Archive for the ‘The Changing Feyth’ Category
A body fell from the opening above me. It fell so fast there was no way to tell if it was living or dead. It crashed upon the stone floor, bones cracking and flesh splitting. And then another fell. And another. And another. And another until thirteen bodies had splattered across the floor in front of me—children, women, and men.
The carcasses then slid together, connecting at their heads: a sick star of mutilation. It rose. The bodies dangled like raggedy ornaments, every limb swaying without provocation as if some invisible thing were playing with it. Then the limbs all at once began to swing, lashing upon each other in an unsynchronized display. One by one the limbs stuck together; they melded and warped with their neighbors—clothing, flesh, bone, and all—creating a thick tarp of malformed carnage. Once this floating blanket was completed, it started to spin. As it spun, it stretched its hanging mass until all sagging elements elevated and flattened; blood danced from the strained, splintering wounds.
The unnerving conglomeration of flesh became a disc and rotated perpendicular to the floor; it spiraled its contents, sending them back and forth, back and forth, instantaneously between this place and another, exchanging elements, bridging worlds. Blackness opened; color digressed. Then color reemerged, more vivid, more plaguing, reaching out with stories of untold damnation and unconquerable agony. Sinister visions flashed before me and explosions filled with screaming resounded behind the portal of spinning bodies.
(Listen to the rest)
My greatest ally and most infernal enemy is time. It can change history and efface memories. It can create life and it can take it away. And to the immortal, time is the ultimate instrument of both plague—the uncanny curse of centuries of wisdom and knowledge and experience and pain—and revision—the gift of the possibility of perfection, relative, of course, to the individual who controls its direction. There are many rewards and follies of time, but it is these two that, existing as nemeses to each other, destroy any hope of blamelessness. Though I may strive for redemption, my guilt of acts past will always rest beside my heart. Each and every decision, whether selfless or selfish, shall hang above my head in a halo of eternal flames.
If I had lungs to scream beyond limitation, I would beg for the forgiveness of ages passed. If I had hands to number the devils of my years, I would sacrifice them to the lives I took and fiendishly displaced. My suffering can only end in death, but I cannot allow it to comfort me—I am undeserving; and if it came now, it would only be failure. I can only find redemption at the end of one path, and that is with the extinction of my race.
I will be victorious. I will finish what I have set out to accomplish. And though the odds of success have been unforgiving, I have marched forward effortlessly. There is something with me, something that has always been with me, and it is fighting for me, making my triumphs as easy as cleaning the blade-end of my whip. Perhaps this companion was that which changed me, or perhaps it has seen my mission and longed for nothing less than the very same outcome. And, perhaps I am its catalyst. If I am, I will be loyal unto the very end.
(Listen to the rest)
While others sleep, the feyth do not. While others dream beautiful and terrifying visions, the feyth always stir in the unrest of consciousness, never to experience the small pleasure of an escape or diluting respite. Memories, emotions, longings, regrets—they all linger in a swirling prison of chaos. All of them prance and prick endlessly, tirelessly. This is the mind of a feyth; this is my mind—every decision and every action remaining like bones in a grave.
Satisfaction is a curious element among the feyth. The significant damage of mental pain is always there. We may not scar, but we never heal, the open wounds scathing our insides. Each moment of breath is tinged with sadness or hatred or anger. This being one of the reasons why I chose to act and end the outrage of our plaguing existence. We are a disease among the living. I wish to be the cure.
I must be the blind dagger and efface myself to achieve the goal. My journey horrifyingly lives on.
(Listen to the rest)
I have turned against my brethren and entered a fate that cannot be altered. All that I have been taught—all that I have been trained for—is now the vessel of my retribution. My existence has become a granule glowing amongst the blackness of a lost world, and the life I once knew is but a tragedy of my decomposition. In prayer, I must believe I am capable to begin the movement towards the deliverance that will set light to the throne.
By the enlightenment and approval of my soul, I now speak these words into the heart of traveling winds, begging them to take this message into the ears of who would listen. The demand on my life is high, so there can be no hesitation; even doubt shall not be spared by the vengeance of my cause. I do not regret those things I have begun to do; I do not pride myself on their brutality or art, but I am sure of their importance. Though the pain and sorrow will always remain, I will carry out my task until I can no longer do so, or until it is completed; this is my burden and my burning promise.