The Secret Sway

A perspective, that is all.


The Secret Sway

I've seen you tread
to this tune before,
a sprawling waltz
that spins you
'round and 'round
as your mind
remains stagnant
on one thing alone.
Yet,
I must wonder
if, as you prance
about the dance floor,
you've forgotten
that a partner is required
for all your frolicking.

Again and again,
you call his name,
but in a whisper,
so quiet and secret
that even you
can hardly hear it.
You seem so proud
of the words you proclaim,
so why hide them
behind guises and song?

Show him the you
I knew long ago,
and surely we can start
the music once more
for a sweeping strut,
the two of you
so enthralled in the steps
that you hardly remember
a time beyond here and now.

I just don't want to see you
try and dip yourself
with no one to hold you up.

And One More Thing...

Here is the first bit of the chapters I've been asked to write for a charity novel, whom my friend, Daz, is setting up. I don't expect ya'll to necessarily understand all of the context, as these chapters come into play late in the game, but all the same, thought ya'll might appreciate some posts. Again, any and all feedback is appreciated!

Journal Entry #__

                As I write, I take a gasp of fresh air in. Why does the world seem… lighter?

                For the longest time, I’ve felt my problems crashing into me again and again, and I’ve half expected one of them to be the death of me. But, at last, I’ve met someone who understands me, sees me for who I am. Lucy… writing her very name gives me a feeling of warmth. Is this… hope, perhaps? … I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this before. When I feel lonely or unsure, I sometimes hear her voice calling out to me repeatedly. It’s comforting in moments of coldness and fear.

                I’m thinking of clipping my nails. A big step, I know. But I’m hesitant because they feel so… me. So natural. I dunno. Maybe this is me growing into a different me. Or maybe I’m just being stupid. These nails have always been here to protect me, things I could rely on. Never would they betray me, yell in my face, throw me against a wall. But do I need them, now that I have a real friend? … I’m not sure yet.

                This may be the last entry for a while. These moments for writing have gotten me through much, but I don’t want to have to rely on them. And I can’t think of a better time than now to test this theory. Hopefully, the rest of these pages can remain blank while my words feel free to be spoken and fill my life. What I feel for Lucy can’t be contained by just this book and longer. I think I’ll tell her just how I feel about us next time I see her. I would talk to someone else about it first, and make sure I’m doing the right thing, but who else is there for me to talk to?

She’s all I need now. Not my family, not all the assholes as school, not this stupid journal.

Just her.

Officer Victor Bowers had been walking this beat for seventeen years, too long if you asked him, and he was tired. No, not that kind of tired that you feel when you wake early in the morning, hours before you should, only to lie in bed for what feels like days, staring at the ceiling without a thought in your head until you’re finally forced to drag yourself from the soft cushions that had caressed your aching body and had kept you warm through the cold and heartless night to drive to your cold and heartless job to sit for hours on end without a thought in your head or a soft pillow to snuggle with. This is the kind of tired that comes from doing this every day for seventeen year, from the pain of watching partners come and go, watching victims live and die, criminals shout and laugh, and days pass by but never truly feel different.

Victor had seen himself wither in the mirror, the result of a thankless job in a thankless world full of the dead that narrate the lives of the living. That’s how Victor had comes to see it anyway; a poor shmuck or another would get shot in the back or stabbed in the throat or jammed into the trunk of a car that was sent thundering off the edge of a cliff, and he would find himself following the bloody bread crumbs left behind, like a twisted game of marco polo, except there would only be one scream and Victor would never hear it.

And he would find that this night would be no different.

Victor’s feet felt the familiar rhythmic beat of his sullen shoes, if they could even be called that anymore, slapping against the path that had been paved and repaved every four years, yet would always feel just as harsh and gruff, a retired war veteran sitting uncomfortably at attention in the uniform of just another civilian, giving everyone around him intense and awkward stares, unsure of how he was to interact with a world he could no longer understand, no longer connect to, as if his travels made him a different nationality altogether, belonging now to No Man’s Land, where Shell Shock and Strife held the positions of power, where Poison Gas whispered secrets into the ears of the unsuspecting, and where the only export was stories of sorrow, often swapped between the dead as they made their ways to their respective lives after life.

The officer felt sympathy for the stony geezer, knowing what it was like to be trod on by every person that would enter his life. From his frigid ex-wife, stealing his emotions out from under the sheets and leaving him with the child she never wanted, to Chief Arnold Suttmann, better known to Victor and his co-workers as Arnold “Soot-Hands”, breathing down his neck to catch the criminals that the Chief was suspected to have created in the first place. Even his son, Thomas, saw his father as nothing more than a means of getting out of this godforsaken town one day. At the thought, Victor’s eyes trailed up to the sky, as he wondered if The Big Man even bothered to look in the direction of his rundown town anymore.

A blotchy hand, covered in freckles and thin, white hair, brushed the sweat from his old and withered brow, his eyes having enough trouble seeing through his cheap glasses without having droplets running across the lenses like slugs, leaving a think and unsightly residue behind. Victor pulled the optics from his face, his aging eyes blinking rapidly in the twilight as he cleaned the glass on the front of his pristine, yet ill-fitting, uniform, much too big for him, making him look like a child playing at being a man. As he returned the glasses to his hooked nose, his blue opals magnified in the newly cleaned clarity. He stretched his knobby knees, thankful for the brief respite from the strenuous strides he knew by heart. Running his hands through his bristly hair, a tall, grey broom of a buzz cut, he sneezed, flecks of snot and saliva getting caught in his modest mustache that reached out to touch the corners of his face but could not even graze the tips of his lips, a thin line drawn neatly at the middle of his face, his frown wrapping around a small and simple chin.

Recovering himself, Victor reluctantly strode on, his muscles moving and flexing with every motion, a rippling tide just beneath his sea blue shirt. For though he grew older, Victor would never allow himself to let go of the body he built for dark and troubled nights such as these; how could he expect himself to be a proper cop with the physique of a twig? Exercise had become a part of his daily routine, something that he would not only set aside time for but do every spare chance he got, whether it be on the subway or in a doctor’s waiting room.

Civilians made room for Victor, knowing him on sight, not because of his uniform, but rather his face. He was respected in this neck of the woods, a grey angel that flitted about amongst the blue devils whom called themselves his brothers. People knew to come to him when the going got tough so it would be the injustice and villainy that was sent packing rather than the frightened novices, freshly picked from a neighboring town without an inkling of an idea of what a hard day’s work is, babied by their simple desk jobs, the nurses of an infantile incoming crowd of so-called “five-oh”, taking cues from fantasies flashing in front of their faces rather than the rough reality, to ragged for their minds to wrap around. Victor feared a future quickly approaching when children are handed guns and sent frolicking through the streets to play their foolish games of cowboys and idiots, except everyone’s on the latter team, though they may try and convince themselves otherwise.

