Who we are (and who we want to be)

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Who we are (and who we want to be)

Post  Count D II. on Mon Sep 14, 2009 2:39 am

Silence. The oppressing, heavy kind of silence that bears the darkest foreboding. The silence before the storm.

The leaves of the ancient trees, reaching so high that their branches entirely cover the sky, thus wrapping all life underneath into eternal darkness, are soundlessly moving in a light breeze. It is neither chilling, nor warm. Life exists here without doubt, although it has chosen not to be seen or heard. At odd moments, the ear can almost catch a fragment of a sound... no... more like a feeling. A dreadful suspicion that countless unblinking reptilian eyes are observing the scene from their hideouts, that clawed paws are soundlessly treading on the mildly damp soil in smaller and smaller circles, that the branche above would, if need be, make way to flock of malicious beaked creatures without any forewarning.

In a world such as this, things aren't quite what they seem from the outside. Deep within, the stench of death that cannot be stopped lingers, filtering through the air like an ever-present truth. In a world where wolf eats wolf, an innocent, beating heart is the most tender and sought after of trophies.

And, amidst of the nightmare land, we find the most curious thing: a child. It may be five years old, but also two or three, the serene expression making it seem older. Definitely, it is still in pre-school age. The jet-black hair cut in the pot-like hairstyle that most boys wear until they find their own style is the only clue from which it can be guessed the child is male. From under the fringe, two eyes of an unusual violet color are observing the surroundings. The eyes seem to be the only thing about the boy that is moving, the only part of his body that is, somehow, alive.

The boy is sitting calmly, obediently in the middle of a tiny meadow, on a carpet of the softest fresh green grass, cushion-like moss and occasional cloverleaf. In a place never graced by a single sunray, such a perfect natural bed should not exist, and it is safe to assume it has been created there by an unknown force specially for the sake of the child. It is a if Nature herself wanted to accept the tiny one, craddle him in her arms and ease his earthly suffering.

For reasons unknown, he is wrapped into a kimono far too huge for a child of his age, one that must have belonged to a grown-up man or woman previously. It is pooling around him in the form of a small lake, snowwhite, splashed with crimson... not quite flowers, not quite regular spots. Only on closer look one might find out, that those patterns have not been created by the tailor. They are painted by blood, flowing from wounds on the boy´s body, hidden from sight under the cloth.

It surely is a monstrous, intricate way to kill the small being, for if he will not bleed out soon, the fresh blood is going to attract the mysterious inhabitants of the primeval forest. The ancient beasts are drawn to it like moths to light, they are creeping out of their hideouts in the alleyways of death outside of society, and they are always hungry. And when they approach, a wild mix of scaled, winged or furry species, some of which are only known to humanity from myths and legends, the tree branches don´t need to stand apart, because they are passing right through them, through the leaves, through the trunks, unbound by a physical body yet frighteningly material in their appearance.

The universe stands still, holding a collective breath. Then, a child´s scream pierces through the darkness.

They say that before death, the entire life passes in front of your eyes in reversed order. If that is true, maybe there is logic in the way D regains all memories of who he was in his previous life, and who he would be forced to become again, chronologically. In maybe less than a minute, they return to him violently, parading one after another in a pathetic entourage - birth to death - and revealing the painful truth of his life.


-to be continued-

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Count D II.

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