For some reason, I'm still alive. I'm still breathing. I'm still moving. My heart beats on and on.
There is something missing. Life isn't supposed to be this way. It isn't supposed to hurt like this. It isn't supposed to feel like this.
I can describe it best in maybe one sense. I am dead. That must be the solution to my problem.
My soul is dead. My emotions cease to live. Don't you understand? I'm dead on the inside. I'm a hollow man.
I'm not even a man actually. I'm a ghost. I'm that man in the corners, watching all of your pitiful lives cease and begin.
I'm your shadow, consumed by darkness, straying away from the light. I'm watching you, waiting for the right moment to strike. Like a snake, I'm stalking you, moment after moment, searching for that split-second in which I will sink my fangs in.
He leaned over the rail, and spread his arms. He wanted to fly. This reality was so cold and cruel. He desired just to fly away from this place, and become a free man.
He'd left his hotel. He'd thrown on some clothes, and decided to venture outside. It was bitterly cold. He was in New York City. The snow was coming down in what seemed to be an endless assult from the sky. There was already a good two inches on the bridge. It had been closed due to safety. However, the snow kept piling on, and he didn't mind.
He unbuttoned his jacket. The sting of the cold air didn't bother him. The Ukraine had been worse. Sometimes, it had been maybe 20 degrees below 0.
He struggled with his memories. He couldn't recall 3/4s of his life, and it bothered him deeply. He knew he was born in Kiev. He knew he'd once been an experiment of the Soviet Union. He'd believed it was an attempt at a "perfect soldier" for the Cold War.
He unbuttoned his coat. He lifted up his shirt. He ran his soft finger over his wound. He poked into it. It had once been a gaping hole. It was right over his heart. He didn't know how he had recieved it. He was sure it was a bullet hole.
He poked into it. He felt no pain. He felt a dulling sense in the back of his head. He felt uneasy. He didn't feel stable. Slowly, his eyes grew heavy.
He felt himself falling. He was falling down and down. In a pit of darkness, he was blindly descending. He swung his arms, trying to grasp on to something stable.
He grabbed nothing but air, and the darkness consumed him, and he saw no more.
I'm failing and flailing, and I can't seem to find the light.
I'm so tired of seeing in the dark. I'm so tired of living in fear and seeing the monsters.
I'm so sick of being the monster......
Somebody lend me a hand. Reach out and grab me.
Somebody reach out and save me.
Somebody help me please... because this time I don't know if I can save myself.
He dreamed so silently, one could pass him for dead. His eyes were closed as tight as shutters. His body was as stiff as a corpse. However, his face twitched in pain.
You could tell he was dreaming of a horrid nightmare by the expression on his face. It burned something horrid. His face was etched in terrible expression, twitching at times. At times, even his whole body shook, then went as still as the snow on the ground.
Inside, he wasn't having a nightmare. He was having a memory relapse.
His finger ran over the wound he'd had since forever it seemed. He was watching how he'd got it.
He was in Russia. He could see The Kremlin before him. He turned around, and raised his fist, screaming something he couldn't understand in the air. Several hundred men and women screamed back at him. They raised pitchforks, knives, and torches into the air. Some of them even fired guns off into the air.
They began to march. They marched on to the Kremlin. A Russian army stood there. He felt nervous. He remembered tension. However, it was his own destiny he was reaching here. He was defying a common man's fate, and becoming a God. He was to lead the revolution.
They stood inches apart it seemed. He would not move. The other man, a Soviet official, would not budge either. Words were said. The tension was mounting. All of a sudden, a shot exploded into the air behind him. Suddenly, there was an burst of machine gun fire.
He felt his stomach rip. He fell instantly, his chest burning something furious. He lifted up his shirt and looked at the wound. There was a bullet hole right above his heart. The bullet may have pierced his heart.
He felt his head drop back. He tasted iron in his mouth, and vomited blood. He felt his arms fall limp at his side. He knew he was dying. There were screams everywhere. There was a rapid flash of movement.
He turned his head to the side. The world was spinning around and around. He saw some more fallen bodies. One of his close friends lay bleeding from the head. He crawled over to his friend.
He put his arm on him, and turned him over. The man was dead, a obvious hole right of his left temple. There was blood everywhere, and he felt his frustration give in.
He closed his eyes, and opened them. A tear slid down his cheek. Then, he shut his eyes for a final time, accepting his death as his way out of this opression.
He saw no more light, and the darkness quickly consumed his soul. He was free, free as a bird.
He felt hands grabbing at him, and voices amidst. Then, everything faded away, and he thought no more.
I have nothing to live for. I have nothing to die for.
I am neither alive nor dead.
I am a lost soul, wandering endlessly for a purpose.
In FSE, there is an apparent purpose. To restore what was pure.
FSE is consumed with injustice. Keith and Alan Abela Wadge see to it.
If there must be a champion to rise up and fight their tyranny, I volunteer.
I have nothing left to lose but life itself, and I don't have a life anymore.
Jimmy Stylez, if I have to destroy you to advance in this mission of mine, so be it.
You are so cocky and arrogant, yet you have no idea what you have truly volunteered for.
You preach and preach about things you have no control over, and we are supposed to believe in your divine power to make things happen?
Continental Champion you are, for now. Yet, tonight, I cannot say that you will hold that honor any longer.
Are you trying to offer to join The New Dawn? What are you thinking?
You have no authority to offer anything. You have nothing to offer us. You have nothing to offer me. Why should I even battle you?
If I am forced to drop you on your neck, and destroy you, just in order to make a pathetic, but outstanding point, then so be it.
All your dreaming and scheming end tonight Jimmy. You can't even save yourself.
Take a look at your hands, and justify all you've done. Any strength or skill in those hands can't save you. They can't help you. They can't prevent this.
How can you kill someone who is already dead Jimmy?
Your ego dies tonight with your career.
Die...die...die...die...die......
A hand reached up and grabbed the railing. It pulled him up.
He stumbled to get up. He was so very weak.
His legs were wobbly, and his arms were struggling to hold on. He leaned against the rail, stablizing him out.
Tears were streaming down his face. They quickly turned into ice. The ice on his hot face felt rather cool.
He clutched his temple. The memory relapse was turning him insane. His brain was having violent reactions.
He felt the pain in his dream. He felt the bullet pierce him. It had all seemed so real.
He tried to walk off the bridge. He stumbled step by step, blood falling into the snow.
His shirt was red with blood. Each step he took, two more drops of blood fell on the snow, staining it.
He was not injured at all. All he felt was a bit dizzy. However, on his chest, the gaping hole was evident, and it pumped more and more blood out.