The fresh smell of hotdogs, a combination of undercooked meat and scorched grease, filled his nostrils as he passed the mom and pop stand. Though he never bought the slimy excuse for a meal, Travis tossed whatever change he had in his pocket into the tip jar every time he walked by. February twenty third. The date was forever imprinted in his memory. The ear piercing screams, the ice shattering sobs, and the stark contrast between the white snow and red blood. This family had been through enough because of him; this eternal burden on his back made him feel that a debt needed to be paid, but never truly could be.

Victor felt a chill creep into his shirt like a lost puppy that has returned to its master a savage beast of the wilderness. This villainous creature had been making daily visits for the last three years or so, reminding him of his growing frailty, a fact that he would fight against with every fiber in his body. Yet how was he to battle an invisible and natural foe that grew within? He hated himself for his weakness, a vat of anger boiling in his stomach, clashing against his cold skin. But this chill was something more than what he usually felt filling his old bones; it was the frigidness of sullen alertness, sad alarm, a solemn knowledge. Victor shook himself, as if trying to throw the feeling off his back, a weighty leech sucking at his strength for dear life, teeth desperately plunged into his back, a violent sedative. A scowl crossed his faced as the cold refused to let go, matching the street’s cross stare as Victor strode briskly across it to reach the path of the adjacent side.

Looking up from his frustrated predicament, the officer noticed a young boy staring at the hardship written all over Victor’s face, a depressing article with a sorrowful black and white picture to go along with it, as they walked past one another. Victor didn’t take much notice of him, as he had his own boy at home to look forward to seeing and felt no need to observe every civilian that passed. Yet, despite his indifference, something strange caught his eye, something he had not seen in all his days working in the tired town. Hope, personified in a crooked grin sloppily spread over the youth’s face.

A few steps later, that smile was wiped from the world with a blood stained Sedan screaming to a halt, crying out for the boy that no longer could.

And like that, Victor’s senses were alert, his heart steaming hot, pumping molten energy, pushing an old body back to its former youth, yanking time backwards and wrestling it, holding it in a bear hug, if only for a brief moment so as to allow the body to remember a long lost past that should no longer be possible, yet rears its head, groggy from a sleep that was never supposed to end. His eyes were search lights, shining out of his head as he swiftly spun himself around to assess the situation.

Nothing could have prepared him for such a sight. He stumbled a little; Victor reassured himself that this was not his faltering body at work, but rather the shock of such a dismal view making him feel like that car had hit him, sending him careening to his hands and knees, mind fading to nothing more than a distant siren, calling out in desperation, a car frightened that its driver has suddenly disappeared from the front seat, screeching in hopes that he may find his way back to the wheel. Red droplets of life dripped rhythmically form the bumper hovering over the boy’s head, making him look like he had a twisted case of chicken pox. Victor looked up to see the shocked face of a sixteen year old boy, his face pocked and pimply, filled with horror and self-doubt, seeing what he had done, knowing in his heart that there was no taking it back. But he would try to back his way out of the situation, putting his car in reverse, revving the gas as quickly as he could without getting more blood on his hands. Victor acted without hesitation, shooting the three tires that were in his sigh. He was rewarded with the crack of his pistol, the backlash of each shot, and a satisfying pop only moments later. The vehicle cried out with each shot, feeling its legs being cut out from under him, leaving him to hobble to a pitiful sounding stop only a few feet from where it was previously, whining softly as it slumped into place, red tears running from the headlights.

Satisfied, Victor slipped his gun into his holster, moving towards the perpetrator, fury shining in his eyes, but not mimicked in his steps, his actions calm and practiced, a dance he had partaken in many a time before, although most of his partners fell before it was over, leaving him to waltz through the motions alone. This boy was going nowhere, quite the example of a deer caught in headlights, his body shuddering in his self-made prison, penned in by the onlookers around him and the fear within, chaining him to his crime.

And yet, the rest of the world looking in seemed nonplussed, as if this was just… what happens, as if this was okay by any stretch of the imagination. Most just kept walking, averting eyes and pretending to hear the birds chirping as always. Other, crueler folk were cracking jokes, studying the collapsed child, yet making no moves to get help, an action of kindness that was far beneath them, having already given up this life for lost.

Suddenly, a car started honking at the limp body as if to say “Get out of the way!”, expecting this ragdoll to somehow become animate again and stride away, completely fine and full of vigor. Closer and closer the impatient car drew, closing an already considerably small gap between the sorry arm and strong rubber that threatened to crush its opposition, not deterred by the putrid implications its actions suggested.

A rage overtook Victor for just a moment, but that’s all he needed. With a burst of speed, the elderly man charged headlong out into the street, spreading his legs over the silent victim like a ribbon holding the shattered remains together, hoping to piece back the broken bits into something resembling a someone. His lungs inflated with a passion, expanding into his throat, clogging up his insides with emotion, only to let it all out in a single burst, shouting at the driver, “Get your goddamned bumper out of this boy’s ass!!!” The woman, in her mid-forties, stopped all she was doing, stunned by the officer’s sudden appearance. Slowing the car to a stop, she raised her hands in the air as if she was under arrest, a look of pure terror and utter bewilderment plastered on her face like a crooked ad someone plastered along the walls of just another rundown building, tattered and worn from the weathered day. Sighing to himself out of frustration and relief, Victor returned to his slowed gait, making his way over to the front seat. When all the woman did was stare out at him out of confusion and fear, the officer tapped on the window, gently but with an authority to it that reflected his anger.

As the clear drawbridge that separated the pair began to lower, Victor’s mind went into a mode all its own, as if a switch had been clicked in the back of his head; he was now a robot, the police force’s machine programed with all the answers, the laws, the by-the-book responses that were drilled in his mind years ago after straight weeks of non-stop studying every last bloody word in all his textbooks. It was a rude awakening to watch the sentences he painstakingly memorized being trampled every passing day by the hypocrites who wrote them.

“Ma’am, what in the world were you thinking?” Victor queried, taking the approach of a baffled yet un-amused officer, hiding the hatred lying just under his skin, threatening to grab his hand, if only to wring her throat for a paltry moment so she might see for a brief moment in her self-centered life that the world did not revolve around her.

“I just… officer, you gotta understand, I was… I was running late for-“
                “For what, ma’am? What was so bloody important that you decided this boy’s life was well beyond your concern?”

“Well, I… I just thought he was resting is all. Figured if I rolled up close enough to him-”
                “Please, ma’am, just stop. I’ll need you to talk with the head of my department when he comes ‘round to take care of things here.”

