Of the unspoken - Left Behind.
Walking around a new and unfamiliar town, Bryce was clueless to how different this newly taken country had developed. It was similar to one over sea but not, by it’s own right. Feeling completely isolated, like usual, he continued walking around just looking at what is being constructed. Until he grew tired of it and stopped in at the only tevern around. He drake before, during his life. Mostly after his ‘incident’ in the past but the longer he lingered alive, the more drive there was to escape. Alcohol has ‘saved’ him a few times. At least with amounts of alcohol, it brings the sleep.
Taking a seat away from anyone else, he remained. Silently sitting, until he made up his mind to once again escape by the bottle. Standing up and approaching the one who could trade for drink.
Black Powder and a Bloodshot Eye.
A faint shout barely heard among the many Musket explosions. The spraying of burning powder, the flying metal spheres crashing into their targets long before their tailing sound catches up. Bryce looked around the field of slowly lifting smoke and debris for whoever could have shouted his name. Not seeing any recognition, he stood up, facing those opposing to his end and fired his Musket. Kicking back hard, his right shoulder seemed to dislodge.
Slamming back down behind his cover, he grabs his left shoulder and twists is back into place. His rifle sitting firmly in his lap, he then proceeds to pack in another bullet, twisting his head slightly to see what he was doing - wearing a make-shift patch to cover his right eye was making it a bit difficult than he was used to.
Normally Bryce wouldn’t worry about such things, but he joined this Red crowd to come over sea. He didn’t want his eye to cause a problem, didn’t want to exploit his immortality by being a one-man-army and didn’t want to get persecuted as a witch. He was well aware of the fears that plagued many of these men and knew his ‘condition’ could play on those fears.
Despair Remains, always.
“Bryce… I’m sorry…”
Grounded, struggling to move, Cypher strains to reach towards Bryce. Not making much progress, light tears drip from her unfocused eyes as she goes limp. Gasping a final taken breath, her head rolling to it’s center as her eyes continue looking. Staring at Bryce whom was just out of reach, who was also attempting to get her hand. Looking into her eyes, he fills with pain, anger. Sorrow, despair. Her eyes saying “I’m Sorry.” in case her words didn’t reach his ears.
Bryce shouted as he managed to grab her lifeless hand, trying to hold onto her life now since passed.
Bryce shoots straight up within his bed. Panting, seething with regret, he lashes out with his fists down into his bed. Absorbing the impact, he remained sitting, his arms throbbing with rage from once again witnessing his loss. Always so vivid, every nightmare he has of his defeat; his loss of Cypher… his fall from his path.
Switching on a lamp next to his bed, he grabs an almost empty bottle of liquor. Swigging the last of the brown sour liquid, he exhales in anguish. Anticipation for more instantly overcame his lust to escape. Throwing the bottle to the ground, he stands up, scratching his neck and back. Getting irritated, he grabs his left arm and with a tug, pulls his arm free. Re-grabbing it, he drags his fingers across his back, getting the itch present along the lower part of his shoulder blades. Sticking the fleshy torn skin back to his body, the inner flesh takes grab and pulls itself back together. Rotating the shoulder with his right hand, he hears a moist snap, recognition of his arm clicks with his nerves as he clenches his fingers into his palm.
“Not even the night can let it go…”
Looking over to the bottle, seeing a portion of his reflection looking back at him - the Yellow Eye. It seemed not even the little things would let such failures go. Picking up a cigarette from his nightstand, he lights it up, taking a deep drag then exhaling with force towards the bottle’s mockery.
“Ugh, I got to get out of here.”
Throwing on his shredded looking overcoat and placing his gun harness across his back like a metal rod backpack. Taking a set of assault rifle looking guns and placing them within the harness on his back, he approaches his apartment door. Grabbing a folded piece of metal as he leaves.
“Same thing, over so many nights… Time to go release some of this aggression on some demons… And find myself a drink.”
The door slams against the frame as he storms off.
“Go now! Make sure everything is perfect working order!”
“Sir, yes Sir!”
After a brief hesitation, the man salutes, turns and walks out of the room. Another man, sitting begins to turn his chair towards a nearby window and gazes out into a vast field. Bringing his hands together, he lowers his head. Seemingly in a painstakingly manor, he sighed then lowered his arms. Turning back around, he picks up a document from his desk.
“Real life live ammunition test.”
He said to himself, unsure of what could happen from this experiment. Keeping his thoughts to himself, he places the document back onto his desk and begins stand up to leave the room. Moments later, he comes to the entrance of the very field he had gazed upon earlier, to see rows of cadets being given important instructions of this trial.
You are (not) alone.
Sitting against a tombstone, my mind raced to events long since past. For I couldn’t remember any real ‘peaceful’ times during my life. All I remember was… that voice. I felt myself letting go, delving into the thoughts that surfaced unto me.
Being taken back, in part to relive my revelation:
For the longest time, I thought it was just my mind speaking up. You know, when you talk to yourself. Though given how often that occurred and that some of the time I didn’t agree with the thoughts, I began feeling ill towards them. A sense of ever growing disdain.
It was always the strangest thing to me whenever I had actual conversations with myself. Learning from ‘another point of view’, however odd it was, was just how I was; or so I thought. Growing up, I always felt alone. Like this ‘voice’ was sort of ‘haunting’ me. Robbing me of peace, of both mind and sanity. I couldn’t really participate with would-be friends for they wouldn’t have ever understood.
I kept this to myself for the longest time.