Power of the Pen, World sold in a picture. Guitars and Comics and Vidyagames OHMY!
I’m not one for Angels and Devils. Maybe once, a long time ago, back before the debauchery and madness. Back before my life became a spiral of tom-fuckery.
It’s amazing how wrong everyone got it.
Good and Evil are subjective terms and I guess it depends on where your morals are aligned. It’s a bitter pill to swallow when you find out that your lineage is built in hellfire. That your side has been perceived as the ultimate evil since mankind first gleamed onto the idea that there may be Gods.
I find myself walking in back alley, cigarette in hand, reliving the events that finally changed my life. Gave me meaning. Made me something more… I was a blank page, the white wall that the blood stain, the smoke that unfurls from the spent shell.
SIX MONTHS AGO
I’ve been here before. I know this feeling; Weightlessness. Freedom. I love this feeling. It’s like the poison high that courses through my veins. The liquor that course through my tainted blood. I know this place.
My childhood home. I see it, I touch it. Laying my hand on the dark red brick. I remember throwing empty beer cans behind the drywall, I remember strumming a cheap guitar and writing shitty little songs that no one would hear.
It’s as familiar to me now as much as it is a stranger. Family. It’s something I’ve come to miss, something I regret never truly appreciating. Mother and Father have become memories; ghosts in my mind. I know the hell I put them through, and the irony is not lost on me. It’s empty now. Dust has accumulated over the windows, the house sits silent and dark. It’s a corpse to me now, and once, a long time ago it was alive and breathing. It was a sanctuary for a troubled kid from the worst part of town.
This feeling though, the air beneath my boots and concrete so far down. I ease myself upwards, smoke trailing from my hands. I’ve done this in my dreams, so easy then, but I don’t know how I’m doing it now. It’s three in the morning and the stars are doing their very best to impress. I can taste the wind on my tongue. It’s so quiet now…
This was the place where I finally felt safe. Like I had finally been done with these battles and won this war. I remember now, we had two dogs, I used to sneak out back and smoke cigarettes on the side stoop. I remember sharing a kiss with my first crush just outside the gate. I remember laughing and crying here. I remember feeling loved and appreciated.
It had to go. It was a relic, a bittersweet reminder of innocence lost, of bad decisions and youthful ignorance.
I feel the heat on my hands. I feel it come from deep inside me and my eyes go red. The stars couldn’t compete with this. I am beautiful in my own horrible way, and this house, this place that has become so much a part of me, I leave it in flames.
The heat caresses my skin, fighting the early morning August breeze.
What have I done?
It approaches me on wings made of black. His eyes a sunshine gold. He tells me that there is a war coming. He tells me that I am doomed, cursed by the very blood that allows me to live.
He tells me that I can even the scales. That I can save them all, and all it will cost me is my soul. That without me all of mankind will surely perish.
I exhale the smoke from my cigarette. His name is Robert Paulson and he’s a fucking saint. But I know the truth…
I can feel the heat in my hands as I knock on his door.
Sometimes I feel so isolated, caught up in my own head. My mind is a blurry haze of thoughts swarming in and out, over and under each other. It’s hard for me to maintain some form of control… I live my life in impulse moments, always static, never clear and direct.
The end for me was shown well before I could decipher the message. Little flashes of imagery, a fever dream laced in opium smoke. I saw my future, or bits of it at least and only up until now. And then the last scene in my mind played, and I knew that was where I would die. I couldn’t tell you the place, I couldn’t tell you when it was, I could only see the hulking skeletal remains of a city. The smoke and fire in the background. And the chorus of angels, crying out for a God that stayed silent. Crying out for blood.
What had I done? and more importantly why had I done it?
See, now that I know what I’m supposed to do I still can’t figure it out. And it drives me nuts, it brings me to the brink of insanity and keeps me awake at night. I’ve seen the colors of madness run down my own hands, these bloody burning hands…
There’s a fire inside of me doctor… and I fear no amount of drugs will quench it.
- The doctor breathed sharp, looking up only in time to see the wall of flame engulf his body. He had just enough time to see the red of his eyes, and feel the unrepentant sting of fire before he was gone.
I know what you are, I know what you were, and I know what’s coming…
End of Chapter one.
I’ve never had a nickname. It’s something that has bothered me pretty much all my life. I have friends that we called Day-Day, Echoe, Jballs, etc… and those names have stuck for so long that even now as we’re all speeding towards our thirties those names are still there.
Not me though.
On the whole it’s not such a big deal, but it gives you an idea of that kind of man I am. I am the middle child of my generation. I have no distinguishing features or attributes. I’m neither smart nor dumb. I’m pretty average looking. I’m decent at a bunch of things but I’ve never been great at anything.
I fucking hate it.
I suppose my one talent has been being a good bullshitter. And when you live your entire life shilling exaggerations and lies it eventually weighs down on your soul. And even if you wanted to come back from it, to set the record straight, you know deep down that you would lose the only people in your life you think you love.
I can survive. That’s another one I’ve always been good at . So so far my skills are on par with used car salesmen and some of the more clever rats. Awesome. I’m not saying this to be self-deprecating, I accept myself for the bland piece of shit that I am, but because of this I couldn’t help but always feel like an outsider. Not outside any social clique more like outside of what I guess we perceive to be reality. Growing up mixed in two extremely separate socio-economic climates has offered me a rare view of the world.
And it’s that it’s mostly bullshit.
So i guess that makes me a pessimist as well.
I guess that’s why I’ve always been drawn to risky situations. Testing just how far I can go before I get involved in something I won’t be able to come back from….
So I’ve lived my entire life in the shadow of my own irrelevance, spinning my stories and reaching for extremes. Bullets and drugs and irresponsible sex.
Imagine my surprise when I come to find out that there’s a war going on. And I, this mixed race lying degenerate fuck could possibly be the key to the good guys winning…