“Surely you can’t be serious!” The appalled look on her face made Victor want to vomit with disgust. “I simply must be on my way, sir, I-”

“Ma’am, please make this easier on yourself. If that boy bleeding out on the street needs to wait, you sure as hell do as well.”

The cop cars painted red and blue blotches across Victor’s face, mixing with the graying ones that came naturally. Radios squawked, sirens squealed, orders were barked with as much authority as could be mustered, but at this point there didn’t seem to be much point left to most. The boy was going to die, that much seem to be clear to the majority. The pricks, unable to give a moment’s hard work if only to save a life. Victor’s head hung low, embarrassed to be a part of this rag-tag rabble, nothing more than children playing at dress up and seeing how much candy they can get from the world.

                Chief Suttmann was at his finest, leaning against the woman’s car provocatively as he questioned her of what had happened, where she lived, if she was single, if they could have a follow-up discussion of the evening at her quarters, etc. etc. This was what Victor had come to expect. It saddened him deeply, beyond explanation, that this could possibly be the norm, the commonplace shit he would have to trudge through in his sneakers day after day.

                Meanwhile, the perpetrator was yelling up and down the street like a bloody banshee that was having its limbs removed one by one. “It was only a joke!!!” he would cry, “I only meant to scare him!!!” he would plead. He would try to justify that he knew the kid from school, they were supposed friends; he was just “roughing him up” as the idiot put it. The sorrowful shouts of a guilty conscious; Victor had heard them too many times to count, most often in his sleep.

                Slowly, Victor moved to the back of the ambulance, where they were loading the boy like you would a tire, roughly shoving it in before it could try and roll off the edge. As the medics moved away, Victor approached, like a shy kitten slowly sidling up to the first playmate it had ever met, unsure of what to do, how to react, or the courtesies involved.

                Victor took a damn good look, forcing every last aspect of this child into his mind. From his short brown hair, barely broaching his forehead, sad curls flopped against his head, to his rotund ears, fans poking out of the sides of his head, certain to keep the heat away from any summer’s day. His teeth looked rather pearly beneath the running ruby red that flowed from his face. Cuts were pocked all across his cheeks, sending Christmas ribbons sweeping over his pale skin, a sopping wet sheet of paper. His clothes were tattered, but not from the incident; this boy had probably never seen a set of clothes all his own in his entire life. His ragged hands were accentuated by gleaming nails, freshly cut, as if straight from a pedicure commercial. A pair of sturdy legs stuck from his underneath his skinny torso, two toothpicks jammed in a carrot. Victor moved his hand over the boy’s eyelids. He just wanted to see what was beneath, nothing more-

                He leaped back, a sudden chill running down his back. Those piercing blue eyes… The saw right through him, looked into his soul, and shot through his past, all the way back to… February twenty third. He could see the ice in his eyes as his brain froze over, never to show life again. He dropped to his knees out of sheer disbelief that he had let this happen again, slammed his fists against the ground out of complete frustration. He let burst a scream of agony, one that he had held back for much too long. All the hatred for his unfulfilled hope, all the pain caused by such putrid people, all the sadness these sorry souls had to endure… It was just too much now, much too much to bare.

                A crowd of medics came rushing over to see what was the matter, only to look on awkwardly as Victor cried to himself, curled in a ball of helplessness; for once he could see the absurdity in trying to help this lost cause any longer. The Chief rushed over, a look of bewilderment and shiftiness stretched across his face. He looked about him uncertainly as he bent over to whisper in Victor’s ear. “Cummon, officer, get up off yer ass! I’ve got a date-umm-I-mean-interview to go to in five minutes, and I’m sure as hell not leaving you in charge if yer sobbing behind some goddamned ambulance!”

                Victor rose to his feet slowly, straightened his uniform, rubbed the tears from his eyes, and looked square in the Chief’s face. “You won’t have to, Soot-Hands.” Tossing his badge on the ground, Victor turned on one heel and walked away from it all. His ears were deaf to the shouts of outrage crashing about the air behind him, blind to the stunned onlookers as he unlocked the shackles from himself, freed this aging body from the hurt he could bear no longer.

                “Don’t think yer getting this back if yah come in tomorrow, no sir!” Suttmann barked to no one in particular, mostly for his own benefit.

                Victor wondered just how long he could bear simply lying in bed for hours on end. He imagined it, a half-smile slowly creeping up his cheek.

William Milton found himself dazed slumped in front of his desk as he stared at pile upon disheartening pile of supposedly “important” papers. He often discovered himself like this when he left his mind for a brief romp in his thoughts of disconnection. Lack of sleep tended to act like a portal, bringing him to a completely new world, a Narnia all his own, except he was the only resident and it looked a damn lot like the shithole he came from. He didn’t find the frequency of these visits to his other realm terribly surprising though; insomnia, he found, had that effect on people.

                He had seen many of a case of this disorder while working at Saint Peter’s Hospital; when working from eight in the morning until ten at night with only a ten minute lunch break, one has the chance to see many different patients. One also gets the chance to pick up many of these ailments; William could list off the coworkers who had bitten the dust from working in this pit if he used both his fingers and toes. He had feared that he was next for the longest time, yet more and more of his acquaintances perished while he simply festered in the dark corner of the hospital, if it could honestly be called that. A cemetery was more like it. Saint Peter’s housed more corpses than it did patients on a daily basis; William had to wonder what sick sort of necromancy Peter must have been a saint of.

The doctor wasn’t anything that could be considered a religious man, but rather a self-proclaimed apathetic. That is to say, he didn’t mind if there was a god out there watching over him, but he didn’t have the drive or any real motivation to find out one way or another, nor did he care. What did it matter if there is or isn’t some powerful deity watching over us? We don’t know until we’re dead, nor will we be affected by it, so why care until our deaths come?

                Come… come to think of it, when was that last time someone came into my office? William had to ponder in his distant outlandish mind that circled about his body like a UFO searching for the perfect test subject. For his mind clearly had no intention of settling on one topic, but rather bounce from idea to concept to absurd fantasy to his day ended, or rather began as he would make his slow journey back home only to sit in his armchair for hours on end and do the exact same thing until his alarm informed him that it was time to return for another hard day of pondering.

                Some might say this would be a lonely life, but William didn’t see it that way, nor did he mind if it was. So many people had disappeared from the life presented to him that he figured that this was just the way of the world and you never truly had anyone else but yourself. He would sometimes create a second persona to talk to, his two selves conversing for hours on end until they eventually became the same person in a natural connection of like-minded individuals. His mind process, over time, became so fluid that he would create his own lives to watch and take part in as he saw fit, a personal cinema flashing behind his eyes, except occasionally members of the audience were asked to take part in the film. William figured this was the result of months of practice in simply thinking for hours and hours on end, strengthening his mind’s eye until it was the only thing that stared out from his head, his eyes permanently glazed with a mindless apathy that harkened back to the sightless opals of the blind.

