IN CHARACTER and also found in Deak_Frost's journal. (My other account)
PART I:
PART I:
A noble art. An endless cycle. Good and bad, no chance for grey areas in between the absolute truths that establish who is the victor and who is not. A decisive answer, a solution built upon the bloodied fields left behind. This is the art of war. Valiant men marching off to battle, emblazoned with the symbol of their faith, to die by that same symbol with the bitter realization that there is no hope. Faith is a lie fed to the masses to convince them of the truth of their perversion. Anyone who says war is not a perversion of the human psyche had not sat among his fellows under skies that rained red with the blood spent for a cause they don't believe in. Perhaps, I've been there to often. I've watched the little hope each man carried within his breast seize up and die. I watched it flee mere moments before their soul abandoned the shell of their body as it crumpled with slow motion to the cracked and torn earth below it. Someone once asked me what happened to a soul when it died. I didn't know what to say, the truth according to me wasn't what they wanted to hear. So I lied. Vile presumptions spoon fed by a self interested clergy. "They go to heaven," I croaked out between burnt and split lips. The words stung like salt to the weeping wounds. I didn't believe it anymore then they did but for an instant, I was able to bring to them the peace I'd denied so others.
Some say that death comes on silent feet, the fall foots mere echoes of the dying screams in its wake. Ever wonder what it was like to be called Death? To know that those staring up at you in horror see their own demise reflected in the soulless eyes staring back at them with empty regard for their dreams and hopes? Pray you never understand the way it rips at your soul, each name upon their lips as they feebly try to stop the inevitability of death another piece of the innocence you never had. I stayed awake to many nights reminiscing about names I'd never know, faces I'd never seen but people I knew more about that I wanted, or cared to. Guilt crashing down upon me for snuffing out the flame of the one they waited for, but guilt was an emotion I had no use for and so it was easily discarded. Shed like a lice ridden blanket taken up by the needy. Let others concern themselves with being a humanitarian. I am the harbinger of doom. Death's silent feet. A silencer attached to the end of a gun when you least expect it.
Be wary of the damned for they have the least to lose but the most to hope for. I haven't always been damed, at least I used to think so. Now, sitting here as I feel the last wisps of the night's cigarette escaping between my lips, I wonder. Was my innocence as fleeting at the smoke drifting on the stale breeze that stirred the scent of death up around me? Perhaps. Will I ever know? Probably not. There will be no pearly gates for me. The depths of hell, the darkness seizing at man's heart isn't deep enough to hide the atrocities I've committed. They glare bright from the inner conscious of my mind, a silent movie always playing behind my eyelids. Ghosts of past sins dance before me, taunting me with with their silence when I'd give anything to hear the agonized screams once more. Give validity to the hallucinations of an old man's mind in the midsts of the night. It is not to be though. I have chosen my existence. From the moment I held the weight of a sword within my hand, I chose. A life heavy with the burden of my compatriots, the blood of innocent and guilty alike staining the pale appendages as red as the pommel of my sword.
I've lived a life, rife with the promise of reward, but only to late does this mind now realize material reward will fade. Glory will recede to the dusty pages of books when those who knew me have died. My name, once whispered only in the glare of bright sun will turn to shadows and dissipate, no longer the monster in the dark to scare children into sleep. I'll be Death's b***h. Its my niche in the world, and I obey its whim knowing that my time will come and I too will pass with prideful solemnity into the void. Or, more then likely I will die as I lived. Fighting, hand interlaced with Death's even as I deny it that last faithful kiss. There should be honor in dying. Its what I've always believed to be the sole truth, my only code, the only love I've ever stayed faithful to. Its the vengeful prude, the virgin in the midsts that shies away from the last intimacy between myself and Death.
