Author's note: I hope people will think about the working's of a dark mind, of how our society puts a grave... Show full author's note »
AwakeWrath, a beautiful word. Powerful, like rage, in the very sound is immeasurable suffering to be exacted upon one’s foes. Storm clouds cast over the word, their towering, bellowing majesty imbued in each letter. Fear in the hearts it should strike, feaer for all but me. For I am their god, their superior. They worm about beneath me, wriggling in ignorance and emotion.
“Love me!” they cry. “Spare me!” They are wrought with grief and despair, elation and exuberance. All things are hindrance. With such plagues, one is devoid of power. They cheat themselves! Does it bother me? No, for soon there will be wrath.
“Darling, would you like me to fill your glass?”
Mother. Creator. A woman of useless compassion, tender with a firm stature. Darkness seeps at her soul. Taste it brings of stale affection, bitter unspent love now channeled towards a child cold to her desires. She strives for a mature air about him, but he sees through her as if she were but a shroud.
The boy shakes his head, a distant no. His eyes refuse to even meet her gaze.
“Are you sure?”
The boy nods, his head’s pace slows with agitation as he drags out the motion.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, mother,” the boy replies, his anger kept at bay by sympathy for the lonely woman. Sympathy, a weakness like a barbed wall that stands on the path to power. A wall to be broken.
“Oh, well then take your lunch. Make sure you have everything you need before you leave.”
“I never do,” blandly replies the boy, spoon falling from his mouth, crashing into the cereal bowl, but in slow motion. His mother looks at him strangely, worry in her eyes, a mask of ignorance on her plastic make-up ridden face. The boy stands from the table, eyes still fixed upon whatever apparition that so vigorously holds his gaze. Outside and down the street, parked blasé-like on the corner, a bus awaits the child’s boarding. He boards, his face not changed in the slightest. Like a mighty emperor wielding the scepter of bloodlust, his eyes cast upon the multitude of obnoxious, ratty children that filled near every seat on the bus. Yet one was empty, kept so for this wishful emperor. It had been the first week of school, and the boy had established the seat he desired, intended to be left alone. But one from the ignorant rabble had not only sat beside him, but engaged him. With a stare as intense as the sun bearing down on the earth, the boy threatened his antagonist. Not only with a smoldering glare, but with a promise of annihilation. The kid instantly left, no one wished to sit next to a freak. And that was exactly how this emperor preferred his subjects. All to be subjugated to fear, a fear for him. He drank from it, a sinister liquid that splashed over his corrupt ego, satisfying each dark receptacle.