                Blind to the chaos occurring outside, William continued exploring his formless world for the answers to questions that had already faded. It was only when Henry Greenhill crashed into his office like a tiger through a bedroom that William became aware of the sirens howling outside the walls of his asylum. Like removing a pair of headphones, William pulled himself together to allow himself to begin forming coherent sentences aloud. He would have to if this kid was ever going to shut up.

                “William, what in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Can you not hear the sirens outside??? We have to get going if this boy is gonna survive, let me tell you, he looks pretty messed up, and I dunno how much longer he’s gonna stick around with us living folks unless we get our asses in gear! Now, pull yourself together quick-like, and let’s get a move on! The kid’s got some serious internal bleeding, I’m surprised he’s made it as far as the hospital and- OMIGOD, William!!! Do you even care that this boy’s gonna die??? He’s barely sixteen for Christ’s sake, have some compassion man!!! Or better yet, do your damn job, you lazy shit! How- DARE –you ignore the silent pleas of a dying patient, let alone a child! And in such bad condition too… How are we going to save his life? Do we even have a-”

                “We don’t know until we try, now do we?” William asked nonchalantly, rising slowly from his chair like a vampire from its coffin, stretching his cold, pale limbs before reaching for his white coat that lied behind him, a dead skin that would slink into now and again to play the part of dutiful doctor.

                “How can you be so calm?!?” Henry asked incredulously, a naïve look of terror and frustration painted across his face like a grotesque clown mask. William found this amusing, but kept his thoughts to himself; he figured it would do him no good if he enraged this yappy intern any further. So, he instead responded by saying, “You call this calm?”

                Henry was taken a little aback by this, not suspecting that a question would be thrown back at him. He chewed on this for a few moments, like a dog gnawing on its bone to see if there’s be anything worthwhile inside, perhaps a few scraps caught in the cracks. And, suddenly, a look of realization and disgust grew from his eyes, a thorny vine that spread swiftly to the rest of his face, pain etched into his cheeks and mouth with each little prick. He then looked up, and, lashing out with those violent tendrils, he said, “No. That’s not calm. Its listlessness. A level of disregard and insensibility so fierce that nothing bothers you anymore, does it? You just don’t fucking care.”

                William was undeterred by this, rather familiar with this sort of response; he had to, or else be given a reason to care. And he didn’t need that. He had built up such a suit of armor around him over time, a mighty shield that encased him with an apathy so strong that nothing could pierce such a tenacious metal. He didn’t want it be destroyed with a simple statement, one that could be tossed about just as carelessly as himself. Instead of bothering responding, he pushed past the jumpy man, who remained rooted firmly in his place, his stare seemingly determined to spray venom on him as he walked on, unfascinated, uncaring. But he figured he needed to do something, or else why have this goddamned job in the first place?

                … Yes, why have this job at all? This was a thought that had crossed William’s mind many a time. And yet, despite his persistent strikes at the base of the matter, it had yet to topple over and reveal the answer hidden underneath. But he knew, deep down in his chest, that there was a reason, a reason that he needed to discover. Perhaps this was why he made his way to the entrance of the hospital, past the dull faces he saw day after day yet never bothered to match up with names or personalities or wants or needs or cares or loves or hates or lives. He just piled them all up in his mind, one on top of the other, in a huge bin that he labeled “The Dead Who Cannot Rest”; he found it easier for him this way. A lot less strain or time was necessary for such an approach.

                As he approached the doors that led outside, he heard a squeaky call from behind him. “Oh no you don’t!” Henry scrambled at the speed of a cheetah just learning how to use its legs, fast but moving at a stumbling gait. A long screech filled the room as his shoes skidded to a halt in front of William, who hadn’t bothered moving anymore, knowing that it would be so much easier just to deal with him now than allow the one-sided chase to go on any further.

                “You think you can just walk out and leave this boy to rot? Oh no mister, I don’t think so!! You may not care about the life of another, but I sure as hell do!!! Now cummon!!!” Grabbing a handful of William’s pristine uniform

Short Story Rough Draft

Here's the rough draft of a short story I'm working on. Any and all feedback is appreciated!

The Hero’s Legacy

By Luke Muench

With a certain hesitance that only comes from his own heartbeats echoing in his ears, the Hero crept through the dark caverns, his footsteps sounding like gunshots as he moved among the quietly dripping stalactites, the cave crying to itself, out of sheer loneliness. No one had come this way, not for centuries now.

                That’s why he was here. To revive this mess of a rock pile back to its former glory as the central trading route of an endless flow of desperate people, all searching to make a profit, often through the misfortune of each other. The walls recalled in its ragged edges and winding paths when peals of laughter echoed across its once smooth skin, children bouncing up and down its many tunnels as merchants stoically and solemnly before the judging gazes of thousands looking for a bargain. It had once watched, unburdened by emotions, as people made millions and lost it all in a single evening, throwing their livelihoods to the wind as they danced a dangerous waltz of wastefulness, buying up the inessential and tossing it aside to the lowly when their fun was done.

                Now its weary eyes glanced down as this single adventurer made his way through his domain; and for what? There was no hope left for this barren land. How could this one man how to fix anything?

                The Hero was thinking that very same thought as trudged through his murky doubts, his boots occasionally becoming stuck in the thick muck. Yet, again and again he raised his foot again to press on.

                Suddenly, there sounded behind him a crunch, the noises of bone being torn away from its owner, attempting to escape the emptiness that the thin layer of skin housed. Turning slowly, sword raised in one hand, lantern in the other, he discovered a feral creature, a hideous jackal-like being, hidden within the dark confines of shadow, a dear friend to all fiends. Realizing it had been discovered, it lightly cursed to itself, its voice sounding as violent as that of a newborn baby being ripped from its mother’s grip, yet as distraught as the mother’s cries of anguish. He, on the other hand, was frozen with terror, such a simple noise sending shivers up his back, clutching his spine as a dying man does his wife’s hand, wanting to never let go.

A beat passed as the opponents’ eyes held each other’s, the silent handshake of foes on the battlefield.

Without warning, the creature lunged with a vicious fury, spittle spraying anger into the air. Fear grasped the Hero’s throat, a strangle hold that nearly brought the grown man to his knees. He had never been forced to fight someone before. He knew the moment would have to come eventually, but knowing this and facing this are completely different matters. His eyes flickered shut as he slashed at the air blindly, praying that the sword might catch on something, anything, until, finally, his blade ceased to swing. Opening his eyes slowly, he found that the creature’s neck had grabbed hold of his sword, two long, blood red fingers sliding out of the wound, wrapped around the shining silver blade. He tried ripping it away from the fiend, yet his attempts were as futile as a rat’s yearning to gnaw a hole into a metal wall.

