Cheerful Memory
Posted: Tue Apr 06, 2004 7:12 amFlash. The sun reflected strongly off the tiny, golden object, swinging fitfully in the breeze...
There wasn't much he could remember about his life, gaps filling most of it; all forty years. Twenty years.
Twelve times a year. That made exactly two-hundred and forty nights unaccounted for, leaving only the mornings after of swift repercussion, the countless times when he had a few precious hours between first sunrise and actual stirring to make himself quite scarce.
With the morning brought relief; but only for a few moments, before the welcoming rays would highlight what he had done in the night. Another flash, the object following it's near-invisible path...
If he was lucky, it would be his own blood. But many times it wasn't so; it wasn't just his own frustration that had scarred his body, teeth hungering for flesh, -any- flesh, even if it had been his own.
Silvered scars picked out by the arriving sun, whip-marks criss-crossing a cruel path. Puckered paleness where flames had hungrily licked. Ragged slices where countless axes had bit into abdomen, countless arrows had lodged in throat, countless swords had tore into chest. And the teeth-marks, as if ravaged by some wild beast, decorating arms. Flash.
Blood dribbled down his fisted hand, streaming from wounds self-inflicted; silently a blank, bloodshot eye stared into the horizon; even the birds just rustling, sending forth tentative songs, readying for the day. They had a life to live, young to rear, a purpose.
The small, golden locket swung easily from his clawed fingers, a memory long gone past, a cheerful reminder of what he once had, what he had lost, and what remained to him.
Biske silently sat, and watched the sun rise.
There wasn't much he could remember about his life, gaps filling most of it; all forty years. Twenty years.
Twelve times a year. That made exactly two-hundred and forty nights unaccounted for, leaving only the mornings after of swift repercussion, the countless times when he had a few precious hours between first sunrise and actual stirring to make himself quite scarce.
With the morning brought relief; but only for a few moments, before the welcoming rays would highlight what he had done in the night. Another flash, the object following it's near-invisible path...
If he was lucky, it would be his own blood. But many times it wasn't so; it wasn't just his own frustration that had scarred his body, teeth hungering for flesh, -any- flesh, even if it had been his own.
Silvered scars picked out by the arriving sun, whip-marks criss-crossing a cruel path. Puckered paleness where flames had hungrily licked. Ragged slices where countless axes had bit into abdomen, countless arrows had lodged in throat, countless swords had tore into chest. And the teeth-marks, as if ravaged by some wild beast, decorating arms. Flash.
Blood dribbled down his fisted hand, streaming from wounds self-inflicted; silently a blank, bloodshot eye stared into the horizon; even the birds just rustling, sending forth tentative songs, readying for the day. They had a life to live, young to rear, a purpose.
The small, golden locket swung easily from his clawed fingers, a memory long gone past, a cheerful reminder of what he once had, what he had lost, and what remained to him.
Biske silently sat, and watched the sun rise.