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Inhale. Exhale.
You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It's smudged, spattered with god knows what but you still recognize yourself despite all the blood.
Kyle Mercer. 25 years on your way to Hell. Naked, splattered with someone else's blood. Again.
You're trembling, a mixture of nerves and adrenaline. Why? You're sure you're going to find out whether you want to or not. You had been planning on making changes in your life and maybe others. That's why you were going home, right?
You stare into your own pale eyes and see…well, not much. Vitreous orbs, your fleshy windows to the world. You look down at your chest and see your tattoo, directly over your heart. You got it years ago and it meant the world to you but you can't remember when or why.
It was an Ouroboros, black on pale flesh but now streaked with red. You wet your hand in the sink and wash the blood away delicately. The cold water makes you break out in goosebumps. You see the blood on your body is dried. How long have you been standing here? Whose blood do you have on you this time?
You shake your head trying to clear it. "Fuck!" You didn't bother wondering why you couldn't remember anything. It was a consequence of what happened to you when you were younger. The same reason your arms were dotted with circular scars from cigarette burns and small, hard crosses carved into you years ago. It was the same reason the skin across the left side of your face, running down your neck to your shoulder and peck, was shiny and taut. A cruel burn that left those parts of you without feeling. Your long hair only partially conceals the scar tissue.
"You can't desecrate the temple," she'd said. "Only decorate it."
You inhale again, body trembling, and exhale. It's time for a change. You pick up the pill bottle from the sink, uncap it and dump the pills into the toilet. They rattle in with satisfying, porcelain clinks and plops. When you flush you watch a red-blue kaleidoscope of pharmaceuticals tumble to watery oblivion.
You didn't need those anyway. They only slowed you down. Confused you. You look back at yourself in the mirror. You lick your teeth, and taste iron. You feel better already. In fact, you feel Brand New.
What's changed?
>What doesn't kill you
Wounds that incapacitate others don't stop you
>Whispers in the wind
You can catch glimpses into people's thoughts.
>Right behind you
You have a knack for showing up in places you shouldn't be able to get to
All that you have left is whatever is still in your hotel room and of course what's on the bathroom sink in front of you.
>$20
>A .22 pistol
>20 tabs of ecstasy
You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror. It's smudged, spattered with god knows what but you still recognize yourself despite all the blood.
Kyle Mercer. 25 years on your way to Hell. Naked, splattered with someone else's blood. Again.
You're trembling, a mixture of nerves and adrenaline. Why? You're sure you're going to find out whether you want to or not. You had been planning on making changes in your life and maybe others. That's why you were going home, right?
You stare into your own pale eyes and see…well, not much. Vitreous orbs, your fleshy windows to the world. You look down at your chest and see your tattoo, directly over your heart. You got it years ago and it meant the world to you but you can't remember when or why.
It was an Ouroboros, black on pale flesh but now streaked with red. You wet your hand in the sink and wash the blood away delicately. The cold water makes you break out in goosebumps. You see the blood on your body is dried. How long have you been standing here? Whose blood do you have on you this time?
You shake your head trying to clear it. "Fuck!" You didn't bother wondering why you couldn't remember anything. It was a consequence of what happened to you when you were younger. The same reason your arms were dotted with circular scars from cigarette burns and small, hard crosses carved into you years ago. It was the same reason the skin across the left side of your face, running down your neck to your shoulder and peck, was shiny and taut. A cruel burn that left those parts of you without feeling. Your long hair only partially conceals the scar tissue.
"You can't desecrate the temple," she'd said. "Only decorate it."
You inhale again, body trembling, and exhale. It's time for a change. You pick up the pill bottle from the sink, uncap it and dump the pills into the toilet. They rattle in with satisfying, porcelain clinks and plops. When you flush you watch a red-blue kaleidoscope of pharmaceuticals tumble to watery oblivion.
You didn't need those anyway. They only slowed you down. Confused you. You look back at yourself in the mirror. You lick your teeth, and taste iron. You feel better already. In fact, you feel Brand New.
What's changed?
>What doesn't kill you
Wounds that incapacitate others don't stop you
>Whispers in the wind
You can catch glimpses into people's thoughts.
>Right behind you
You have a knack for showing up in places you shouldn't be able to get to
All that you have left is whatever is still in your hotel room and of course what's on the bathroom sink in front of you.
>$20
>A .22 pistol
>20 tabs of ecstasy