That’s when she spoke.

“You,” she gasped through the metal lifeline in her neck, struggling slightly to hiss even that syllable.

The Hero looked closer, past the beastly exterior of this being, beyond the dripping blood tick-tocking her time left amongst the living, and shuddered. “Yessssss,” she hissed at him, cackling as he had always imagined the witches of old wives tales had, back when they were more than just wives tales. “Look into my blood, dear husband,” his wife cooed softly, looking into his tear filled eyes. Then, swiftly, she bulked herself up, towering over the sniveling man. “AND SEE WHAT YOU’VE BECOME!!!” she cried venomously, her eyes bulging, muscles ripping away from her bones, veins pulling at the skin that long ago had been soft, pure, nearly heavenly, or so he had viewed it. But no longer; not since the horrors of the world had arrived at his doorstep, threatening to take her away.

And, finally, the sword fell from the caved in windpipe. Blood gushed out, red at first, then a midnight black that put the skies of hell to shame, coating him in misery and woe, stifling his cries under wave upon wave of the tar like substance. Soon he felt himself drowning under the darkness, a frightening but somehow soothing sensations, offering to cease his suffering forever. But he knew his job, why he had to struggle onwards. Bursting from the boiling, black lake of a life lost long ago, he pushed on.

When he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Spinning about, he came face to face with what could only be described as his mummified wife, liquids and organs all having checked out at the reception desk , nothing left but a sorry skin, tearing at his own flesh, trying to consume it, wear it, and allow herself to live once again. “You said that only in death may we part, honey,” a wispy, nearly inaudible voice ran up his shirt, swerving around his ears, searching for the quickest entry to her rebirth, its icy touch caressing his very core. “So let us live on, together,” she beckoned, wrapping her skin around him, pulling him bodily to the ground.

His screams’ intensity shook his very foundation, yet no noise came. Again and again he called her name, called out to the world, cursing how unfair and evil it was, destroying him with every step he took towards a goal he couldn’t even call his own.

The Hero awoke to two sharp snaps; one of his neck as it lurched up in fright and shock, the other of the figure that hovered alongside the Hero’s bed, the transparent being’s fingers swiftly brushing across each other, a fire that dripped red flames sparking between them. The Hero watched as the flame spread across the arm of his companion, a bloody puddle forming beneath him, a tall, gangly boy, appearing not much older than seventeen, his eyes a bright electric blue. So much strength to them, such a fierce source of raw energy, the Hero contemplated. Yet he found no humor in the irony of it all, that such a passion could be found in the dead while the living drifted about like silent shadows of themselves; he was still much too shaken by his sudden return from the world of sleep. He observed as the fiery tendrils reached over the boy’s arms, past his chest, groping for his eyeballs, and, just as the red energy reached its goal, the flames disappeared, sucked into the void of the bright orbs.

The room grew deathly cold, and the Hero could now clearly feel the cold sweat that he swam in, his clothing a pool to contain all the fear so distant now, caught in the doorway to his dreams.

“Why must you do that, Tyler, you filthy bastard?” the Hero whispered quietly, afraid to speak, his bravery stolen in his slumber, slipped out from under his sheets.

“Why, surely you mustn’t be bothered by such rudimentary magic tricks, old man?” Tyler mocked, doing a back flip, sending silvery shadows across the walls, little minions hovering at his sides, waiting for a command.

“You know exactly what I mean,” the Hero barked, beginning to find courage in the anger that spout from his lips, pushing him out of his bed, facing the boy with a scowl spread below his nose, a coat hanger suspended on his ruffled mustache, in dire need of a trim. Wrinkles formed around his grimace, a team executing a well-practiced routine. His eyes, however, told a very different story; though his voice called out in rage, his eyes could not contain such emotion anymore, too tired, sandbags holding them open, a book pried open by an eager reader, allowing all emotion flow out of them until nothing but fatigue and empty pages remained.

The boy giggled at his elder’s attempt to reprimand him. “Oh, excuse me, oh legendary Hero of yore, I did not mean to offend such a profoundly gallant and honored champion of evil.” He swooped through the Hero, sending shivers up the man’s spine, the fury swiftly leaving him, as a mistress does once she is satisfied, out searching for better prey, and leaving nothing behind but an empty shell.

When the boy moved to face his opponent once again, all humor had left his face, replaced with a look of disappointment. “You sicken me, old man, truly,” he spat cruelly, a look of burning hatred about his face. “How could you let yourself become this, a hermit of no accomplishment, a man so consumed with his own despair that he cannot even bring himself to escape it in his dreams?”

“Because of you!” he cried out, fury and a deep, loathing finding him once again, yet not for the boy, but himself. But he wouldn’t let this fledgling see it in his eyes, turning away to walk to his chest of clothes, calling behind him, “You know full well you’re the cause of these infernal nightmares!”

Surely the Hero could have scared this young ghost off long ago. He was the Hero after all; he had not earned this title for nothing. So why didn’t he rid himself of this pestilence once and for all? Tyler’s words echoed in his ears as the Hero felt the truth slam into his chest again and again, trying to escape his body, a genie trapped in a lamp for a century too long. But the Hero had held onto these feelings of remorse for too long now, he couldn’t bring himself to let it go. It’s all he lived for anymore; he had nothing left. The boy was his life-line. Ironic, no? the Hero thought to himself, bitter, as he always was.

He slipped on a pair of pants, an old, rugged corduroy rag. As he put them on, his fingers rubbed across a long rip that ran down the side of his right leg. Tyler, seeing this, cackled, nodding to himself. “Face the truth, fool! Face it in your memories, think back, for the truth of the matter remains in that which has occurred, not what is now, for now is a moment ago, and soon enough it’s far behind you, a infinitesimal ant in the universe of your life. Remember that ant from long ago, the one that left you that memento. Certainly you remember it!”

“…….. Certainly,” the Hero hoarsely whispered as he crashed to the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling as he lied there, years in the past.

Rising to his feet, he looked into the feral of eyes of that wolverine of a person, eyes bloodshot and claws long and ragged, perfect for tearing the flesh off another. Long, shaggy hair fell from his head, chest, forearms, and shins, as dark as his soul had become, and as long as each twisted nail, roughly eight inches or so. Its sad excuse of a home reflected the owner, a boulder crudely torn from a coal black mountain, as tall as a horse, and as wide as a two handed great sword lain on its side. The beast stood out in the expanse of graying soil, cracked and forlorn from lack of water. The ground spread for what seemed like an eternity in all directions, as if the boulder had once been the plug to an ancient lake, lost in the passing of time.

