing more. No love, no hate, no desire.
You often wonder what cruel twist of fate, what laughing spirit, bestowed you with such deadly talent, only to then fling you through grim circumstance into the apprenticeship of the one arrogant mortal master who could teach you the skill required to perfect the art of inflicting death.
All you know is that your soul is now awake. It's awake and burning. The shattered remains of its frozen chrysalis lie in the dark depths of your mind, never melting, always there to remind you. And your sleep is no longer the obliviousness of the dead, but rather, full of slack faces. Wide, lifeless eyes. And rivers of blood.

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