Post by Claw on Sept 15, 2006 15:14:23 GMT -5
It was dark. The sky was clear, and the city cold. Nobody could be seen walking the streets, and only one figure was in sight. He sat on a roof, gazing up at the lights twinkling in the sky. His life had not been good. As a child he had been abandoned, and had nearly died by the age of six. And then there was an uprising against the slavers. And all his friends had died in the fighting, every last one. The slaves had won, but at a massive cost. Their captors were dead. But so were they. But that meant nothing. Nothing at all.
He had died too.
Tears ran down his face silently as he gazed out over the burnt husk of a city. He could not leave. He did not want to. He could feel the pull of the otherworld, but it was numb to him now. He had remained in the city for years, walking the streets, always the same eighteen year old who had perished in the flames. His spectral form showed none of these wounds, only a deep sadness in his aura.
Not that anyone would feel it.
He had lost all hope of leaving. He wanted to, but he could not. His own mind kept him back. He had feared the afterlife. He had loved this world. But now the grass was dying, the once proud white stone buidlings stained with ashes and blood. He had dreamed of a new life, joining his friends in the uprising with all the vigor in the world. But it had been for nothing. Nobody visited the city any more.
And it all built up against him, a flood of misery and anger. And he threw back his head and howled with despair. A silent scream to the stars.
Another night in hell.
---
Sorry. I had to get that out. I'm feeling grim at the moment.
He had died too.
Tears ran down his face silently as he gazed out over the burnt husk of a city. He could not leave. He did not want to. He could feel the pull of the otherworld, but it was numb to him now. He had remained in the city for years, walking the streets, always the same eighteen year old who had perished in the flames. His spectral form showed none of these wounds, only a deep sadness in his aura.
Not that anyone would feel it.
He had lost all hope of leaving. He wanted to, but he could not. His own mind kept him back. He had feared the afterlife. He had loved this world. But now the grass was dying, the once proud white stone buidlings stained with ashes and blood. He had dreamed of a new life, joining his friends in the uprising with all the vigor in the world. But it had been for nothing. Nobody visited the city any more.
And it all built up against him, a flood of misery and anger. And he threw back his head and howled with despair. A silent scream to the stars.
Another night in hell.
---
Sorry. I had to get that out. I'm feeling grim at the moment.