The Hero had at first been confused and confounded by the monster’s choice of a residence, as a person could see the creature sitting cross-legged, meditating patiently, on the rock formation from miles off. But, as he moved closer, he saw that this very simple fact was why the creature chose the black island in the sea of brown. This was more effective than any sign of deterrence could ever hope to be; a sign only held words of danger, while his presence was a promise of terrors to be.  Yet, upon closer inspection of his foe, the Hero saw an even stronger truth, for within its eyes, a strong sense of arrogance resided, radiating throughout his body like a disgusting plague of egotism. He had always been a cocky boy, hadn’t he? His isolation had only worsened this, strengthening the illness beyond the healing capabilities of even a seraph.

The Hero’s flesh crawled as he looking fearfully up at his foe, still perched upon his rock despite the Hero’s close proximity, only a few feet from plunging his worn, tired excuse of a sword into its knurled flesh. Sensing the worn traveler’s presence through its thin, translucent eyelids, the deformed monster’s cackling surrounding the Hero, like a boa constrictor wrapping its harsh body around his neck. The lids slid open, as smooth as a drawer and with the sliminess of an octopuses legs dragging across the seaweed-covered sea floor, like freshly formed butterfly wings stretching out for the first time. What rested underneath looked as if they were chipped from the very rock he sat on, groping at the Hero’s body. He realized to his chagrin and rage that, to this wretch, the figure standing before it was just another book to study; he was staring intently into its familiar’s eyes, tearing the pages that held the Hero’s thoughts out of his head before they were even written down. The memory of a young lad devouring book after book in his old armchair flashed across the Hero’s mind. He saw, sadly, that now all he ate was his own self-satisfaction and the flesh won in battle.

A growl escaped the creature’s slobbering jaws as it calmly sat on its haunches, a sickeningly smug smirk slashed across his face, another scar on its crude, beaten body. “Surely, you don’t mean to do this…” He wasn’t sure whether the familiar face was asking or stating, wishing he could see his ally-turned-enemy’s true intensions.

“Shut up, little fool!” the Hero cried out, fire burning in his eyes. He almost charged, losing himself amidst the anger and anguish, the recipes to a sickeningly bitter defeat. But he caught himself. Attempting to goad his foe forward, he motioned towards himself, a silent challenge crying out louder than all their incessant yelling. With a cackle and a grin cracked across his face, the beastly figure launched itself, pushing off the rough rock onto its opponent’s soft chest, growling ferociously. Struggling, he tried to pull away, only to feel a stab of pain as a single claw dug into his leg, slipping through his skin as easily as a finger does through an envelope’s seal. “You’re not getting away again, Master. Never again can I allow that.”

The apprentice ripped away from his perch, tearing his true body from the back of the beast, much to the Hero’s shock and disgust. First emerged the head, pulling out as a swimmer would out of the water, eyes fluttering at the sudden exposure to the light of day. Muscular arms shoved the rest of him out, grimy, bloodstained feet kicking off the creature’s rump. Where he had been, a blotchy, pus-ridden silhouette remained, awaiting for its resident’s return. The body perched atop the Hero shuddered stiff, suddenly becoming cold jailer’s chains, keeping him pinned to the ground. Pain coursed through his leg as blood pulsed from his wound, but he ignored it, all attention focused on his apprentice, or what was left. What crept towards him was not the young man he had left behind to hold his life together while he was gone, but a pale sliver of bone. With a torso as wide as a lantern, the tall, bald being strode towards him with the air of an emperor. The Hero hardly noticed a broken bone was clutched in his opponent’s left hand, as it practically blended in with his pasty skin. Some things never change, I guess. That he had simply been left handed had been one of the strongest attributes of the boy’s fighting style. Many a foe had fallen to his blunted blade, most swordsmen unfamiliar in the defense of a sword coming at them from what they considered to be the wrong side of their body.

As the nude figure finally reached him, the Apprentice looked down on the Hero’s face with bulging, blue eyes, as arrogant as his puppet’s. Once, kindness and a hint of shyness had mingled with the audacity. Now, all that swam in the pools of ostentation was pomposity and pretentiousness, simply more of the same. It was clear to the Hero that his Apprentice had discarded all the humanity of his former self, now simply a murderer, heartless, friendless, and hopeless.

Calmly, the Apprentice looked away from his previous master and into the sky as if the blueprints to his clever plan could be found there. Yellowed teeth curled into a wicked smile. “I knew. I knew all along. Knew from that moment. The moment you KILLED YER OWN WIFE!” he screeched abruptly, lashing out with his foot, a cobra striking its prey, slamming into the side of the Hero’s face, pent up furor fueling the crazed kick. Blood pooled in the Hero’s one cheek, forcing him to drink from the sour cup, the communion at his own funeral.

The ragged man searched for the words, an explanation, a means to justify his actions. Every word was a battle for him, as his emotions clashed in worn armor, fighting one another, time and time again, neither side having won any of their numerous encounters. “She… had turned. Turned away… away from-”

“You?” He cackled at that, his laugh the sound of ripping cloth, as if his fragile insides tore with every laugh. “Who could blame her? You had been gone a year already, off on your absurd expedition for world peace, you fool. I knew this was a farce all along. From the very start, I did.”

“Do you think repeating yourself will make what you say any more believable?” the Hero queried contemptuously, fed up with the nonsense spouting from the boy’s lips.

“Do you think that insulting me will make your situation any better?” the Apprentice retorted smugly. His eyes grazed upon his opponent’s body, drinking in the beautiful sight of smooth, pink flesh. Sure, it had a few cuts or gashes here or there, but he wasn’t about to become picky about his food. He let out a sigh of content and excitement. “I have not eaten any meat in ages. You should have come sooner; it has been tough feasting on maggots for so long, waiting for you.”

The Hero had to turn his head quickly, as vomit spewed from his chapped lips, most of it running across the ground and back onto his own face, adding insult to injury. Rather than dejected, the Apprentice was merely annoyed by the outburst. “Great, now I’m gonna have to clean up all this. Can’t have Byrun steppin’ in it; it’ll make our rock all gross and rank.” The creature that straddled the Hero snorted at the sound of its name.

“What, you’ve bestowed your own name upon this foul thing?” This confused the Hero; why someone as prideful as Byrun would name such a catastrophe of a living thing with his own alias was beyond the man’s comprehension.

“You think I would honor that with my own name?!?” the Apprentice spat, the very suggestion a poison to his lips. “No, no, that was never my true name. I knew that all along, although I humored everyone with their little pet-name for me. You see, I have no name. I know that may be hard for someone as foolish and inane as you to understand, so I guess I need to explain.”

Now I know how it must have felt for all the other children who grew up with him, the Hero thought. Once Byrun would begin one of these conceited ramblings of his, you knew you’d be listening to the drivel for a time to come.

“Now, surely you must comprehend that some of us in this world are born with greater talents than others, no? Well, upon the discovery of such a being, society has a sort of panic attack, as they realize that sheer magnificence has been born amongst all the common folk, magnificence that could one day rise to rule over the inept peasants. And, though it is clearly gracious of Our Lord to present us with these immaculate beings to lead the sheep to his bountiful harvests in the afterlife, these twits, clouded by their sins and hate, see these gifts as the real demons, come to steal away their lives of prosperity and luxury. So, they think, we should just kill the beastlings before they grow up and take over, right? But, even they aren’t dimwitted enough to realize that such an act would be a sin most unforgiveable, a sin that they could not feign as being an accident that they were ever so sorry for, for, in the eyes of God, all truths are revealed. So, they instead tried to disguise these awesome powers, both from the public and the owner, behind crudely made aliases, names to mask greatness so immaculately wondrous that it need not- nay, could not have a name, for no name would do such a being justice.

“And, you would never have known it, but I am one of these beings, in the flesh! I mean, that is not all that surprising; I always knew there was something different about me that made me stand out of the mindless fodder I was forced to suffer through all those years. All their petty complaints about their hair and their clothes and their convoluted struggles over the love of one another. All they did was confirm my own superiority, for whom would need the companionship of another to love them is someone who has never felt God’s love, not truly, pushing it aside for more physical pleasures.

“You were one of them all along. I knew it from the moment I met you.”

“Just because I lived happily with a wife who cared for me doesn’t make me any the lesser to you,” the Hero cut off the rant, tired of the mindless ravings of this shell of the boy he once knew; kind, considerate, always looking out for those down on their luck. Sure, he had always been a little pompous… well, more than a little, but all the same, he had never spoken like this. He had never-

A swift blow to his face brought his thoughts back to reality. “You don’t associate her with the ilk you call brethren!” A look of contorted rage was spread across his face as he looked down on the Hero, his eyes blue caterpillars poking out of his face. After a moment or two, the muscles in his face slowly relaxed, his air of cool control having returned to him. “You are actually right for once. It is not because of your marriage that you are a complete waste of life. Well, not a complete waste, I guess- I assume you assisted me in realizing the power I had in me all along. And for that, I will be a gracious Messiah, and make your death swift and painless. But first you must understand why you are required to die.

“You see…” he laughed at this. “Well you do not see, not yet. But let me explain. It’s rather simple, so hopefully you have the brain capacity to-“

“ENOUGH!!! Just stop, I caaaaaaaaaaaaaan’t-” A sudden burst of adrenaline shooting through him, the Hero thrust his adversary off him, high into the air. The monster showed no reaction, simple readied its body to land upon his captive once again. Yet, as it landed, it found a sword also awaited him, the blade kissing its heart deftly, angry blood spouting in all directions. Again, its body was thrown into the empty sky, only this time the corpse was flung headlong into its master, sending the boy sprawling.  As gore pulsed from its open wound, the Apprentice’s face flashed through numerous emotions, unsure of which to call on now, as this had never been in his script. He fumbled for his lines, yet none sprang to mind, so silently he lied there, waiting for a reminder, some sort of cue to push the production forward.

The Hero pushed the body from the Apprentice, freeing his now disheveled enemy. He couldn’t allow their relationship to end like that; a connection like theirs should never be tossed aside, even if it was an unsalvageable mess. No, it should be respected to the very end, and that’s what the Hero intended to do.

The Hero’s shadow flung itself across the Apprentice, a net holding the boy in place, as the sword positioned itself for the killing blow. A look of sadness crossed the boy’s eyes. “So this is what it comes to, hmmm? You killed her, and now you are going to kill me, is that it?” A few tears dragged themselves across his craggy, rough face. “How could you kill her? HOW COULD YOU???!?!?!?”

“I did what was best for her, you idiot!” The Hero couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You have no idea what she was like, what had become of her!!! I did this for her… I did everything for her! I protected her from those circling vultures who called themselves nobles and wanted to defile her, day after day in that village of morons! I volunteered for this ridiculous journey because I could bring a brighter tomorrow for her. And as I’m sent off on this obscure and hopeless journey through hell and back, she goes to them with open arms and open legs, accepting their seeds and coin like a common prostitute, just another whore in this damned world. And if I recall,” his sword shuddered from his exertion of self-control, “I left YOU behind to watch after her, to ensure something like that wouldn’t happen!”

“You think I didn’t try to save her? You think I didn’t fight her tooth and nail, trying to show her that it wasn’t worth it to go to them, that there was someone right… right THERE to take care of her, lo… LOVE her???”

And with that, the truth smashed into the Hero, a spiraling bullet ripping through his head, a knife of horrific truth cutting through the gelatinous batch of lies. “How could you??? You drove her from her own home, from safety!!!!!” His sword sliced at the Apprentice’s bare torso, only to be parried by the bone he clutched 0fiercely. Leaping to his feet, the Apprentice initiated their dance of death. Both were well practiced in the choreography, but with such distractions whirling about their heads, neither could be sure of a victor.

“I did no such thing, you filthy swine!” The Apprentice lashed out with his bones as deftly as he did with his words, landing a hit on the Hero’s arm, rewarded with a grunt of pain. “I could never send away such a beautiful creature, for no one could have ever claimed to be her superior.”

“Oh, you didn’t send her away willingly, that much is clear,” A look of pity and disgust crossed the Hero’s face as he slashed back in answer, only hitting empty air. “No, you wooed her, tried to make her love you as she had loved me, you sad child. How far did you go, huh?” Anger gathered in his breast as he advanced. “Did you simply attempt a poor excuse for a kiss, or did you try and force your way into her bed????”

The Apprentice cried out in pain, as his pride and left hand were lost in one quick stroke, sent sailing through the blue sky, and lost in the expansive brown sea. And, like that, the sniveling boy of yesteryear returned, the pathetic child who would come sobbing to his Hero after his father had beaten him, leaving him a bloody mess. But now the wounds ran too deep to heal, and there was not to do but put the boy out of his misery.

“Yu-yu-yu-you don’t understaaaaaaaaaaaaaand!” the Apprentice wailed through his pain. “I loved her, with all my he-he-heart, all my being, but she just couldn’t exce-e-e-ept me. Me!!! At first I tried to show her the errors of her disinterest, pushing my way closer and closer to her, my kisses creeping their way to her lips. But that only pushed her further and further away from me!!! I had to find a way to show her my passion towards her. But… after that night… that NIGHT,” fresh sobs sprang from his lips, words tumbling out amidst them. “She wouldn’t look at me. I tried to talk to her; I told her that it was right, it had to be, that we were made for one another, two prefect beings among all the common filth in this desolate land. But… she wouldn’t listen. So she ran. Ran off looking for you. She hoped that by going to the empire, she might be able to help you from the inside, find you, save you from this madness. And look at how you repaid her??? But all you can say is how I failed, how I didn’t stop her from tromping off AFTER YOU. I tried running after her, entering into the services of fools to save her from YOUR falsehoods, the madness you cast upon her. Certainly you didn’t expect me to try and stop her, to coop up such a lovely nightingale in that dinky thing you called a home against her will?”

“But fucking her against her will, that was all fine and dandy, hmmm???” His weeping, his pleas, they meant nothing to this broken man anymore. With one swift motion, the Hero scooped up the bone from where the Apprentice had dropped it and smashed it upwards into the boy’s chin. As his body smashed to the ground, the bone beat him further and further into the dirt, spreading a blood red canvas around the horrifying portrait.

As he did the dirty deed, the Hero was reminded of a time in his youth, when a few neighborhood boys had owned a dog for many years, teaching it tricks and playing games with it. That is, until they forgot to feed it. Out of the poor beast’s hunger, it attacked someone. And just like that, it was an feral animal that needed to be put down. The boys balked at the task, but it was their job, their responsibility to do away with it. Tears mingled with blood as the Hero cried with frustration and sadness, wondering if he was the one who truly drove this kindly boy to be just another savage beast that needed to be done away with. His mind left his body, trying to forget where he was and what he was doing as again and again the bone came smashing down, until nothing but a red lake and an empty, torn skin remained. The bone dropped with a splash, a tombstone for the closest thing he ever had for a son. For hours he walked, yet still the red blemish could be seen, bright on the brown face the Hero tread upon. A stumble sent the weak and weary man crashing to the ground, where he lied for three days and two nights, mourning what could have been and what was. He mourned the loved ones he lost. He mourned how his trek was now devoid of all meaning, that he was traveling to resolve that which no longer mattered. He would have merely given up right there, ending both his journey and life with one swift stroke. Yet, on the third night a sudden thought brought him back to his feet. If he stopped here and now, the deaths of his Wife, of his Apprentice… they would have been for nothing. So he forced himself to rise.

The Hero rose from the icy cold floor, tears frozen to his face. His eyes wandered to the window; outside, the sun was rising again. How long had he been lying here? A day? Two? There was no way to know for sure-

                “Five days,” the boy said softly, twiddling his thumbs sadly as he hovered just above the floor. He shook his head sadly, unsure of what more there was to say. Yet, as he looked back, the old man was gone. He heard the slamming of a door at the far end of the room as the Hero made his way outside. He hadn’t been outside in years.

                Without hesitation, the body flashed to his only companion’s side, searching his thoughts for what was going on.

                And what he saw horrified him.

                The dreams had begun to become the man’s reality, taking over the world around him. How could the boy have been so stupid??? Driving this empty shell so far to the brink of destruction, what did he expect would happen?

The Hero walked out onto the balcony, on which the Villain stood. A body as slim as his false smile, long and narrow fingers moved to slick back jet black hair, emerald eyes staring straight ahead at his foe. “I see you’ve finally made it all the way here.” His smirk could be heard in every word, a sly snake coiling around his syllables.

                The Hero didn’t respond, simply shuddering with adrenaline and rage. His hands bleed from gripping his sword so fiercely. Seeing this, the Villain tutted. “Now now, there’s no need for that. In fact, you won’t be needing that flimsy thing at all.” Without hesitation, he slipped a dagger out from his right sleeve and stabbed himself in the chest, just inches from his own heart. A gasp escaped his lips, but something more like pleasure than pain, an ecstatic cry of inertia.

                A cry of rage and horror escaped the Hero’s lips as he charged his foe, sword outstretched for the kill. The Villain, cackled at this, knocking the sorry piece of scrap metal aside with his bare fist, the weapon tumbling over the edge of the cliff. His other hand snatched the Hero’s throat, a deft strike snapping outwards, going for the kill. Only the Hero’s legs moved as he was lifted into the air, his feet swaying side to side in defeat, branches swaying in the breeze.

The boy tried to grasp onto the man’s throat out of desperation, wanting to shake him awake. “Cummon, snap out of it! You can’t do this damn it! I don’t want to die just yet!!!!” Yet, the man just kept standing on his tip-toes, barely breathing, eyes bulging, his false sword, a stick he had scooped up off the ground, still tumbling down the supposedly endless woodland ridge.

“You sorry excuse for a man,” the Villain whispered in the Hero’s ear, “You really think I was simply going to let you kill me? No, no, only I will kill myself.” A cough escaped his lips, accompanied by a spray of red that dribbled down his chin. “I knew that one day there would come someone to try and tear this world away from me, to make everything right again. And that I simply wouldn’t allow. So, now I will die by my own hand; there will be no hero in this tale, only a scapegoat to take the pointless pride for nothing. People may speak of your deeds, yet they will all be false, for in the end you are nothing but a simpleton come from the village of fools to strike down a god, one that cannot be killed by any mortal man. And once the world hears of that, well, then it will consume itself in its confusion. ‘How is this possible?’ they’ll ask. ‘Is there no good in this world?’ they’ll plead. And, ever so slowly, the land will cave in on itself, killing all caught beneath its sorry roof.

                “And, with that thought, I leave you.” A quick twist of the knife later, the Hero and Villain crashed to the ground, two dead men, but only one of them could still move. The Hero rose to his feet, shaking from head to toe.

                A scream burst from his lips, a horrendous explosion that tore at his very soul. The Villain had ripped all meaning from his life, tearing his purpose asunder. There was nothing left for him here.

                Closing his eyes, the Hero, slipped over the edge of the balcony, falling to the rocky valley below.

For the second time, the boy felt himself fall for what felt like forever, except this time there would be no getting back up, no rising from the dead. This time he knew deep down would be the last. Tears streamed down his face in defeat. He heard the Villain’s voice crack at his mind, a vicious pain that had not left him for all those years.

Slowly, the Hero rose to a sitting position, looking around at the rocky expanse that lay before him.

                “What are you doing, you sorry sack of bones?” An excited laugh rent the air. Looking up, the Hero saw a ghostly presence swirl about his head. There was something familiar about that face…

The boy hovered over the dead shell of the man he had become, the man he had tormented for years on end. And now he had to bid it all goodbye. The Hero looked up at himself. “I couldn’t do it,” he gasped sadly, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I swore to myself I would kill him this time.”

                The boy hushed him. “No need to linger on that any longer.” The man slowly nodded at that, laying his head on the ground. His eyes closed, violent shutters crashing down for the last time. The boy sobbed on his own body for a while before disappearing in a blink of despair.